#air conditioning drain not trapped

[flatcheck88]

here is village house drainage system that does not protect against sars, covid, sewer odour -- it is poor design and bad install

[theplotmage]

Principles and Laws of Magic for Fantasy Writers

Fundamental Laws

1. Law of Conservation of Magic- Magic cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

3. Law of Equivalent Exchange- To gain something, an equal value must be given.

5. Law of Magical Exhaustion- Using magic drains the user’s energy or life force.

Interaction and Interference

4. Law of Magical Interference- Magic can interfere with other magical effects.

6. Law of Magical Contamination- Magic can have unintended side effects.

8. Law of Magical Inertia- Magical effects continue until stopped by an equal or greater force.

Resonance and Conditions

7. Law of Magical Resonance- Magic resonates with certain materials, places, or times.

9. Law of Magical Secrecy- Magic must be kept secret from the non-magical world.

11. Law of Magical Hierarchy- Different types of magic have different levels of power and difficulty.

Balance and Consequences

10. Law of Magical Balance- Every positive magical effect has a negative consequence.

12. Law of Magical Limitation- Magic has limits and cannot solve every problem.

14. Law of Magical Rebound- Misused magic can backfire on the user.

Special Conditions

13. Law of Magical Conduits- Certain objects or beings can channel magic more effectively.

15. Law of Magical Cycles- Magic may be stronger or weaker depending on cycles (e.g., lunar phases).

17. Law of Magical Awareness- Some beings are more attuned to magic and can sense its presence.

Ethical and Moral Laws

16. Law of Magical Ethics- Magic should be used responsibly and ethically.

18. Law of Magical Consent- Magic should not be used on others without their consent.

20. Law of Magical Oaths- Magical promises or oaths are binding and have severe consequences if broken.

Advanced and Rare Laws

19. Law of Magical Evolution- Magic can evolve and change over time.

20. Law of Magical Singularities- Unique, one-of-a-kind magical phenomena exist and are unpredictable.

Unique and Imaginative Magical Laws

- Law of Temporal Magic- Magic can manipulate time, but with severe consequences. Altering the past can create paradoxes, and using time magic ages the caster rapidly.

- Law of Emotional Resonance- Magic is amplified or diminished by the caster’s emotions. Strong emotions like love or anger can make spells more powerful but harder to control.

- Law of Elemental Harmony- Magic is tied to natural elements (fire, water, earth, air). Using one element excessively can disrupt the balance and cause natural disasters.

- Law of Dream Magic- Magic can be accessed through dreams. Dreamwalkers can enter others’ dreams, but they risk getting trapped in the dream world.

- Law of Ancestral Magic- Magic is inherited through bloodlines. The strength and type of magic depend on the caster’s ancestry, and ancient family feuds can influence magical abilities.

- Law of Symbiotic Magic- Magic requires a symbiotic relationship with magical creatures. The caster and creature share power, but harming one affects the other.

- Law of Forgotten Magic- Ancient spells and rituals are lost to time. Discovering and using forgotten magic can yield great power but also unknown dangers.

- Law of Magical Echoes- Spells leave behind echoes that can be sensed or traced. Powerful spells create stronger echoes that linger longer.

- Law of Arcane Geometry- Magic follows geometric patterns. Spells must be cast within specific shapes or alignments to work correctly.

- Law of Celestial Magic- Magic is influenced by celestial bodies. Spells are stronger during certain astronomical events like eclipses or planetary alignments.

- Law of Sentient Magic- Magic has a will of its own. It can choose to aid or hinder the caster based on its own mysterious motives.

- Law of Shadow Magic- Magic can manipulate shadows and darkness. Shadowcasters can travel through shadows but are vulnerable to light.

- Law of Sympathetic Magic- Magic works through connections. A spell cast on a representation of a person (like a doll or portrait) affects the actual person.

- Law of Magical Artifacts- Certain objects hold immense magical power. These artifacts can only be used by those deemed worthy or who possess specific traits.

- Law of Arcane Paradoxes- Some spells create paradoxes that defy logic. These paradoxes can have unpredictable and often dangerous outcomes.

- Law of Elemental Fusion- Combining different elemental magics creates new, hybrid spells with unique properties and effects.

- Law of Ethereal Magic- Magic can interact with the spirit world. Ethereal mages can communicate with spirits, but prolonged contact can blur the line between life and death.

- Law of Arcane Symbiosis- Magic can bond with technology, creating magical machines or enchanted devices with extraordinary capabilities.

- Law of Dimensional Magic- Magic can open portals to other dimensions. Dimensional travelers can explore alternate realities but risk getting lost or encountering hostile beings.

- Law of Arcane Sacrifice- Powerful spells require a sacrifice, such as a cherished memory, a personal item, or even a part of the caster’s soul.

---

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[ckret2]

who wants a prism break?

So, the Theraprism! The Theraprism sucks, right?

This is like, a good day.

The Theraprism clearly sucks.

Have a one shot of Bill escaping Theraprism with the most desperate escape plan imaginable: reincarnation.

(Warning for, as you might expect, psychiatric hospital abuse.)

####

There are fates worse than death. Like boredom, for instance!

####

Everything was black and numb and silent and cold so so cold but no he could only call it cold if he felt cold and Bill didn't feel coldness there was just the absence of a feeling the absence of heat the absence of light the absence of sound the absence of touch the absence of air.

The absence of everything.

Bill had loved a void once—a micro black hole. Every time they touched it slowly killed him, spaghettified his limbs, drained his energy. His energy was so vast that she never claimed a drop of a drop of a drop of his reserves—but it still hurt like nothing else to be crushed and stretched and ripped and consumed by her event horizon. The pain was wonderful. Being shredded was ecstasy.

This void was the opposite of her. 

He couldn't even feel anything when he tried to scream—without air, he couldn't feel his vocal plates vibrate. He couldn't feel his hands, his face, his eye; he tried to bite himself just to feel something and he couldn't feel his mouth, he tried to rip open his wounds and couldn't find them; why couldn't he see his own light, why couldn't he see his blood, where had he gone, was he gone—

Reality returned like a light bulb being switched on.

The first thing he registered was a shrill sound on the verge of inaudibility; and then the pain in his eye, his sides, his wounds; and then the dull gray light, the hard floor under his knees, the antiseptic stench in the air conditioning.

He stopped screaming. The shrill sound stopped.

"Energetic as always, are we?"

Bill blinked blearily at the Orb of Healing Light hovering before him. He croaked, "I'll regurgitate you."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." A glowing translucent clipboard manifested in front of the Orb. "Well, you've gone through this enough times to know the drill! Do you need a moment to recover, or—?"

"No no, I'm fine, I'm fine." Bill slumped forward, trembling hands on the floor, waiting for the vertigo to pass. "I'm fine. Do your thing." He'd rather get the post-Solitary Wellness Void reorientation interview over with.

"Perfect. What's your name?"

"I'm ol' Vinegar Pete."

"No clowning, please."

He sighed loudly. "Bill Cipher."

"Good. Where are you?"

He considered saying hell, but decided he'd used up all the clowning he could risk for one day. He didn't want to go back in. "The Theraprism. Ward 333."

"Very good. When are you?"

"I was gonna ask you," Bill groaned. "How long was I in the hole this time? A million years? Ten million?"

The Orb checked its notes. "Eight minutes."

"Wh—no, no I know that time moves slower out in reality than in the prism. I'm not asking how much time passed in reality, I'm asking how much time passed here."

"Eight minutes," the Orb repeated. "Outside the Theraprism, one third of one second passed."

Bill groaned again and flopped flat on the floor.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"Why are any of us here?" Bill asked the gray linoleum tiles. "Usually because some dumb beast tripped into the booby trap that sets off its reproductive process. How's your species work, you pop outta nebulas, right—?"

"I meant, coming out of the Solitary Wellness Void."

"Oh." Bill tried to remember what his infraction had been this time. "Because I failed to escape."

"Because you tried to escape."

If he'd succeeded, they never could have punished him. "Sure."

"Good, you seem oriented to your surroundings. Let's get you to the nurse and then back to your cell." The nurse? What did he need a nurse for?

He only realized then that he must have succeeded in reopening his wounds in the SWV: the never-quite-healed crack across his exoskeleton was wider, the edges chipped and bent. It hurt. His eye socket hurt too; he tasted blood. With the way his whole body usually ached after leaving the void, he hadn't even noticed.

Through the crack in his exoskeleton, his edges had frayed into fine golden threads. The sight of silvery blood on his hands made him nauseous; he hastily looked away and reminded himself it was only his own. 

####

As Bill wearily followed behind the Orb and two security guards followed behind him, he had to periodically turn to hover sideways to streamline himself. These days he was so weak that he could feel the air resistance pushing back against him when he floated; with his wound reopened, he felt like the air pressure could snap his exoskeleton along the crack and break him in half.

"You're not Emmy," Bill said. "You're, uh..."

"A-AOX4."

"Oxyyy," Bill said weakly. "Heyyy. S'been a while. Usually I get a personal welcome back from the void, why didn't Emmy show? Don't tell me it doesn't see me as a threat anymore!" He'd be offended if it didn't. D-SM5 was the closest thing he had to a nemesis these days. Even if he couldn't beat it, he wanted to think he still irritated the daylights out of it.

"Director SM5 couldn't make it. It's overseeing the preparations for Paingoreous's reincarnation."

"That's today? Good riddance." Paingoreous had started getting sanctimonious the past few hundred group therapy sessions—don't you have any compassion for your victims and it's possible to live a happy life without slaughtering all your enemies first and maybe I should ask for permission before I vivisect my friends' faces—passive, self-defeatist crap like that. Vivisecting your friends and seeing who complained was how you found out who your lame friends were! Now that the wet blanket was leaving, the rest of them could get back to spending their sessions reminiscing about the glory days and trying to set the donuts on fire when the therapist was distracted.

"Yes," A-AOX4 said pointedly, "it is good he gets to leave to go become a productive member of reality. We're all so happy that he's rehabilitated enough to earn a new chance at life." (Bill rolled his eye. A-AOX4 ignored it.) "Wouldn't you like a chance to rejoin reality, Bill?"

More than anything. He'd been in this crystallized brain's perpetual dreamscape for what felt like both a thousand years and a single day—time never passing, an eternal inescapable moment. He'd tried to break out, sneak out, or bargain his way out more times than he could count; sometimes he was locked in the SWV as punishment; and sometimes the staff gently stopped him, confiscated his supplies, and chastised him for the effort—and the reminder that he was as powerless as a child was worse than the void. He'd gone delirious from the boredom, hallucinating screams and burning faces as his mind struggled to stimulate itself (and he'd been medicated for it). He'd so despaired of escaping that he'd looked for a way to burn up the remains of his energy and vanish for good (and he'd been medicated for it). He ached with the need to see the stars again.

But not enough to sell his soul for it. If he took the staff's route—let them break him down, sandblast off his rough edges, erase everything that made him him, and finally physically transform him into some alien creature—then whatever left the Theraprism would no longer be Bill Cipher.

"What, and force you guys to find a new 'unique case'? I wouldn't do that to you! I know how much you love me," Bill said. "Besides, why would I go through all that just so I can reincarnate as a sentient snowflake, or Mi-Go antennae lice, or..."

"A butterfly," A-AOX4 cut in, an edge of impatience creeping into its tone. "Paingoreous has chosen to reincarnate as a butterfly. We all think that's a very productive way to channel his desire to digest his own skin."

"Unless it's one of those blood-drinking butterflies, lame." Bill scoffed. "Wait—hold on, you said butterfly? Like an Earth butterfly?"

They were, of course, not actually speaking an Earth language, but an interdimensional pidgin that borrowed words and grammar from dozens of worlds. When around the Orbs of Healing Light that held half the staff positions, Bill tended to speak a dialect of the pidgin that used flashes of light for 40% of its vocabulary. It was perfectly possible that the word Bill knew as "butterfly" was also used for some alien creature, but—

"Yes, an Earth butterfly. A Vanessa atalanta, to be precise."

Aw, boo. Not even a cool butterfly. "He's reincarnating on Earth?"

"Yes. Many of our patients reincarnate on Earth. As long as you're careful about which region and century you reincarnate into, it's at the top of our recommended list of Goldilocks zones."

There was another phrase that Bill recognized, but this time he was sure his definition was not A-AOX4's definition. "Whaaat do Goldilocks zones have to do with reincarnation."

"You didn't pay attention to the orientation session on our outpatient reincarnation program, did you."

"What! I didn't get an orientation session!" said Bill, who probably didn't remember any such session because he didn't pay attention to it.

"Well—we rank millions of planets and their dimensional parallels based on their potential to help patients reintegrate into reality. We do try to set our patients up for success," A-AOX4 said. "To qualify as a Goldilocks zone, a planet has to meet the Theraprism's rigorous list of criteria: its lifeforms, cultures, laws of physics, and position in interdimensional society must all be conducive to a patient's continued recovery. We want to ensure that our patients' new lives are neither so difficult as to retraumatize them, nor so easy as to let them coast by avoiding continued personal growth, but right in the middle, so that they're emotionally and spiritually challenged without being overwhelmed. The Goldilocks zone: a perfect compromise between two extremes."

"Yeah, sure, sounds great." Bill could feel his eye glazing over in disinterest. Fight it, Cipher.

"Do you miss Earth?"

Bill tilted to glance askance at A-AOX4, and was surprised to see it had turned to focus a spotlight on him. Oh—it thought it had finally found a carrot to dangle in front of him. That was a popular strategy here: they figured out what a patient wanted most, and then used it to coax them into good behavior and "rehabilitation"—better still if they could attach a sense of urgency to it. Don't you want to see your descendants again before the last of them dies out? Don't you want to see your homeworld before its sun swallows it? Don't you want to reconcile with your god before the heat death of your universe?

But Bill had no universe, no homeworld, no family; no lovers or friends or gods that hadn't betrayed him and left him to rot here; and he'd remained smugly steadfast in refusing to give D-SM5 and its minions anything else it could use to get under his chitin. He was proud that he was too broken for even the famed Theraprism to fix him.

A-AOX4 probably thought it had finally found an opening. It might be useful to let it keep thinking that.

"You kidding me? Earth? Pfff! I don't miss that overgrown asteroid one bit!" He waved off the suggestion, and winced when the gesture tugged wrong at his reopened wound. "But hey, you don't study a world for millions of years without finding a few things about it to like. The music's pretty good. And the movies and literature, though if you ask me, they peaked between the first two World Wars. I like trees, evolution did a great job with trees. And humans really went off with the architecture. The pyramids? 10 out of 10. And some of the locals aren't bad, I've got a few exes from Earth."

"Do you? How many exes?"

"Living? Just a hundred forty or fifty," Bill said dismissively. "Earthlings just have those pretty eyes, you know? I'm a sucker for a pretty eye! But outside of that, no, there's nothing on Earth for me."

"I see," A-AOX4 said lightly, and dropped the conversation.

Hook, line, and sinker.

####

The original definition of a "Goldilocks zone" came from astrobiology. The Goldilocks zone was the ring of space around a star in which an orbiting planet could support liquid water and thus water-based life: not too close to the star and too hot, not too far and too cold, but just right. Earth, for instance, orbited Sol in its Goldilocks zone.

It was from this definition that other, more metaphorical definitions of Goldilocks zones emerged. Such as the Theraprism's: a world that was neither too stressful nor too boring for a newly brainwashed—sorry, "cured"—patient. And apparently Earth was in that Goldilocks zone, too.

Which was very interesting to Bill—because in their search for a new home, the Henchmaniacs had come up with their own definition of a Goldilocks zone. For them, it was a dimension close enough to the Nightmare Realm with a thin enough barrier that they could easily punch through it, but not so close and so thin that puncturing the barrier would pop it like a balloon and cause the dimension to immediately prolapse into the Nightmare Realm—which was a problem they'd had before. More than once. They needed a dimension they could easily cut a hole into, but control it, so they could slowly pump the Nightmare Realm's contents in. A barrier neither too vulnerable nor too strong, but just right.

And wouldn't you know it—but Earth happened to be in that Goldilocks zone too. Right next to a point in the dimensional membrane so thin, the Nightmare Realm could almost stretch through and kiss it.

####

Since Bill Cipher was infamously known as the last survivor of a trillion-years-extinct species, and had until recently been capable of instantly repairing himself, there were no medical records on how his anatomy worked. It didn't help that at some point eons ago he'd somehow managed to graft a 3D exoskeleton to his 2D anatomy without breaking his own physics, meaning no one had seen his true body in recorded history. Bill knew how he worked, but refused to offer any hints. So the Theraprism staff had to guess at Bill's medical treatment.

But Bill was still made of energy, and even weakened he could eventually self-repair. So whenever his injury was exacerbated, the nurse tended to just patch up his exoskeleton to keep it stable enough to send him back to his room.

On top of his mysterious anatomy, the staff had no idea how to medicate his physiology. They knew he could be medicated—Bill's personal substance (ab)use experiments were notorious far outside the Nightmare Realm—but they had to treat him like a newly-discovered form of life in figuring out what affected him, how it affected him, and how much it took. He'd been on and off hundreds of drugs as they tried to chemically stabilize a mind for which they had no idea what baseline stability looked like. D-SM5 had told him that between the enormous doses needed to impact his energy-based physiology and the vast variety of drugs he'd been through, Bill's medication regimen was the most expensive in the Theraprism. He took some pride in that.

He had very few things to take pride in anymore. He clung to what meager victories he could.

If Bill got his way, he wouldn't be medicated at all. None of the substances they wanted him on were what he'd call recreational. (Although for a while he had gotten away with not telling the docs that one of his antipsychotics had given him a side-effect of kaleidoscopic hallucinations.) Plus there was the fact that he'd heard rumors that quite a few pharmaceutical execs were good pals with a certain director—not that Bill would name names, of course!—that's his motto, Don't Slander Maliciou5ly!

But when he resisted taking his meds, they could send in the guards to pin him down so a nurse could inject a sedative so strong he wouldn't remember anything that happened for the next few hours to months (hard to tell) until they started tapering it off... and although he'd rather die than admit it, after losing that fight five or six times, even he had to admit to himself it was a lot less scary to just take their rotten drugs. Better to go through his days with his mind dulled and hazy than blacked out altogether.

To retain what little pride he had left, he'd reached a compromise with his jailers.

When the nurse had finished attaching the reinforcing splints around Bill's injury, they grabbed a medication measurement cup, filled it halfway with syrupy eye drops, and double-checked Bill's chart as they dropped thirteen different pills (plus a fourteenth pill for a painkiller) in the cup.

As Bill redressed, he eyed the unappetizing cocktail of antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and things he'd forgotten the purpose of but that probably weren't doing whatever the doctors hoped and definitely weren't doing anything Bill liked. "My straw?"

"Right, right." The nurse handed over one of the wide-diameter disposable white straws they kept on hand for patients who struggled to drink (or, in Bill's case, patients they struggled to get to drink).

Only a tiny fragment of Bill was actually locked up in the Theraprism—like pinching the glowing lure of an anglerfish in a trap while the rest of the fish thrashed outside—and because most of Bill's vast energy was elsewhere, he was nearly powerless. But he still had enough energy to heat up a finger, twist the straw around it, and hold it there until it had melted into a new shape.

The nurse sighed. "Do you have to do that every time? You ruin more straws than you get right."

Imperiously, Bill said, "Leave me to my whimsy." He tugged off the straw when it had cooled down to examine the corkscrew shape he'd made. The wall was a little flattened in one place, but he could pinch it back open. "See? It's perfect!" Cheerfully ignoring the nurse, he stuck the straw in his cup and slurped down his pills like tapioca balls. He tried not to remember what was in them.

A-AOX4 had left Bill with the nurse, but the two mall cops with medical kinks known as Bill's personal guards were still waiting nearby. The nurse's office was next door to the cafeteria—for ease of patients picking up their medications at meal times—in an anteroom that was connected to the rest of the ward by a set of locked double doors. A couple of guards were stationed near those doors at all times, and generally the guards assigned to Bill hung around with them while Bill was in the cafeteria or nurse's office. Bill floated up to them, regarding them with the disinterest of a king ignoring the servants he expected to open doors for him, and continued to ignore them as they escorted him back to his cell, one in front and one behind, while he sipped on his drugged cocktail.

The Dimensional Tyrant Ward was already one of the most heavily-guarded wards in the Theraprism; but to reach the maximum security cells, a patient had to pass several increasingly heavy security checkpoints with increasingly impenetrable security doors. The final door was warded against all magic, unhackable, unbreakable, and so airtight that even without his exoskeleton there was no gap Bill's 2D form could slide through. The doors to each cell—outfitted with tiny one-way mirror portholes, no latches or hinges on the inside—were a little less heavy duty, but packed with just as many failsafes. The Dimensional Tyrant Ward's max security hall had the most advanced security architecture of any psychiatric facility in the multiverse.

Bill had made a trillion year career of trying to break his way through a door nobody wanted him to go through. He could think of seven different ways to get through the doors. Sooner or later he'd find a way out of this place altogether.

A few of the doors had modifications: this one with a metal slab over the porthole to protect passersby from the occupant's petrifying gaze, that one with extra soundproofed padding coating the door. Bill was almost insulted his own door didn't warrant any special modifications.

His favorite door was The Beast's. A comfortingly yellow triangular sign on the door displayed a black symbol of a steak. Red signs above and below read "CAUTION! FEED UNSEASONED MEAT ONLY." "NO SUGAR ALLOWED." The Beast's heavy snuffing was audible through the door; his hot, sickly sweet breath seeped through the slot in the door that had been installed to deliver his food.

Bill's escorts automatically drifted to the far side of the hall to avoid The Beast. Bill, whose first medication was already starting to kick in, zigzagged lazily back and forth across the hall, heedless of how close he came to The Beast's cell.

Bill had never seen this door opened once in all his time incarcerated, and the dust settled on the additional chains and padlocks stretched across the door showed just how long it had been since the last incident. But some of the patients who'd been here longer than Bill still couldn't bring themselves to speak of the last time he'd escaped. Elder eldritch gods shuddered and gibbered nervously at the mention of his name. 

Bill tilted over to try to peer through the food slot at The Beast. A quivering, sickly blue eye stared back at him. Honestly, Bill thought The Beast was adorable.

Outside Bill's door, the guards waited for Bill to finish his medicine, hand over his cup and straw, and open his mouth and lift his eye out of the way so they could check and make sure he'd swallowed them.

And then he was left in his cell.

####

A perfect cube of uniform dull grey tiles supernaturally lit by a uniform dull grey glow, no light source, no shadows; in a max security room in the Maximum Security Wellness Center, patients weren't even trusted around light fixtures. The staff had removed everything Bill had used thus far to commit violence or attempt escape, plus a few more things as punishments for various infractions: journal, paint, pens, books, magazines, puppets (he missed those the most), even the furniture. He'd never earned the privilege of a TV or radio. By now, all he was permitted were black, red, yellow, and blue dry erase markers to draw on his walls—and the red and blue had gone dry; the "Be a TRY-angle!" poster they'd replaced whenever Bill left the room until he gave up and stopped tearing it down; and the clothes on his back. He'd gradually gotten himself banned from every extracurricular and recreational activity the Dimensional Tyrant Ward offered. Whenever he was fresh out of the SWV, when his restrictions were highest, his schedule consisted of mandatory individual therapy, mandatory group therapy, med checks, and the cafeteria.

He spent the vast majority of his time in his cell, sitting curled up alone, day after night after day, barely moving, barely talking, barely eating, waiting for nothing at all.

####

The seamless door swung open and admitted an Orb of Healing Light.

Bill blinked blearily up at the Orb. It was hard to tell how slowly time passed here, but he was sure it couldn't have been more than a couple hours since he'd been returned to his cell: that was when his medications made his mind the foggiest. "Emmyyy. Where ya been? Didn't see you when I came out of the Solitary Dullness Void. Nice of you to, uh..." A second ago he'd had a clever quip about how D-SM5 had clearly dropped by because it missed Bill, but he'd forgotten how to word it.

"Well, I'm here now. I'm flattered you missed me, Mr. Cipher."

Bill blinked heavily. "You turned that around on me," he griped. "Not fair." Ugh, the room was spinning. He flopped on his back.

"A-AOX4 tells me you showed an interest earlier in our outpatient reincarnation program," D-SM5 said. "Since it looks like your schedule is light these days, I thought you might be interested in attending Paingoreous's reincarnation?"

It took him a moment to process the offer. "Really? That's something people can attend?" What was the catch?

"We usually only extend the offer to the departing patient's friends, and—exemplary patients. But... I thought you might benefit from watching the process for yourself. It may encourage you to take a little more interest in your future."

For it to push a possible lead so fast, it really was desperate to find some leverage they could use on Bill. It probably thought of this as a rare opportunity—a patient from Ward 333 wasn't ready for reincarnation every day.

"Wow. I sure am encouraged," Bill said. "You have no idea just how encouraged I am."

####

If an unambitious office building and a utilitarian hospital reluctantly got married out of a vague sense of heteronormative social obligation, had a depressed child, and the fae spirited it away to replace it with an even more depressed changeling child, the child's small intestines would look a lot like the Theraprism's interior hallways: it was windowless, it was labyrinthine, it was beige, and it was grey, and it didn't even care anymore. Monotonous commercial high-traffic carpet alternated with monotonous commercial high-traffic linoleum. The fluorescent lights buzzed just enough to be annoying, but not quite enough that you'd feel justified in snapping and screaming "I've had it!" as you swung a pleather-seated metal chair at the light fixture.

Even though Bill had been languishing in the Theraprism for hours and/or millennia (Bill couldn't tell; he couldn't feel the passage of time), he hardly knew his way around the Dimensional Tyrant Ward, much less the rest of the facility. As D-SM5 led Bill (and six guards) out of Ward 333 and into a lower security zone, he looked for any scant identifiable landmarks and tried to memorize which turns they took by coding the lefts and rights and ups and downs into a mnemonic word. The walk helped wake him from his medication stupor; but his mind never quite felt fully on.

Bill had only briefly glimpsed the Theraprism's reincarnation unit during intake, just one of many rooms he'd been whisked past as he was dragged to Ward 333 screaming and cursing the Axolotl's name. Entering the unit now, it looked like an occult sacrificial altar carved from marble that had been modeled after a 23rd century starship's teleportation platform, contained in a room that looked like a magic planetarium: glowing stars hovered around the dome of the ceiling. Against the back wall in pale pink marble was carved an impossibly long axolotl, swimming in a figure 8 so its vapid smile almost caught the tip of its ribbonlike tail. Bill glowered at it. Backstabber.

He, D-SM5, and the other observers who'd already arrived were in a connected observation room with an enormous, thick window and a sealed door. Next to the window was a large computer console encased in the same marble as the reincarnation altar. That probably controlled the process.

The audience consisted of three aliens who looked a little like Paingoreous might have with his face unpeeled, a few patients and staff Bill recognized, more he didn't, and Jessica with the shining spherical head and the thirteen fingers. Oh boy. If he'd known Jessica would be here he would have tried to polish. Bill straightened his bow tie and smoothed his rumpled orange jumpsuit.

Paingoreous himself was already in the next room, standing on the altar. At the sight of Bill, his exposed facial muscles twitched, as though trying to widen his eyes even though their eyelids were already long gone. "Bill? What are you doing here?"

D-SM5 answered before Bill could blurt out a witty retort. "I invited Mr. Cipher. I thought he would benefit from seeing what he can look forward to once he's improved. I hope you don't mind."

Paingoreous's face immediately smoothed out. "Yes—of course, director, if you say so. I remember how difficult it was in the early days. I'm happy to help my fellow patients in any way I can." Suck up. A dry note entered his voice, "Especially a more troubled patient."

Bill took one of the folding chairs lined up in front of the window and shot back, "I'm about to have one less trouble! Byyye!" (Did Jessica think that was funny? Sometimes she did. He snuck a sideways glance to see if she was laughing. Oh, right—she didn't have a face.)

Paingoreous didn't dignify him with a response. Too good for the likes of Bill, no doubt. Paingoreous wasn't obligated to answer anybody—except the staff, of course.

Bill had never met the real Paingoreous. By the time Bill was committed, the monotony, medication, and mandatory therapy were already well on their way to killing whoever Paing had once been. No way the offensively bland sap leaving now was the same one who'd come in with his face skinned and muscles pinned open.

A technician was already turning on the computer console, running through a whole list of checks as the machine booted up. A hum filled the room as the altar began to softly glow. To all appearances Bill was facing forward, slitted pupil aimed straight at Paingoreous; but his anatomy was built for watching things out of the corner of his eye and his real attention was focused on the reincarnation technician. "So how's reincarnation work in this dump?" Bill asked D-SM5. "I didn't get the orientation."

"Yes you did," D-SM5 said. "I was there."

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't remember seeing you."

D-SM5 sighed. "First, Paingoreous's memories of his current life must be erased, to give him the best fresh start possible and to comply with Earth's soul sanitization regulations."

"Seems like a big waste of time. His head's already empty enough."

One of the Paing-ish aliens a couple seats over shot Bill a dirty look. "That's my son in there."

"Not for much longer, he isn't."

"Be respectful," D-SM5 said warningly.

Bill ignored it. "So once you've scrubbed his brain clean, what then?"

"Then, we reincarnate him. We've already carefully selected his destination and species; except for special circumstances, we generally don't customize the patient's body further, as the program is already set up to divinely design the body most well-suited to the soul about to inhabit it."

"If these bodies are so perfect, why customize them at all?"

"We wouldn't want, say, a recovering pyromaniac to be reborn with pyrokinesis." (Bill felt unfairly targeted.) "Once his species and destination are entered into the program, off he'll go to start his new life as an egg."

"An egg?! Sheesh, wasn't going through childhood once bad enough? I assume his childhood was bad, anyway! Nobody with competent parents ends up like him."

The Paing-ish alien beside Bill bolted out of their seat and lurched aggressively toward Bill. (Ha. Too easy.) The next alien over tugged them back by the arm. Bill was sure he heard a whispered, "Careful, do you know who that..." 

D-SM5 said, "One more crack like that and you're going back to your cell."

"Fiiine. Why can't he skip straight to being a butterfly, though?" What he really wanted to find out was how to skip straight to adulthood.

"For starters, because spontaneous generation has been heavily restricted on Earth since the 15th century, and banned completely outside of special circumstances since the 19th century."

Spontaneous generation. The creation of fully formed life from unliving matter: maggots that emerged from flesh, geese that emerged from barnacles, snakes and crocodiles that wriggled out of the mud of the Nile. He'd always planned to legalize it again when he took over. So if the only reason the Theraprism couldn't do it was because it was banned, then they must have the technology for it, right?

Bill tuned D-SM5 out as it prattled on about the mental health benefits of restarting life and beginner's mind and boring therapeutic psychobabble, and ignored the flashing lights and divine music as Paingoreous's memory, personality, and identity were all wiped clean. He was only interested in what the reincarnation technician was doing. (Although when Bill briefly glanced at Paingoreous, his shape seemed somehow uncertain, as though his molecules had only just walked into the room and promptly forgotten what they'd come in for or who they were supposed to be. Ready to be reshaped into something else.)

The technician opened up the primary reincarnation program, checked a box confirming that the patient's previous incarnation had been erased, and began setting up the specifications for his next incarnation. Choosing the reincarnation world was easy enough: under the drop down menu, the "Goldilocks zone" worlds were sorted first. Earth was sixth on the list. Choosing a dimension was just as easy.

However, choosing the location and time period looked more complicated; rather than searching through a handy list of continents or geological epochs, the technician checked Paingoreous's patient file and typed a couple of long strings of numbers into the blanks for the coordinates and time. They didn't look like any date system or coordinate system Bill was familiar with. How the heck would he work with that?

And selecting the species, to Bill's horror, meant scrolling down a menu ordered by how frequently a species had been selected for reincarnation at this facility. That was insane! The Theraprism always discharged patients as unambitious species where one member was nearly incapable of making a meaningful impact on the local biosphere—anything useful like an octopus or a goat would be buried amongst the literal billions of species that had received zero reincarnations. Couldn't you just start typing the species's name to jump down to—? But no, the Theraprism's keyboard didn't have characters to type human loan words. The technician seemed to be scrolling manually.

That was fine! That was fine. Whatever Bill left as, he wouldn't be it for very long. He wasn't shopping for a makeover; just for an escape pod.

The technician located Vanessa atalanta (147 prior reincarnations) and kept moving, tabbing past a dizzying array of options—sex, size, coloration, visual clarity, caterpillar spine distribution, a whole list of health conditions and mutations the technician skipped—and every box she tabbed past automatically filled in with the word "DEFAULT". How many boxes could be filled in with defaults?

Bill leaned toward D-SM5. "So do you chuck these suckers out anywhere random on the planet or what?"

"Of course not," it said promptly. "What a thought! We take a deep interest in our discharged patients' well-being. We never leave where they spend their next lives at the whim of the computer's randomized decision." 

But they could leave it up to the computer. Still watching sideways as the technician scrolled past an "advanced settings" button without touching it (was that where the spontaneous generation option was hidden?), Bill asked, "Do youalways choose for the patient, or can the patient make requests?"

Dryly, D-SM5 said, "Unless you make some enormous progress, I doubt you'd get clearance to reincarnate anywhere near that town you terrorized, if that's what you're wondering."

"What! Who said I want to visit that crummy valley! All those mountains and trees? Ugh! No, do you know what kind of place I like? The Greater Cairo metropolitan area. Dry! Sandy! Flat!" said Bill, who detested flat landscapes with all his heart. "Covered in pyramids! Sometimes with my face on them! Plus there's the Nile! I love the Nile! I love being in the Nile! I'd spend all my time in the Nile if I could! I've had some loser ex-friends say that living your whole life in the Nile is an unhealthy coping mechanism to avoid addressing problems in your life, but if you ask me they're just jealous of how amazing my life is—"

"Ready for reincarnation," the technician said. "Proceed?"

D-SM5 left its seat, hovering closer to the glass to catch Paingoreous's attention. "Are you ready?"

"Sure," said Paingoreous, who clearly wasn't certain what he was claiming to be ready for.

"Proceed," D-SM5 said. Bill fell silent, paying close attention to how the technician began the reincarnation process.

She clicked a button that said "EXECUTE" (gruesome), clicked through a couple more confirmation screens, and then the faint background hum grew to a rumble and the magical stars glowed brighter. "Ten seconds," she said. "Nine... eight... seven..."

"Hey!" Bill shouted through the glass. "Friendly tip for Earth! Humans love when you fly into their eyeballs! You should do that!"

D-SM5 rounded on Bill, glowing furiously at him. (Maybe it was Bill's imagination, but he thought Jessica looked amused. Worth it.)

The soon-to-be caterpillar formerly known as Paingoreous stared in confusion at Bill. "Okay," he said—and then there was a bright flash of light.

He let out an awful wail of pure soul-rending agony.

When the light faded, he was gone.

The observation room had fallen perfectly silent.

"That's fine," D-SM5 said. "That's—that's normal."

####

Every once in a while, the Theraprism got something right. It was one of the few big government-sponsored "respectable" institutions that didn't make a fuss about how Bill ate. They just let him go to the cafeteria, strip down, unpeel his exoskeleton, and hang out with the photosynthesizers for half an hour or so in the corner under the grow lights. No gasps of horror or screams of outrage—not from the staff anyway; some of the patients took a bit to get used to it when they were new. It was a refreshing change.

On the other hand, even though they were willing to turn a couple lights high enough to melt most mortals' eyeballs when Bill was feeding, he never left feeling truly energized. The grow lights were designed for species with leaves and solar panels; they weren't designed to fuel up a god made of energy. A few bright lightbulbs didn't measure up to raw starlight.

He figured there wasn't any point in complaining. As much as he hated feeling like a gas tank trying to burn a dust mote for fuel, he knew that they knew that long before he even reached 1% of his usual power, he'd be strong enough to vaporize the Theraprism with the snap of a finger.

When he'd had his daily dose of light, he folded shut, redressed, and drifted over to the actual food for dessert. He grabbed a bottle of an allegedly "lemon" nigh-flavorless clear soda—this would do—and hovered toward the exit.

The cafeteria monitor stationed in the door elbowed her way in front of Bill. "Ahem."

"What?"

"You know the rules. No food outside the cafeteria."

"What! This isn't food, it's a soda. Beverages aren't food, everyone knows that." The monitor didn't budge. Bill tried whining. "C'mooon, I got injured in the void today. Look at this!" He gestured demonstratively at his splints. "Look how much pain I'm in!"

The Solitary Wellness Void made this cafeteria monitor uncomfortable. She'd never said so directly, but she tended to turn a blind eye when patients who'd just come out of the SWV were more aggressive than usual or tried to sneak extra desserts. One time when Bill had come out of a week in the SWV, she'd wordlessly slipped him a couple of packets of low-sodium fear sauce, a condiment usually distributed exclusively to the obligate phobophages in the ward. "Besides, it's my birthday! I'm a birthday triangle! You wouldn't deny a birthday triangle a soda, right?"

"Is it really your birthday?"

"Heck if I know. It could be. I don't know it isn't."

She was trying not to smile. "Fine. Just one time. Don't let anyone catch you with it and finish it before you're back in your cell."

"You got it, toots." Bill glided past her.

He slipped from the cafeteria into the nurse's office before his guards could catch sight of his illicit drink. "Hey, bartender! I'm here for my nightcap."

The nurse prepared Bill's evening battery of drugs. He bent his straw into a fun zigzag—honestly it was really more of a sad N shape—slurped down half the eyedrops, and opened his soda to refill his cup.

The nurse looked over at the hiss of the cap opening. "Hey! Hey—"

"It's just soda!" Bill protested. "The cafeteria monitor said it was fine! Besides, what's a little soda gonna do? Nullify all seven of my antipsychotics before I reach my cell?" (Bill had overheard the nurse grumbling to a colleague about the amount of antipsychotics he was on. They thought it was utterly excessive, considering that they'd had no evidence the drugs were doing anything but making him more erratic—which was something, because Bill had seen patients near drooling catatonia from their meds without any of the nurses questioning their current dosage. Conversely, the docs thought Bill's odd biology meant they needed to give him more if they wanted any hope of impacting him.) "Come on. It's not even caffeinated!"

The nurse took the soda bottle to check the ingredient list, then relented. "Fine. I suppose it won't do any harm."

"You're a peach." Bill topped off his cup, poured the rest of the soda over his eye, crushed the bottle, and consumed it too.

"The plastic probably isn't good for you, though."

"I like the way it melts in the back of my throat."

As he drank his medicated soda and got escorted back to his cell, he lazily drifted back and forth in the hall as far as the guards would let him go, dawdling more than usual—he knew they hated it when he dawdled, but they knew he hated spending one second more in his cell than necessary and grudgingly put up with a little lollygagging to keep the peace. But their tolerance ran out in the max security hall as Bill slowed down even further near The Beast's cell. The guard behind Bill pushed him. "Hurry up." 

"Hey!" Bill wobbled off path and stumbled into the wall, spilling some of his drink. "What's your problem!"

"You stopped moving."

"I did not! I'm just taking my time! Enjoying the weather out here."

"Well, take less time."

"Ugh, fine. Didn't realize you had plans I'm keeping you from." Bill rolled his eye and kept moving.

"Hold it!"

Bill froze. He turned around. The guard was pointing at a streak of clear fluid that had spilled from Bill's cup and rolled down the door. His bones frosted over.

"You dropped a pill," the guard said.

Bill's gaze focused on the circular soap-green tablet on the floor. "Are you kidding?! Aren't the other twelve enough?"

"No exceptions, Cipher."

"You don't expect me to eat it off the floor!"

"Do you want to go all the way back to the nurse's office for another?"

Bill groaned in frustration. "Fine!" He snatched it up, wiped it off on the guard's sleeve, and popped it in his mouth. The guard raised a fist; Bill bared his fangs; and after a tense moment, the guard backed down first. The Theraprism had taken nearly every other power from Bill, but it couldn't take his teeth—and though he knew the guards would win any fight, Bill could make it hurt.

They returned him to his room; Bill handed over his cup; they checked to make sure his cup was empty, inspected his mouth, and locked him in.

He hoped they wouldn't notice that half his pills had stuck in the zig-zag bend of the opaque white straw.

He hoped they wouldn't notice The Beast's tongue thrusting through his food slot to lap up the spilled soda that was running down his door and over the bright red "NO SUGAR ALLOWED" sign.

His entire plan hinged on it.

####

Bill was drawing on the wall with his scant art supplies when he felt reality ripple around him, like the wave in a still pool when someone new quietly slides into the water. He looked up from his work. It was happening.

There were several thuds; then a crash; and then the peal of a prison alarm piercing the air. The alarm melted into shrill dolphin-like laughter, and then the frenetic staccato of a hyper speed dance song that threatened to fracture Bill's internal organs. He shuddered as the sound tore at his wound like freezing ice crystals expanding a crack in a boulder.

But he rose into the air and turned to face the door, ready.

Just in time for the door to vanish. The Theraprism melted away like mist in the sunlight—and oh, the sunlight was glorious. The wide open sky pulsed maddening colors so vivid that the faraway rainbows looked monotone in comparison; the land consisted of rolling hills of candy-coated tongues and stomachs and muscles, the paws of enormous buried corpses thrusting up into the sky, the crevasses between burial mounds running with artificially-flavored saliva. It was Bill's kind of place. He wished he had time to hang around.

Before him, orange fur matted with a fine dust of powdery sugar, wild eyes contracted to pinpricks, stood The Beast.

"You did it, you beautiful monster!" Bill shrieked with laughter. "I knew you'd come through!"

The Beast rumbled, "Em deerf evah uoy."

"You're welcome! You can return the favor later! Me, I have somewhere to be." While The Beast was asserting his personal reality on top of the Theraprism's idea of reality, none of the Theraprism's walls or doors existed. Bill wasn't sure exactly how far The Beast's radius of influence extended, except that it was at least far enough to get him out of the maximum security hall—but he had to move now, before the guards rallied to sedate The Beast. Bill slipped a finger into the band of his ankle bracelet and found that under the influence of The Beast's physics, the stiff plastic stretched like a warm rubber band. He tugged it off and tossed it aside. "Seeya, pal!"

But The Beast held up a paw, blocking Bill before he could zip off. "Noob ym tpecca," The Beast said. "Hself ym emusnoc."

"Oooh. Woww." Bill looked at The Beast's candy paw. "Oh, man. Generous offer! You have no idea how tempting it is to take a taste, but I've really gotta get somewhere, and I've gotta be at least sober enough to pull that off..."

"Emusnoc," The Beast insisted. "Hsur ragus eht fo ssendam gnilims citatsce eht ni em nioj. Rehtegot srorroh letsap dna serusaelp kcis hcus wonk lliw ew. Evarg lufituaeb ym ni em htiw tor."

Bill stared again at the paw. The tip of his tongue slipped out beneath his eye to lick hungrily at his waterline. When was the last time he'd been on something that felt good? "Oh, what the heck!" He took The Beast's paw. "I can do this buzzed! How much damage can one little lick do, anyway?"

####

The guard heaved open the maximum security hall's door. The floor was covered in tacky pools of neon candy and removed ankle monitors. "It's just like we feared," the guard shouted into a walkie-talkie, glancing quickly through each cell door's window. "Every single max security patient escaped under The Beast's reality-altering field."

The guard stopped at the sight of neon yellow and orange, peering through the window at the triangle flopped flat on the ground and surrounded by powdery pink sugar.

"Well," the guard said, "all of them except Cipher."

Through the walkie-talkie, D-SM5 tiredly said, "He licked the paw, didn't he."

"Looks like it, boss."

D-SM5 groaned. "All right! Positive thinking! That's the second biggest threat in the ward already accounted for! Silver lining to Mr. Cipher's substance use issues. Assist in securing the others."

####

The good news was that The Beast seemed happy to frolic randomly around the Theraprism rather than head toward the exit, forcing the other escapees to follow along to remain under his reality-altering protection rather than get stranded in small rooms and locked-down halls. The bad news was that his meandering route let him pick up more and more revelers. After an hour, only a third of the max security patients had been re-captured and dragged back to their cells, and twice as many medium security patients had joined the riot. 

A-AOX4 was on hand in the maximum security hall to supervise as the guards brought in super-powered escapees. Most of them came back loopy on either The Beast's toxins or on the sedative that had been injected to keep them calm. A-AOX4 was checking them for awareness of their surroundings—name, where are you, when are you, why are you here—as each one was locked back in their cell.

And each time it passed by Bill's cell, it glanced in, concerned.

Bill had been almost pleasant when he'd come out of the Solitary Wellness Void—maybe after all those sessions in isolation he was finally ready to be more of a team player. And D-SM5 had said that he'd been unusually well-behaved and attentive during the reincarnation. A-AOX4 had hoped their most surly patient was finally opening up. It would be a shame if this incident with The Beast resulted in his new progress backsliding.

Plus, it took a heavy dose of anything to impact Bill at all, much less knock him out cold. He'd already had to go to the nurse earlier today; what if he needed medical attention?

So after locking up the latest subdued prisoner, A-AOX4 said to one of the guards, "Take over monitoring incoming patients. I'm checking on Cipher."

It unlocked the door and hovered into the room. "Cipher?"

No response. He was plastered flat to the floor.

"Bill?" It floated lower to check his condition. 

He was paper.

Paper meticulously colored in with yellow marker and folded into a triangle; scraps of paper colored black, carefully torn into hand and feet shapes, and shoved in the sleeves and pants of his prison uniform.

A-AOX4 lifted up the paper. On the other side was Bill's "Be a TRY-angle!" poster. He'd written across it, "IS THIS TRYING HARD ENOUGH FOR YOU?"

It turned toward the door—and discovered Bill had filled the wall with a drawing of himself making an obscene gesture, with a word bubble that read, "GIVE MY REGARDS TO THE AX! And tell Jessica I said bye xoxo"

It zoomed out into the hallway and grabbed its walkie-talkie. "Director SM5! Cipher's escaped his cell! He left a decoy! He's not with The Beast, we don't know where he is!"

There was a moment of dead air. And then the director growled, "I think I have an idea."

####

Trying to keep his giggles as quiet as possible, Bill looped through the Theraprism's halls, drifting between The Beast's rolling fields of hard candy corpses and the Theraprism's rigid monotone halls. What had he been worried about! Getting hopped up on astralplanar sugar before escaping his cell had been a great idea! It gave him instant shortcuts through half the walls! And he could handle a little buzz like this! He was totally in control of his actions and knew exactly what he—

How long had he been flying the wrong direction? He turned around. Wow was he high, he could barely focus on anything but all the colors. He wondered if The Beast's toxins had any weird interactions with his meds.

He was lucky The Beast had decided to dawdle around the Dimensional Tyrants Ward: here at the far end of the Theraprism, there were no signs of crisis beyond the sealed doors indicating the facility was under lockdown—and once he was outside a high security ward, there were plenty of cracks, gaps, and vents that Bill was thin enough to slide through. He hadn't even seen a guard since he'd left his cell. By the time he reached the reincarnation room, The Beast's landscape was fading out and the sugar crash headache was fading in, but the facility was still on lockdown and no one seemed to be looking for Bill. He slipped beneath the locked door and powered up the console to the reincarnation machine.

He skipped straight to the reincarnation program and checked the box that said, yes, the patient's brain had been washed. He paused when a warning pop-up blocked the screen. The technician hadn't gotten a pop-up. He had to read over the two-sentence warning three times before he understood what he was looking at. The soul sanitization routine hadn't been run recently, was he sure the patient's memory was erased—ugh, yes. He irritably clicked the confirmation and hoped that would be the last of it.

Bill quickly selected Earth and dimension 46'\; he tabbed past the coordinates and date, and they both automatically filled in "DEFAULT." D-SM5 had said the computer would make a "random" decision if you didn't plug in a time and place, but the staff didn't know Earth like Bill did. If he left the time and place up to the whims of fate, then something as weird as a trillion-year-old alien chaos god escaping a criminal insane asylum to spontaneously generate as a fully grown mortal would be sucked straight into the weirdest place and time on Earth. Gravity Falls: August, 2012. Weirdmageddon. He was willing to bet his life on it.

He was betting his life on it.

After that, with any luck, he'd be able to shed his new body like any other puppet and return to his castle in the sky. If for some reason he couldn't get out of it, he'd only need to pull a couple of magic tricks outside a normal mortal's capabilities to catch his past self's attention, find a way to prove his identity—heck, with any luck, they'd be seeing through each other's eyes and that would instantly confirm it—warn his past self about the Pines' treachery, prevent his own death, save Weirdmageddon, restructure the universe in his image, and rule his new party paradise as god-king for all eternity. Easy.

He scrolled down the list of available creatures, looking for something that would be easy to reach the Fearamid and prove his intelligence with—something with vocal cords that could speak eye-bat would be useful, it'd save him a lot of trouble if he could just shout at his sentinels in their own language and startle them into listening—but, to his surprise, the first useful species he found was humans, down amongst the species that had received a single-digit number of reincarnations from the Theraprism. Really, humans? They allowed that?

Over the blaring alarm, a voice made an announcement. He completely tuned it out—and only realized a moment after it ended that he'd heard his own name. They knew he'd escaped.

Bill didn't have time to search for anything better. He selected humanity.

He tabbed past dozens of features he could choose from for his body—default default default default—who cared what the body peed out of, he wasn't keeping the thing long enough to fill its bladder! He clicked open the advanced settings—there, spontaneous generation! He hoped this thing wouldn't drop him on the sidewalk as a baby, but usually when a human suddenly popped into existence, it was an adult sculpted from clay or something, right? He'd be fine! He checked the box for spontaneous generation.

He got another error message. He groaned. He wasn't sober enough for this.

Something about spontaneous generation being banned on Earth after 1859, is he willing to assume the liability if the patient generates after—yeah sure whatever, he clicked yes. Another pop-up prompted him for the digital signature of the person assuming liability. He typed in D-SM5's name.

As soon as he clicked enter, another error message popped up. "What!!"

He flinched at the sound of a muffled pneumatic hiss. Outside, somebody had unlocked the doors to this hallway. The alarm was still blaring; the Theraprism wasn't coming off lockdown. That meant whoever had unlocked the hall was coming for him.

"Focusss." He skimmed the new warning. Something about humans being on a list of species for which spontaneous generation was restricted—what loser had written a law about that! Who cared if a fully-formed, brand-new human popped out of thin air in the middle of town! What about Bill's wants?! He checked another box YES HE'S SURE HE WANTS TO SPONTANEOUSLY GENERATE A HUMAN YOU MONSTER and pounded enter.

Another pop-up. It wanted to know on which god's authority the spontaneous generation had been authorized.

Bill froze. Why did it need to know. Would it check? A machine that could reincarnate a soul was probably also a machine that could shoot off a prayer. Or was Bill supposed to have some kind of divine authorization code? Which gods were even allowed to authorize that kind of thing? He didn't know which stupid legislative body had made this stupid law or what their stupid definition of a god was! Gods weren't even real, they were just stupid, arrogant, stuck-up jerks who were powerful enough to trick people into thinking they were important! Like Bill! What name were they looking for?!

He heard voices in the hallway. He darted over to the door, slid his fingers through the seams around the doorframe to crush the latching mechanism so it couldn't be opened, and darted back. That wouldn't hold them long; he knew from experience that the guards could bust down the doors in these low security wings without much difficulty.

"Bill Cipher!" That was D-SM5. It had come personally? In any other circumstance, he'd be flattered. "Open up immediately!"

"Has that ever worked?" A god, a god, a god... his eye caught on the bas relief at the back of the next room. If there was any god this place would accept orders from... The guards were ramming the door; the bending metal groaned. He typed "THE AXOLOTL" and hit enter.

The button grayed out but the pop-up didn't go away. The screen froze. "What." Bill tried clicking again. The cursor turned into one of those little spinning balls that meant the computer was quietly having a stroke. "No no no no—"

D-SM5 hollered, "You know what the consequences will be if you don't—"

"I'm not listeniiing to yooou!"

"You're only going to hurt yourse—"

Dropping his voice to a demonic boom to drown out the director, Bill recited, "'I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited! People were not—" There was a shriek of tearing metal, and then a bright glow behind Bill as D-SM5 peered through the gap in the door. Bill started talking faster, "'Were not invited they went there they got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island and somehow—'"

The pop-up disappeared. The cursor returned to normal. The box next to spontaneous generation was checked. Bill stared for a split second, then quickly closed out the advanced settings, scrolled to the bottom of the page, and hit "EXECUTE."

Someone blasted the door out of its frame; based on the blinding glow that accompanied the blast, Bill suspected that wasn't one of the guards, but D-SM5 itself. He frantically clicked through the next two confirmations, flung a couple of folding chairs toward D-SM5 and its thugs, and dove beneath the door to the next room. Ten seconds.

"Cancel the reincarnation!" D-SM5 snapped.

A guard ran to the console. (What if they saw where Bill had gone? They could probably guess the planet, but would the computer keep records of his destination, what his new body looked like—) "I don't see a cancel! I don't think—"

"Then get him off the altar!"

Five seconds. Please spawn as an adult and not a baby, please spawn as an adult and not a baby, please— Bill hadn't broken the door between the observation room and the altar; the guards easily unlocked it. "No no no—!"

"Don't let him esc—!"

Three seconds. An impossibly bright light shone down on Bill. He reflexively peeled open his exoskeleton to accept it. LIGHT—oh, he felt even more alive than the time he'd stolen a bottle of stimulants from the nurse station, ground them up, and snorted them off Mrs. Mirrorcube's back. His eye widened, taking in as much free energy as he could—and then he focused his gaze through the window on the console, focusing the infinite light into a laser powerful enough to instantly melt through the window and explode the computer. The guards fell back, trying to shield their tender mortal flesh from the fury of Bill's fire. Enjoy the blisters.

D-SM5 bellowed, "Bill Cipher, you mo—!"

"CATCH ME IF YOU CAN, SUCKA!" He could feel his body ripping apart, cracking open at the wound. It hurt, but not the hurt of dying; it was the euphoric hurt of spaghettification, of being infinitely sucked beyond a beautiful event horizon. Bill's triumphant cackle filled the air—

—and then the room was silent and dark, and Bill was gone.

####

(If you're new here: I posted this as a one shot because I think we could all use a little Bill escaping from Theraprism, yeah? However it's ALSO part of my ongoing Bill-stuck-in-a-human-body fic I'm currently editing for TBOB compatibility. So, if you enjoyed this and want to see where post-reincarnation Bill goes, check out the fic!! And if you DON'T want to read the rest of the fic, I hope you enjoyed the one shot and I'd love to hear your thoughts.

If you do check out the main fic be forewarned it's only 100% TBOB compatible up to chapter 6. After that it is, bizarrely, 98% TBOB compatible, because somehow I accidentally wrote a fic that lines up with the book so well that I'm legit worried people could use TBOB to work out fic spoilers. But I still need to edit the remaining 2%.

If you're NOT new here: hey gang this is the new chapter 6!!! I finished editing this chapter about fifteen minutes before post time so it's not as polished as my usual chapters, but I hope it didn't read that way. Anyway, I look forward to hearing what y'all think!)

[darksilvania]

The 5 Underground Lake pokemon

HAGABABA [Hag + Baba Yaga + Baba (Slime in spanish)] Poison/Dark The Slimey Pokemon Abilities: Gooey/Liquid Ooze - Corrosion (HA) Dex: "It can only be found inside an underground lake where the water has become acidic. Its body is naturally covered by a layer of slime that protects it from the corrosivness. It can alter the properties of the slime all over its body, making it slipery or sticky at will. It can even make it acidic and use it to attack its foes.” Moveset: -Slimeball: >Poison type / pwr 110 / acc 85 / pp 5 “The user spits a large glob of acidic slime to its opponent” >This move its also considered dark type >This move leaves the field covered in slime that causes entry hazard, if the move is used a second time, any entering pokemon will become poisoned -Sludge Wave -Nasty Plot -Acid Armor

THINKERFISK [Thinker + Inketfisk (Octopus in french)] Psychic The Starry-Eyed Pokemon Abilities: Clear Body - Misty Surge (HA) Dex: "It can only be found inside an underground lake where the water has become psychoactive due to the presence of special fungi. This has altered and greatly expanded this pokemons mind.” Its brain is said to be in a constant altered state, thanks to this it has achieved the ability to see through time and space, past and future, and even achieve enlightment.” Moveset: -Psychedelia: >Psychic type / pwr 110 / acc 85 / pp 5 “The user bombards its foe with a terrifying mental blast of changing colors and sounds.” >This move confuses the target. >This move reduces the target speed -Expanding Force -Power Gem -Cosmic Power

SPOOKIMERA [Spooky + Chimaera] Ghost/Flying The Long Nose Pokemon Abilities: Cursed Body - Perish Body (HA) Dex: "It can only be found inside an underground lake where the water has lost all oxygen, making it impossible for anything to live in it. This pokemon are the spirits of the fishes that used to live inside the lake before it became inhospitable, now they remain trapped in it, wearing their old skins as cloaks” Moveset: -Breathtaker: >Ghost type / pwr 110 / acc 85 / pp 5 “The user sucks the air from the field, making breathing harder” >This move its also considered flying type >fire type moves can’t be used after this move. >fog, mist, haze or gas are removed -Hurricane -Ominous Wind -Mean Look

TERRORICE [Terrorize + Ice] Ice/Steel The Terrible Claw Pokemon Abilities: Ice Body - Bulletproof (HA) Dex: "It can only be found inside an underground lake where the water reaches subzero temperatures without freezing. To withstand the cold, it covers itself with a thick ice armor, stronger than steel. Its giant claw works just like a chainsaw, using it to cut through ice and rock when looking for food.” Moveset: -Chilling Chainsaw: >Steel Type/Pwr 110/Acc 85/PP 5 “The user slashes at its opponent using its ice cold chainsaw-like claw” >This move its also considered ice type >If the opponent is frozen, this move deals double damage and removes the frozen condition. -Ice Hammer -Metal Claw -Sword Dance

SCALDORM [Scald + Ormr (Dragon in old norse) Fire/Dragon The Intense Heat Pokemon Abilities: Water Absorb - Storm Drain (HA) Dex: "It can only be found inside an underground lake where the water reaches temperatures above the boiling point without evaporating. It withstands the immense heat thanks to its unique oily skin. It produces an oily substance that protects its skin from the water’s heat, this same oil can be used as fuel, and will keep fire burning even underwater.” Moveset: -Liquid Fire* >Fire type / pwr 110 / acc 85 / pp 5 “The user attacks with a stream of burning oil that remains on the field afterwards” >This move may cause burning >This move leaves a fire entry hazard on the field >This move is super effective against water type pokemon -Scald -Dragon Breath -Fire Spin

[taleeater]

Low Pressure

TMNT Bayverse x Reader

Sliiiiight Michelangelo x Reader

Reader has she/her pronouns.

The reader has POTS/Anemia and is caught up in a trap the Foot set for the turtles in the subway. Her condition brings unwanted attention and she is thrown onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train. What will the turtles do with this unusual girl?

Warnings: Canon typical violence, damsel in distress, fainting, injury, hurt/comfort

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

A warm summer evening. The humidity had seeped into the subway tunnels and warmed the smell of the sewage and stale air. A young woman clutching a small bag of groceries was crouching down in the middle of the slightly crowded platform - an unusual sight - looking quite pale. 

‘Just three more stops and I’ll be home.’ 

You despised the long wait for the next train between transfers. The long day of errands had drained what little energy you had and left you feeling dizzy. The sign above the platform stated the next train would be arriving in roughly 7 more minutes, and you let out a light groan as you scrolled down the light of your phone. 

An echo of a stampede suddenly cascaded down the subway steps. Unbothered, you did not glance up from your phone, assuming it was a group of kids or tourists in a rush to make the next train. That is, until you were nudged roughly by an offending leg, knocking you over with a surprised shout.

“Hey!!! What-?” 

Your complaint was cut short as you regarded the woman standing above you with shock. The older woman was clad in all black tactical gear, holding a large assault rifle. 

“You- get up.”

The command was short and loud as the gun was nudged at you, and you quickly scrambled to your feet. Looking around you saw more thugs cornering the other people on the platform and ordering them to hold their hands to their heads, and stand with their backs facing the platform. 

A man shoved you towards the edge of the platform to join the others, your shopping bag abandoned. Your vision swam slightly as the blood rushed to your head, and you tried to get your breathing under control. Everything was happening so fast.

The thugs in all black tactical gear unzipped their duffle bags and started to stick small white boxes to the shadows of the station’s pillars. They were unassuming and blended in.

When they were finished, the older woman ripped off her mask to reveal short stark black hair. You recognized her face from the evening news. She was a head of the Foot Clan that had terrorized New York City many times in the past. It was rumored they had gone into hiding after their leader had disappeared during the invasion. Why had they resurfaced? 

“Stand still!” A man barked at you, as you were starting to sway in place. An older man standing beside you gave you a worried look as your breathing became shaky and the color drained from your face, like you were going to be sick. Your eyes were distant as sweat dripped from your temple. You tried to focus as your waning stamina drained and your vision started to blur. 

“I…. I need to sit down…” You stated desperately in a small shaky voice. Black dots danced behind your eyes.

“I said STAND STILL!” The man pacing around with a gun shouted at you once more, walking over to you to give you a curt shove with the but of his gun. What little balance you were retaining was broken and you weakly fell to your hands and knees, shaking and breathing heavily. 

“HEY!! GET UP!!” The man shouted and kicked your shoulder with his foot. You groaned as your arms trembled but did not have the strength to get up, fighting to stay conscious as your vision swam and nausea crawled up your throat. Then the woman with the short black hair approached at the sounds of the shouting, regarding the collapsed hostage with mild disdain.

“……Throw her onto the tracks.” She coldly ordered, and a few of the other hostages cried out quietly in shock. Your yelp of distress echoed through the station as the man grabbed you and began to drag you the short distance to the edge of the platform. No one dared to step up and protest. 

“If anyone else moves a muscle, they shall share the same fate!” She called out to the horrified crowd. Then she spoke a quick order into her walkie talkie, and started to walk towards the exit of the tunnel. The rumble of the train approaching sounded just as the man finally kicked you down onto the train tracks. A shriek rang out from the hostages but still, no one dared move. You tumbled hard onto the dusty dirty tracks and a dull thud could be heard as your head struck metal. You were soundly knocked unconscious. 

Suddenly the lights started to flicker. A shout and a cheerful whoop called out from somewhere in the tunnels, the sounds bouncing off the walls with the blaring horn of the train. A darting motion, quick as lightning, two, three, four figures blending into the shadows. In the blink of an eye, the young woman disappeared from the tracks just before the train passed over them. 

Wap! Bang! 

Two Foot minions were slammed to the ground. There were shouts of alarm and the men with guns looked around for the culprits, shooting wildly at the shadows. The woman in black called out another command before fleeing up the stairs and out of the subway station, escaping the fight. Many of her minions began to quickly follow her while those remaining were quickly subdued by the unseen force. 

“Quick! Get out of here!” A new voice in the dark shouted. As the people suddenly were allowed to flee, a large figure appeared, green and in an orange mask, carrying the young woman. 

“Here!! Someone take her! Get her out of here! Hey!!!!” He called, holding her out for anyone rushing by, but all the fleeing people gave him a wide berth as they themselves escaped. 

“Mikey! Put her down. The police will come find her later.” A gruff voice called out. 

“No no wait, she might need immediate medical assistance-“ Another one supplemented.

Suddenly, a small beeping sound started to echo from around the tunnel. The brothers looked around, and noticed small flashing red lights on all the surrounding pillars. They had walked into a trap.

“Ah shit- RUN!!!” 

All four brothers jumped down onto the train tracks just as the bombs exploded, sending rubble flying onto the platform and tracks. Pieces of concrete and beams from the ceiling cracked and came loose as the tunnel started to cave in.

“WE NEED TO TAKE COVER!”

The leader in blue led the team down the tracks and towards an unlocked door in the maintenance tunnel. Everyone rushed through the small door just as the rest of the bombs exploded, causing cracks in the street above to stretch down the street and layer upon layer of road and cement to crash down and completely block the tunnel. They waited for the rumbling to die down until the dust settled in the dark of the small room and they all caught their breath. 

“Great. The Foot are back and they want us dead.” 

“We don’t know that- maybe they were just trying to rob the passengers?” 

Donatello cracked a large red glow stick to illuminate what looked like an old control room lined with various pipes and levers.

“And set up all those bombs to go off when we’re the last one in the tunnels? I don’t think so.”

“Uuuuuuh guys?”

“What Mikey?” 3 of the brothers turned to the youngest with exasperation. In the low light they noticed he was still holding the unconscious young woman in his arms.

“You still have her?!?!”

“What??? Was I just supposed to leave her in the collapsing tunnel?!?”

Leonardo sighed and ran a hand down his face as he paced the room. “…Right. We need to get out of here and find a hospital to drop her off at.” 

The purple banded brother approached, dropping the glow stick and flicking on a small book light on his shoulder, shining it on the woman’s face. Checking her over for injury, he followed a small trail of blood up into her hairline and found a noticeable bump there and took note of a darkening bruise on her exposed shoulder. 

“Duuuuude…. She’s pretty cute! Betcha $10 I can get her number- Ow!” Donnie swatted him for good measure.

“It looks like she might have a concussion. I won’t be able to tell the severity until she wakes up.”

“She must’ve hit her head pretty hard to knock out on the tracks.” Leonardo said, glancing over his brother’s shoulder.

Suddenly the small woman groaned as the light shining in her eyes began to rouse her. The shoulder light was quickly switched off.

“Come on. Let’s find a way outta here before she wakes up.” Raph said gruffly.

He pushed past Donnie and Mikey and slowly tried to pry the metal door open. 

“Careful!” Leo jogged over to brace the door as some large chunks of concrete tumbled out, disturbing the dust in the air. Donnie coughed and waved a hand in front of his face as he picked up the glow stick and approached, Mikey being left to stand in the back of the room still holding the injured woman.

Raph and Leo stepped aside as Donnie waved them out of the way, stepping over the wreckage and tossing the glow stick at the base of the door. The light illuminated a small gap in the collapsed stone at the top of the door.

“There. The cave-in isn’t piled high enough in this part of the tunnel. It looks like we can squeeze out through there and look for a manhole cover.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan. I’ll go first to check if it’s stable, then Mikey can pass the girl up to me.” Leo ordered, getting a nod from everyone in approval. 

“Be careful not to trigger another shift in the rubble, Leo. If we’re not careful, then another tumble could bury us in here.”

“No pressure or anything dude.” Mikey joked as he went to stand next to Raph as Leo began his climb, the red banded turtle rolling his eyes. Donnie was fiddling with the holo screen on his wrist with a blueprint of the tunnels pulled up. 

“You see anything up there Leo??” Donnie called up after Leo fully climbed out of the rubble. The shifting of small rocks could be heard as the blue leader found his barings.

“Looks like there’s a ladder a little ways down the tunnel. Could lead topside.”

“Woo!! Let’s get out of here, I wanna get this dust outta my mouth.” Mikey sputtered and spit as Leo crouched down by the opening, reaching down to be handed the unconscious young woman. 

“Me next! I’m gonna check if the ladder is the same one that showed up in my blueprints.” Donnie piped up. Leo set down the girl gently and reached down again to offer a hand to Donnie. Raph took a knee and locked his hands together to give Donnie a boost out of the room. Mikey got excited. 

“Oooooh! Me next! Me next!” Raph grunted as Mikey immediately placed his foot in his hands and put a hand over Raph’s face to steady himself.

“Ugh. Just get it over with.” With a steady throw he launched his brother up out of the room. Lastly, Leo and Mikey each reached down a hand to help pull Raph up and out of the stuffy room.

Once out, Raph noticed the glow of the city night lights streaming down through the broken ceiling, accompanied by the red and blue flashes of police lights from street level.

“Sheesh. This is gonna take ages to fix…” Raph wandered away from the light towards the base of the rubble where Donnie was looking around by the far wall. 

“This should lead us outta here! Come on guys!” Donnie called, closing his hologram and waving the brothers over. Mikey had scooped up the unconscious girl again while Leo guided them both carefully down the slope, stumbling a bit and causing a few rugged cement blocks to tumble down past them.

They climbed the ladder up to street level and all piled out into an alleyway. Discreetly, they climbed the closest building’s fire escape up onto a roof. Sirens were wailing as police worked to section off the collapsed road and subway entrance just around the corner. Leo was surveying the wreckage and scanning for an ambulance from the edge of the roof, when suddenly a soft sound came from Mikey that made them all pause. 

They all turned to look down at the young woman whose eyes were just fluttering open, and Mikey quickly moved to place her down on the rooftop before stepping back in a crouch. They all had a little bit more experience dealing with the human shock after April, so they knew to give some space in case she screamed or passed out again. 

“Mh…? Ow….” You managed to sit up, arm coming up to grip your head in pain. You felt a bit dizzy, looking around as your vision cleared, until your eyes landed on a materializing fuzzy shape. You blinked, and wondered if you were dreaming. Right in front of your eyes was what appeared to be a large green alien-looking being crouching a few steps away, smiling and waving at you. Looking past him you saw 3 more large green men, all looking at you with a variety of different expressions. For a long moment you just looked between them in quiet pause, taking in all the details of their individual forms. One of them appeared nervous and bashful at meeting your long gaze, another standoffish, and one stood firm and steadily sized you up. The one closest to you wearing an orange bandana over his eyes looked excited as he shifted around to pull out his smart phone from his pocket and hopped a little closer. 

“Hey, the name’s Mikey! You haven’t screamed yet so I'm taking that as a good sign- Can I have your number?” You raised a shocked eyebrow at the cheerful chatter and the other green men groaned, shaking their heads. But the silly casual reaction did wonders to calm your nerves. They seemed… friendly.

Quickly, the (nervous) purple banded… greenman…? Stepped forward and crouched beside you, slightly blocking out the excited orange one and pulled down some binoculars over his eyes, switching on a light over his shoulder. 

You were a bit taken aback, nervous for a moment before he spoke.

“a-ahem, s-sorry, if you could just follow my finger for a moment?” He held up a green finger from a 3 fingered hand, and moved it from left to right. You followed. “Good. Can you tell me what city you’re in?” He reached up and oh-so gently touched your jaw to tilt your head, getting a better look at the bump on your head.

“N-New York City.” You now realized this was a concussion test and not some alien probe. “Um… Are you all wearing costumes or am I hallucinating?” You said a bit embarrassed. You weren’t scared, just mildly confused. This *was* New York afterall. After an attempted alien invasion and the arrest of a mutant rhino and warthog, anything was possible.

The red-banded turtle in the background groaned and threw his hands up, turning away. The blue one however stepped forward with a sheepish expression and a slight grin. 

“Mutants, actually. We should get you to an ambulance to get your injuries properly checked out. The police would also probably appreciate a statement, if that’s alright with you.” He said leaning down slightly over his purple companion, who switched off his light and offered you a hand to stand. 

“Oh…” You said, blinking a little as you looked at him. You noticed the offered hand and gratefully took it. “Thank you.” With a little effort he helped you to stand up, the orange one also jumping to his feet behind him and crowded your space at your side.

“Hey!!! You seem pretty chill! What’s your name?” The orange green man asked you excitedly, still clutching his cellphone in his hands.

You felt a bit shy but returned his smile. Mutants, huh? The news made them sound scary, but these guys just felt like…. People.

“My name is (y/n).” You said warmly. “What’s your names? The last thing I remember was being thrown onto the train tracks… Did you guys get me out of there?” You asked, looking between them. 

The red one looked over his shoulder at you, looking slightly surprised. And the blue and the purple one exchanged looks. The orange one beamed and bounced on his heels, stepping in front of you and picking up your hand. The skin of his hand felt rough and calloused.

“Yeah, that was us! No need to thank us though, just doing our jobs.” He held his chin up high like he was proudly striking a pose. You giggled a bit. “My name’s Mikey! And that’s Donnie-” He stepped aside for you to see the purple one straightening suddenly and raising his hand up in a wave. “That’s Leo,” The blue one crossed his arms and nodded at you. “And the grump in the back is Raph!” Said grump shifted the toothpick he’d placed in his mouth and turned his head away, feigning disinterest.

“Wow… well, thank you- very much, regardless. I really appreciate it.” You started to shift back and forth on your feet, starting to feel the creeping discomfort of being idle on your feet for too long. You shifted your attention to your hand clasped in Mikey’s, and noticed the phone he was still holding. You reached out tentatively to take it, watching as his eyes widened in mute shock as you looked for permission. “You wanted my number, right? You seem very nice, and… I’d like it if you gave me the opportunity to thank you all properly sometime. Is… that okay?” 

You glanced over to the rest of the mutants, who all equally looked to have frozen up with shock. 

“Y-yeah! Of course, dudette! You can text or call me anytime you want!” Mikey seemed flustered with barely contained excitement as he let you take his phone. You took his heavily modified smart phone and began to enter in your name and number into his contacts. Mikey turned back to his brothers and shot them a double thumbs up which made them relax with minor content. You sent yourself a message and returned his phone once you felt a buzz in your pocket. Mikey happily took his phone and looked between you and the screen like you had just gifted him the nobel prize. Then backed away to swing over a show Donnie and brag that he got a pretty girl’s number. Leo took a few steps toward you, and suddenly your eyes widened as you remembered something. 

“Oh, shoot, my groceries…” You mumbled looking down in mild frustration. It was already such a difficult chore getting out of your apartment, so you huffed in annoyance realizing you would have to repeat the task.

Leo chuckled lightly hearing your discontent and placed a hand on your shoulder, drawing your attention to him.

“You can worry about that later. For now, let's just get you down there so the paramedics can get a look at you.” Leo looked past you out at the street for a moment, then leaned down slightly next to your ear and whispered. “And… Thanks for not being scared of us. I know it means a lot to Mikey.” *And the rest of us.* 

The last part was left unsaid as Leo straightened with a kind smile. You felt your cheeks heat up at the sincerity and nodded your head with a grin. He felt like a strong and protective big brother, you realized. You looked past him at what you assumed were his brothers lightly roughhousing as Mikey excitedly waved around his phone.

“Let’s move out!” Leo ordered from beside you, and all the brothers turned their attention, Raph shoving Mikey one last time before they all jogged over to you both. 

You turned around to look off the side of the building, wondering for a moment how you were all going to get down. Your thought was cut short as you yelped, big strong arms scooping you up like you weighed a couple of grapes.

“Hold on tight, shorty.” Raph said with husky amusement, smearing over a Mikey who was complaining about not being the one to carry you.

“Wait, where are we-” You were cut short as you startled a gasp as they all suddenly leap off the side of the building. You didn’t have enough air in your lungs to scream so your arms shot around his neck. Your arms brushed against something hard and rough attached to his back. The boys bounced off the walls of the narrow alley and landed swiftly on the ground with barely a grunt. You shifted a bit in Raph’s hold to look over his shoulder, making him grumble as he jogged towards the street. You saw up close the ridges and panes of his shell reflected in the city street light.

“Huh… turtles?” You asked curiously, settling back and looking at Raph’s profile.

He snorted a laugh. “Yeah. Turtles.” He glanced at you with an amused grin before looking back ahead. 

Your lips pulled into a grin. The boys jogged through back alleys until the flashing of the police light at the safe edge of the collapsed underground came into clear view. Other hostages were standing around getting interviewed by police while some sat at the back of an ambulance wrapped in blankets. The boys jogged to a halt and Raph gently placed you down on your feet.

“They should be able to help you out. Make sure someone helps you get home safe, okay?” Leo said from beside you.

“Should you need anything, we have friends that will be in touch.” Donnie said, his attention seemingly on typing up a text message before tucking it away and looking up at you. You raised a curious brow at that.

All four brothers started to step away in preparation to leave. 

“Text me when you get home angelcakes!!!” Mikey said with a wave, bouncing as he warmed up for a run.

Raph grunted but still waved at you goodbye as he turned to leave.

“Thank you again!!! I’ll see you!!” You called after them, waving from the opening of the alleyway as you watched them run and jump up the side of the building’s fire escape, marveling at their strength and speed. They whooped and laughed as they nimbly disappeared from sight, leaving nothing but the faint shadow of figures leaping over the rooftops in their wake. 

Once they were out of sight, you sighed and turned again towards the flashing lights and chaos of the city street. News vans only just started to pull up as you stepped out and approached an officer who had caught your attention. 

Hours later, after being checked over by a medic and given your testimony to a tired officer, you gratefully stepped out of the cab in front of your apartment building. By now it was the early hours of the morning. You panted lightly from the exertion of getting back to your apartment, exhausted. You pushed through the door and barely had the energy to shed your jacket, wallet, and keys, trudging straight to your bed. Knowing you couldn’t stand being upright any longer, and longed to lay down after the long events of the evening. 

You flopped heavily down onto your mattress, barely remembering to kick your shoes off, before rolling over onto your pillow. You felt a little better now laying down, but sleep still crept up on you. Before you could pass out, you groped around for your phone and pulled it up to type out a quick text. One, to your boss, briefly explaining what happened and that you would not be fit to work tomorrow, and a second, with a grin, to the new number that popped up into your messages. You recognized the message you had sent to yourself from his phone earlier that night, reviewed it, and moved to add the name ‘Mikey’ to your contacts, making sure to add a little turtle emoji next to his name.

‘I’m back home. Thanks again for tonight. Talk to you later? :)’ 

You sent the text and dropped your phone to your chest. Settling back into your pillow and closing your eyes. Then the quick buzz not a moment later caught your attention, and you eagerly checked your messages again.

It was a short and quick confirmation from your boss, making you groan and roll your eyes. But the followup buzz and the message notification at the top of the screen reading ‘Mikey’ had you quickly pulling up the other conversation.

‘Heck yeah dudette!! Glad you made it back safe!! 😀 Lets talk over pizza next time!!’ The message was followed by lots of pizza and heart emojis and a little turtle emoji at the end. You grinned. He sounded exactly the same over text.

‘Pizza it is! :] Let's plan more tomorrow’

Your message was quickly responded to with a myriad of different emojis ranging from fire, winky face, and thumbs up. You chuckled and placed your phone down, satisfied and ready for sleep to consume you. You were grateful. It was a rare thing for you to make new friends in person like this. You were just hoping your lack of energy and mobility wouldn’t be a problem for them. They seemed so strong and energetic, you just hoped you would be able to keep up with them. 

You turned on your side and grabbed a stray blanket to throw over yourself, and allowed yourself to go to sleep.

“Dude!!! Look!! She said we could get pizza together!!” Mikey excitedly bounced around clutching his phone on a random rooftop in Brooklyn. 

Donnie adjusted his glasses to observe the bright screen in his brother’s hands. “She seems nice.” He offered, looking back up to Leo who was watching the street as a steady flow of people exited a bar. 

“Yeah, she does. Just make sure you still run a thorough background check on her when we get home, and forward her info to April just in case.”

“Roger.”

“Can we head back already? My show will be on soon.” Raph complained.

“You know I can just stream Gunsmoke for you anytime, Raph.” Donnie scrunched up his nose as he regarded his brother.

“It’s not the same, I like the commercials.” He quietly grumbled as he stalked over to watch a couple stumble into an alleyway below and turned away when he confirmed their consent. 

“Alright, let's head back. Good job tonight team! And Mikey- remember, no personal information until we confirm she’s safe.” Leo said, pointing to his little brother.

“Right!” Mikey stood mock salute, before running off giggling like an excited little girl, brushing past an exasperated looking Donatello. 

Raph sighed, slumping his shoulders and breaking into a jog after his little bro with his brothers. “You know he’s not going to shut up about this, right?” He distantly called out as they leapt over rooftops.

A mirrored goan erupted from the other two.

“Don’t remind me.” Donnie called back as he landed on another roof, pressing some buttons to check on the police scanner.

“Guys!!! Maybe I can finally get a girlfriend!!!” Mikey yelled over his shoulder as he kicked off a shed and spun around in a cool flip.

“Shut up Mikey!” They called back in unison.

And they called an end to their night.

The End!

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRIPE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, child abuse and more (check the tags)

Read after the cut

-

By some sense of duty, or else an undug tendril of guilt, Will volunteers himself to oversee your evening routine alone. You allow him this, being in scant possession of what slim tolerance has borne you through Hannibal’s accompaniment thus far.

Will proves himself to be far less involved than the other man would have been in his stead. He leans against a wall with the nonchalance of a prison warden as you shower blood and spend alike down the receiving drain, allows you to pad into your bedroom, towel-wrapped, to select a clean nightdress and sanitary products with his head turned nobly aside.

You cannot determine if his distance from you is through respect for your condition or some lasting dislike of you, neither of which holds entirely true.

More likely it is that he does not see you as his child, yet, nor quite with the equality of a lover.

Still, as you get into bed he cannot help but come to you, uncertain as he his of his purpose.

“Will you give me a goodnight kiss?” you ask, part in bitter jest, and part in annoyance with his indecision.

That a man can fuck and beat you in throes of black delight and still skulk about like a repentant sinner would have confounded you in the days before you became accustomed to such duality. To what end, and upon what strength the latter side subsists is now the greater puzzle, for it is this that drags its heels and restrains Will from his full devilry.

“Well?” you say, brusquely. “What are you waiting for? Dad’s permission?”

Will gives a hard laugh, one hand kneading the back of his neck.

“I admire your commitment to the part, but you don’t have to keep it up so seriously when it’s just you and me.”

“I promised I would,” you remind him. “Why can’t you? You had no issue kissing me in front of Hannibal. I don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

You see Will’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose, wanting the guard of the eyeglasses he’s neglected to wear.

“It’s not genuine,” he says, flatly. “The only reason you’re asking is to manipulate me.”

“So what?” you say. “Scared that it’ll work?”

“Not scared, no.”

“Sure you’re not.”

There is something hysterical in your tone, the cut string of a trapped and weary madness.

Will examines you, aware of the power play you’re attempting over him, intrigued by it, despite himself. Attracted, even.

His gaze is like a stone in the sun, all heat, all black, all blue.

He knows what revulsion you must push past to test him like this, still slightly high from the forced euphoria of fucking, and the drugs. You’re beyond consideration of the consequences, irrational, barely attached to the tongue and teeth that bite at the air in their ire.

Still Will hangs from your words like a pilgrim knelt before an oracle, dependent on your answer.

“Haven’t you had enough of me kissing you tonight?” he asks.

Sniffing, you turn to face his gargoyle shadow on the wall.

“So it’s a no. You’d make a really terrible father.”

“One...”

“Not my name.”

So Will says it, gently, and you roll back towards him, your heart quick and high behind a rail of bone with the thrill of his appeasement.

Your truce, the union of flesh: they’ve altered Will, for as he looks at you a second time his pupils are the chasms between worlds, wild and deep.

Kneeling up on the bed, you make a trellis of both hands through his curls and clutch him to you in an ungainly kiss. Will stumbles in the force of it, his arms spilling about your back so as not to fall upon you with all his weight.

You gasp against his lips with eagerness to take what he has taken, to fallow the rose flesh of his inner mouth, the lathe of your tongue churning. Will is too surprised to kiss you in return, but as you hitch one leg after the other upon his hips you feel the vine of him against your groin, wanting you again, as always.

You think of him fucking you now, pinning your wicked hands with the nail of his fist as he thrusts through a sheen of blood. Though you despise him still, your loins smart with interest in engineering the act rather than merely suffering it as ever before.

At last Will returns your kiss, but briefly, and with a knowing restraint before he lays you back upon the bed again.

You grasp at his face in an attempt to reclaim his lips. He pushes you lightly away.

“Hey,” he grins. “You made your point.”

“Oh?” you say, coolly. “And what is my point?”

“That I like kissing you. That I want to kiss you, whether Hannibal’s here or not.”

“Right,” you say, twisting a corner of your quilt around one finger for something to do with your hands. “But you never would have picked me. Like, if I was in one of your FBI classes. If I was your student. Would you even have noticed me?”

Will laughs again, with a startled unease, as though the notion is foreign to him.

“Starting affairs with students isn’t exactly my style. I turn up, I teach. That’s it. I don’t get personally involved. Or didn’t, till now. Letting people get close is... uncomfortable for me.”

He glances down at the bunch of quilt in your closed knuckles. Unlike the ever-tactile Dr Lecter, he makes no attempt to take it away.

“So how come you got so close to Hannibal?” you ask. “Didn’t you say you had reservations about him?”

“He saw me even when I was making an effort to turn away. He and I have commonalities I can’t ignore, and enough differences to keep me wondering who he really is. There’s a lot even I don’t know about him, and there are times I wonder what I’m doing letting him in.”

You’re on the verge of another question as Will steps sharply back from the bed.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll still be here in the morning. But if you want my thoughts about Hannibal then it’s only fair that you tell me a little about you in return. If this is going to work long-term I need to know who you are.”

Then he goes over to the light switch and closes you in behind a shutter of night.

*

 

You’re roused from the saccharine heat of your bedcovers the following morning by Will rapping on your bedroom door. His face appears in the crevice between it and the frame as though wary to trespass, the broken spell of your desperation in his eyes.

“It’s so early,” you whine, noting the bare line of sunlight beneath the curtains. “And I feel like death, thanks to you and Dad. Can’t I stay in bed?”

“Hannibal just rushed out to an emergency appointment,” says Will. “One of his patients is having some kind of crisis, so it’ll be just you and me for a while. You want coffee? I was about to make some.”

An apology, you think, something to alleviate the swaddled and perspiring misery of your comedown.

“Sure,” you say, weakly. “Black, please. Sweetener, if there is any. The low calorie version.”

Will’s brows rise.

“You think Hannibal keeps that around?”

Reflecting on the little paper sachets that had been favoured throughout high school you say, “Ha. I guess not.”

Within twenty minutes you’re sitting up against your pillows, one hand gripping a delicate, steaming cup, the other soothing your stomach through which bites the first monthly cramp.

Will takes a nearby chair, eyeing the bars on your window as though assuming your daily view through the glass.

Though you loathe him still in his unpredictable oddities, you’re keen to make closer yet the allyship you’ve struck up with him, watchful though he is of that very attempt. If he will not help you escape, then a friendship at least may fortify the sanity you fear will leave you in this quasi childhood.

Will doesn’t seek your regression quite as Hannibal does— a cantankerous teenager is as young as he perceives you, the sick girl that never grew up. This house, then, is a Neverland in reverse, a sumptuous den of brutal sex.

Closing your eyes against such thoughts, you take in your coffee, each dark mouthful a long-acquired taste. You remember forcing back cup after cup of it, trusting it over plain water in the belief that it would burn calories as you drank.

Suddenly you’re acutely nostalgic for the days spent in your childhood room, scrolling through online threads of ailing young women in a community of mutual suffering.

It occurs to you that you may never feel so entirely comprehended without judgement as you were there again. You understand Will rather more through the thought, his convergence with Hannibal a relief to so lonely a monster.

“Tell me about ‘Dad’,” you say, into the silence. “You said you would, last night. Like, who even is he? Where did he come from?”

Will blinks, stirred up from his own brooding thoughts. In the dreary daylight he has the face of a beautiful invalid, all its angles skirted in shade.

“Hannibal’s from Lithuania, originally,” he says. “He had a younger sister, Mischa. She died a long time ago. I don’t know the finer details of what happened to her. She’s the only family he’s ever talked about, and even then it’s been bare bones.”

You sit up straighter, envisioning a young girl with Hannibal’s eyes, and none of his appetite.

“Huh,” you say. “That makes a lot of sense.”

"Hannibal would disagree. He doesn’t put much stock in the past making him who he is.”

“Seems kind of a weird thing for a therapist to say. He’s always digging into mine.”

Will looks at the floor, as though distinguishing some new pattern from the grains in the carpet.

“Hannibal views himself as... separate from other people. Being that he acts outside of ethics and the law in his own profession, I’d guess that what’s between us isn’t his only secret.”

“I’ve tried to tell you,” you say, tapping your coffee cup with bitten fingertips for emphasis. “I’ve known this for so long. But since you’re going along with his games how can you even judge him for whatever horrible things he’s doing?”

“Without knowing what he has or hasn’t done,” says Will, slowly, “I can’t say that I do.”

He gets up from his seat and paces before the window, his hands gesticulating like pigeons frenzied into startled flight.

“You assume that what I’m trying to learn about Hannibal—the core of who he is—is something ugly. But that isn’t what I’m afraid of. It’s the possibility of him lying to me. I don’t know if I could forgive him for that after the bond we’ve made. After what he encouraged me start with you.”

“You shouldn’t trust him,” you say, urgently. “Don’t. You don’t need him.”

Scoffing, Will says, “Jack seems to think I do. Alana— she’s convinced I’m one nudge away from disappearing so far into a case that I kill someone without even knowing it. Hannibal's the only one that doesn’t think of me as broken.”

You consider informing him of his suspected encephalitis, that Hannibal surely withholds this truth and more so as to keep his favour.

In the end you retain your silence; better that Will discovers the manipulation alone and behold how he has been misled upon this trail of darkness.

“Enough about me,” says Will, abruptly. “I know that someone hurt you, long before Hannibal. Before me. Someone you've never forgotten.”

Alarmed by the twist in conversation, you stammer, “I— I already told him some of it. I said I didn’t remember. But I was lying about that. I just don’t know if it was only one, long night, or it happened other times. I don’t know which is worse.”

You pause, slightly breathless. Like a portent from the white lips of some phantom you know that you must tell Will the truth, adhere him to your weeping heart with empathy for you.

“I was just a little kid,” you say. “And he was an adult. Nearly family— I used to call him Uncle Lee. Hannibal probably told you that. Anyway, I got my ‘wrong’ feeling about him way before he did what he did. Like I knew it was coming. Then he came into my room alone one night and... it happened.”

You put down your coffee cup, almost knocking it from the bedside table with the shaking of your hand. Will comes away from the window at once, dragging his chair to your bedside to listen. He neither speaks nor looks into your eyes, aware that you can bear neither without faltering.

“He touched me,” you say, “and the whole time I couldn’t even face him. I don’t even remember what I felt. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. Just stared at the ceiling or whatever. He did stuff to me that changed me forever. I felt like a tiny old person in a kid’s body, after that, knowing about things I wasn’t supposed to know.

“And the worst of it was still having to see him after. My parents— I tried to tell them, but I couldn’t get the words out. They just thought I didn’t like him. So he came back to the house, now and then. Never saw any consequences.

“I’ve always wondered if I was the only one, or if there were others. He was a plumber, or something; he could have access to people’s daughters anytime he wanted. Just walk into their room and... you know. I think maybe he did do that, a couple of times. Who knows.”

Your restless fingers pick at the gold embroidery on your bedspread, working it loose from the velvet. One of Will’s hands folds over yours, gently holding them still.

“What I always think about is how he treated me, afterwards,” you say. “I tried avoiding him, but it didn’t always work. One day he cornered me at the top of the stairs— my parents were in the kitchen, so it was just me and him.

“I must have been maybe twelve or so. Not far off thirteen. My body was changing. I was growing up. He said, ‘you’re getting a little chubby, you know. You ought to do something about that before you look like your mother.’

“Then he smiled at me, and just walked into the bathroom like there was nothing wrong with what had just come out of his mouth, or what he’d done to me all those years ago.”

Inhaling an unsteady breath, you try, with dubious success, to smile.

“So now you get why I’m like this. And knowing it wasn’t my fault, that Leland Frost is just a predator... it doesn’t fix anything. Like, where do I go from there?”

“He injured you,” says Will, softly. “And it may never stop hurting. But you can recover. No matter what you believe, it is possible. His shallow cruelty is not your compass. You don’t have to live on the basis of an insult.”

Scowling, you pull away from Will, trapping your hands under your armpits.

“How can I change when I’m reliving what I went through every day? Why does Hannibal think this’ll heal me? Why do you? Oh, yeah. You don’t.”

“I want it to,” says Will.

You snort dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Not so long ago you would have punched the air to see the back of me. You don’t want to share Hannibal with anybody.”

Will leans back in his seat, arms folded; it takes a moment for you to register that he is, by some subconscious impulse, copying your posture.

“I’m not sharing Hannibal with you,” says Will. “I’m sharing you with him. And I want to do that. You knew it before I did.”

His gaze snaps to yours, more arresting than his hands on you had been.

“You’re more like me than I cared to admit. Hannibal was right about that. And though everything about you should repulse his sensibilities he finds you adorable. You clearly don’t appreciate it, but there it is.”

You yearn to deny him, to condemn this speech as sophistry, but you are silent, as much a congregant to him as he has been to you.

“Leland Frost tore you down because he saw that you were growing up and away from him,” says Will. “He knew that one day you’d have a life, and achievements, and people that really cared about you. He was going to fade out of your world, and he couldn’t stand not leaving a mark.”

“I just don’t get it,” you whisper. “He loved me. Why did he do it?”

Will shifts his chair even closer to the bed so as to lean into you, his expression tender, tragic, sombre with a father’s sympathy.

“Leland never loved you, and that’s no reflection on you or your worth. It makes him weak, that he could throw away the relationship he had with you over an urge.”

You don’t have the strength to rage against the whited sepulchre in Will, not when he speaks the truth you’ve always yearned to hear from another. Pain winds through your body, throat to gut, great, twisting pulses, as though eviscerated on a blade of past.

What advice would Will give for you to survive what he and Hannibal have done, and will do?

Nothing. Not a word. He knows that the structure of the home, even comfort from those that afflict you has changed you in so short a time. Your desperation to be gone from him he senses, too, and with it your lust to be loved.

Will holds your hand for a long time before he speaks again, on another subject quite as dreary as the last.

“When you said it’d been years since you...”

“Since I last had my period?” you ask, touching your stomach through the sheets. “Yeah. It has been.”

Your body, the betrayer, making a scarlet banner of your betterment through cruelty.

“I never wanted it to come back. Having it again means I’m not as sick anymore, and that’s like... messing up for me.”

Will's head tilts, his face carved up by the shadows thrown from your barred window into a lattice of snow.

“Failing to die is barely a failure at all,” he comments.

You shrug yourself further under your bedcovers.

“It is if what’s happening to you is something worse,”

“Is it always so bad, being here with us?”

Will’s hand rises. Doesn’t quite touch your face. You turn your head away, but not cruelly; he’s not a bad man, you decide, only contorted so utterly from the ways of his fellows that he is some creature other, or from before, the flint-armed hunter of the caves.

And like such a creature, he seeks your answering affection for want of some warmth in the dark beginning of the earth.

You allow him to kiss your forehead, clumsily, inclined towards him as though you were not both aware of the fiction that allows this contact.

He can only guess how far you’d run from this, had you your chance. How readily you’d betray him.

*

 

You’re much recovered by the time Dr Lecter returns, having been hydrated and energised by a selection of unnamed supplements Will had you take with lunch; there is a cure for every ailment in the makeshift laboratory of the kitchen, it seems.

Hannibal discovers you at your usual perch of the parlour couch, writing in your journal with a blanket tucked loosely around you against the October cool.

Will stands to greet his companion, setting aside a book you’d offered him from your shelf to peruse, its cover depicting the bloody half-brain of the sun on a desert horizon.

“I didn’t expect our charge to be in such high spirits,” says Hannibal, with unmasked surprise. “Thank you for caring for her this morning, Will. I’m aware that whatever time you can spare for us in the midst of an investigation is very precious.”

Likely aware of your eyes on him, Will says, “I’m glad I stayed. I appreciated the company. How’s the other patient?”

“Suitably quieted. I doubt that I’ll be called away again on her behalf. Still, I made the most of the journey home.”

Hannibal reaches into a shopping bag looped over one arm and produces from it a wrapped package of fresh meat, marbling the paper with blood.

Grimacing, you say, “Ew. What is that? Looks like an organ.”

“It is. I’ll be making trippa alla romana tonight. It’s an Italian dish made from cow stomach. Don’t turn your nose up till you’ve tried it. Have I served anything to you yet that you haven’t enjoyed?”

*

After dinner, all three of the household recline, full and talking lazily before the fire. Had your company been any other than your abusers you would almost be content, for having been allowed to leave the table after a valiant half plate you are not so guilt-soaked as you’d have been had you finished it all.

You had, in fact, disliked the meal, a first in Hannibal’s house. The thought of the organ, plucked from the rib of a butcher’s shelf, had struck bile to the back of your mouth from the first bite.

A cup of chocolate, warmed to a froth and unadorned with cream is set in your hands instead, which you drink in feline licks to make it last.

Will’s phone shrills abruptly in his pocket. Frowning, he glances at the lighted oblong of its screen and starts at a familiar name.

“It’s Jack,” he says. “I’d better take this.”

He promptly exits the room, speaking with clipped tones into the device.

Alone with Hannibal, you become acutely aware of him looking at you, not quite with suspicion, but not so far from that.

"I see that you and Will are becoming close,” he says, at last. “I’m glad to see it.”

Humming vaguely, you snatch up the journal again and weave your pen about in a pretence of writing.

Hannibal says, "Still, it saddens me that—for all your pretty words of promise—you display a lesser willingness to befriend me.”

You do not answer, pressing your pen so hard against a page that it blots through to the other side.

"Put your journal down a moment, Little One,” says Hannibal. “I’m speaking to you."

Without looking up, you answer, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You needn't say anything at all. It's your behaviour I wish to change."

In a flounce of irritation you throw the journal upon the floor, its spine creasing.

“I do what you say, and I don't fight you anymore,” you say. “Isn't that daughterly enough?"

"For the purposes of your treatment,” says Hannibal, “it is not. You remain closed to me, parted only by narcotic aid. I'd prefer you to open to me of your own volition. With Will, you prove yourself increasingly capable of that.

“I’ve given you all you’ve asked for, and more, and yet you show little gratitude. I wouldn’t wish to remove these luxuries for you to appreciate my endeavours.”

You look at him, then, this man both jealous and performing jealousy to groom you into his concubine, and in looking see that he will deconstruct your room into the barest cell, should he not have his way.

"I do appreciate what you’ve given me," you hastily protest. "I do, Daddy. You don’t have to take anything away. But I— I just don’t know you the way I know Will.”

“But you do,” says Hannibal, rising to sit beside you, a dangerous proximity. “That’s why you are so afraid of me, is it not?”

You begin to object, trailing off at the sound of approaching footfalls as the younger of your captors returns, listing in the churning swell of stress.

“It's the investigation,” says Will. “Another doll’s been found. Savannah Belmont. It’s too soon to be the Lover’s kill. He has a cool off point between each abduction.”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, rapidly alert.

“A copycat, then.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. His eyes touch your face briefly, and you offer him a small, close-lipped smile, an extension of comfort from across the room. His shoulders drop from their rigid line, and when he speaks again the frantic note in his voice is tempered slightly.

“Definitely a copycat,” he says. “The Lover disposes of the dolls by throwing them into rivers like garbage. No attempt to lay them to rest. Savannah was put on display, placed in a chair on a dirt bank as though she was waiting to be found.

“Both killers meant to degrade their victims, but only the copycat’s is implied to understand and accept that humiliation. Savannah Belmont died aware of her inferiority in the eyes of her murderer.”

You find yourself sitting on your hands to prevent them from betraying your agitation with their unsteadiness. Your leg, however, you cannot control, the right foot gyring an inch above the floor.

Hannibal eyes it without speaking, folding your reaction into the lengthy tome of his mind.

“The victim’s stomach was missing,” says Will, turning to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet like some bronze fruit. “That’s new. The Lover’s mutilations are all with the purpose of fitting the bodies of his victims inside their silicone casings. He has no surgical skills.

“This new killer obviously has expertise. Savannah’s stomach was cut precisely from her body with the clear intent of taking it as a trophy.”

“Her stomach?” you repeat.

You feel the heaviness of meat within you and are chilled by the coincidence.

Hannibal could not have known what the copycat would take to reference it, could not have known of his existence to begin with, and yet as you glance at him under your lashes you don’t quite trust the seriousness of his expression, his eyes gleaming dimly as tarmac in the rain.

“You mustn’t worry, Little One,” says Hannibal, turning to lift you up onto his lap. “The Lover can’t hurt you. We will protect you, always.”

He settles your head against his chest, which resounds with the slow beat of his heart and the machinery of organs digesting his own rich meal.

The monster knows of your renewed distrust and is unthreatened by it, declawed and tooth-filed as you are by his influence over you and all the passageways of the world you’d otherwise cross in your escape.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy,” you mutter, against his shirt, and the warmth of Hannibal’s palm cups your buttocks with a tormenting friction, both threat and tease at once.

While you hate him—are in terror of him, always—your form is increasingly enamoured by his touch as though it knows that it must be so, or die.

“No need to thank me for performing my duty to you, Little One,” says Hannibal, into your ear. “For you belong to me, and to Will, and you must never forget it.”

[tadpolesonalgae]

Mer!Azriel x reader: The Dregs of Tragedy - Part 2

A/N: We’re going H2O Just Add Water here

Warnings: drowning

Word Count: 4,143

-Part 1- -Part 3-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Tendrils of mist curl before you, cooling breath icing with the freezing temperature of the cave. Death is seeping into your bones—you can feel it. Life is steadily draining from your numbing limbs, alone and cold in a subterranean cave. What you wouldn’t give for a fire, or some other clothes, having discarded the sodden fabric in attempts to dry faster.

How long has passed since the mer left the tunnels? You never even learned his name—if the mer have names your tongue could pronounce. How do fish even communicate? You’ve never considered it before, having grown up with the screech of seagulls and the squeak of vermin. Sea-creatures have always had this innate connection to one another, shoals of fish automatically moving in synchronised rhythm.

It would be nice to have something like that, you think. To be so connected to other life forms communication isn’t entirely necessary, just being able to understand that movement is relentless and to know there is no wrong turn. To have absolute trust that everything will seamlessly connect.

A spasm wracks your lungs, briny sea-water dripping from your hair down onto numb shoulders. Death is coming swiftly, time ticking like the drip-drop of water to the slick stone beneath you. Either you stay here and die, or you venture the caves. He’d left with a warning; he had promised he’d return. But you’re not so disillusioned to trust the word of a mer, even if there’s a life connection between you now. You’d saved his life and he had protected yours, but there’s no trust. He has no reason to return, unless it’s once you’ve morphed to a corpse, where then cold hands will wrap around equally cold ankles, dragging your lifeless body into the icy pool to feast upon.

Warm-blooded animals like yourself like their food heated. Maybe his kind prefer theirs to be still. Cold, and stiff.

Throat rolls, and you get to your feet, nearly tripping over from being unable to move the frozen limbs. Ease deep breaths into your lungs—movement will be key to your survival. Having grown up on fish, your blood will take longer to freeze than an inlanders, fluid and thin in your veins. Yet the extra minutes or hours you’re spared will mean nothing if you don’t put them to good use.

Slowly and with great pains, you unstick your fingers, stretching hard, frozen toes, preparing for the dive. At least you can be thankful for the stagnant air—a breeze would have only catalysed your death. Breathe steadily, keeping a regular pace as you stretch aching limbs, hoping to get the blood flowing again to stand a chance of surviving the stormy seas.

If you even make it back to open ocean.

Stretch out the muscle, shaking out limbs, curling toes and fingers. Jump stiffly on your feet, staring into the icy water. You wouldn’t be entirely surprised if it froze over the moment you dive in. But you can’t stay here, trapped on the whim of a mer. Your life is on your conditions, and you won’t wait around for someone else to dictate its end.

With a deep breath, you stare at the tunnels. Remembering which one the mer had taken to escape, but not which one he came in from. What are the odds he took the one that would lead back to the ocean? What if the one he took simply guides further into his layer? What if—?

Click your tongue. You won’t get anywhere examining these possibilities. What if, what if. Stand and stare into the water, eyeing up an opponent. The three dark entrances that lie submerged in icy water. There’s a good chance that diving in will result in your death, but it will be better to go in head first rather than wait for death to come to you. Pray to the gods for any aid they can spare before glancing at the heavy pile of clothes. They’ll only weigh you down, but the idea of diving into mer infested water so utterly bare…

Turn back to the lagoon, sea lit by that strange luminescent glow. It would be nice if you weren’t in such a dire predicament.

Slow your breaths, calming your heart rate. Sinking into a quiet headspace. Prepare for the shock of water.

And step into the pool.

Head pounds as the ice swallows you whole, burning at your eyelids, ears popping. Pressure squeezes at your ribs but you hold the breath tight, reaching for the edge of the rock, hoping you find the right tunnel. Flip onto your back once you locate the lip, pulling yourself along the ceiling by the ridge of your fingernails, as though climbing.

Heart picks up the beat, adrenaline kicking in as you propel yourself through the tunnel. Dread begins creeping in when you feel the downward slant of the cave ceiling, being ushered deeper instead out outward. But you can’t turn back now. All you can do is continue on the route you’ve picked, even as your lungs ache and knees catches on the rough rock. Jagged in places, as though designed to be cruel to human skin. Prickling and barbed as it scrapes and grazes.

Throat and eyes burn, air bubbling from your lips as you force yourself onward, muscles screaming and pounding, head being crushed beneath the insane pressure of the ocean. You won’t last longer. Even if you make it out of the cave, you know their layers are constructed far beneath the surface. You would have to swim to the top, and you hardly have enough energy to make it forward any longer.

Tears prick beneath your lids, limbs slowing as nostrils sting, salt water pressing in. Something stabs beneath your lungs, lips parting on a mandatory inhale, body demanding breath. Icy water gushes in, and you convulse, fingers trembling as you reach forward.

So this is what dying feels like.

Eyes crack open, but the scene is blurred no matter how much you blink, the heaviness is weighing you down. Sinking your cooling body.

Dropping like a millstone through ice.

————

Heavy eyes struggle to crack open, as if held shut by sticky salt.

Breath is flowing into your lungs, skin fresh and soft, as if bathed in milk and honey. Dried by tender hands. Fingers and toes move with ease, no longer cracking and numb from cold, warm cotton brushing against lovely bare skin, able to breathe freely.

Inhale deeply, looking around, but all you can make out is the faint glow of yellow-orange light, as if cast by an unmoving flame. Rock is above you, far up in the heights, and you realise you’re in yet another cave. Sigh heavily, resting back into the— Brows narrow, groaning quietly as you make to sit up, but your bones are still aching, lungs sore and tender. It must not have been a dream, the drowning.

Swallow heavily as you sit upright, keeping the thin cotton blanket to your chest, but the air is warm without being cloying. Around the floor of the cave lie soft blankets, spongey bed padding, and pillows. Your hair is wrapped in some soft material, a few still-damp strands curling at the nape. A few balls of light are dotted throughout the cave, like floating candles, suspended by nothing visible. In the centre of the cavern’s floor is a pool similar to the one in your last confinement, the beds thickly covering the stone surrounding the rock around it. You can’t even see the cave’s floor through all the padded bedspreads.

“You’re awake,” a familiar voice rasps.

Muscle tenses, clutching the cotton tighter to bare and tender skin, littered with small scrapes. Find the mer at the pool’s edge, half out of the water, droplets trickling down blue-tinted skin. His long tail sways idly in the water, lazing about as it swishes slowly from left to right. Powerful arms lay crossed over the lip of the lagoon, yet the fabric beneath him is dry. Brow tightens as you shift away from the edge, keeping the thin blanket close.

“What…Where am I?” You ask, voice scratchy from the salt-water. Charcoal eyes bore into you, lashes thick, inky hair curling at the ends as water drips from the strands. “You’re in the incubation chamber,” he rasps, resting his jaw on the pronounced muscle of his forearm. “Where all humans are brought that we wish to keep.”

You just stare at him for a moment, reeling. Wish to keep? “What do you mean?” You manage to mumble shakily, fingers tightening on the blanket. “All humans? What’s going on?” That translucent film slides across his large, onyx eyes, glittering beneath the warm lights. “You left the sacred caves and drowned, like I warned. You died, and now you’re here, changing,” he explains succinctly. Too succinctly.

“I… What?” You manage, scrambling to catch up. “What do you mean I drowned? Why am I changing? Tell me what’s happening.”

His tail flickers behind him, but his features remain neutral. The indentations on his neck seem to be healing already, only faint lines remaining where light incisions once lay. “You went into the caves,” he repeats, slower this time, as if speed was the problem. “And you drowned. Then I brought you here, to incubate. And now you’re changing.” You’re afraid to ask what into.

“I’m alive…” you say quietly, questioningly. Voicing your thoughts. He nods in confirmation anyway. “I died,” you say, in that same hushed voice. Again the mer nods. “And you brought me here, once I was dead,” you ask, beginning to loose the string of events. “To incubate,” he finishes.

Silence passes, and you lay back into the padded sheets, staring up at the ceiling.

“You said I’m changing,” you manage, hoarsely. “What into?”

“A mer,” he answers, voice soft and rasping. “One of my kind.” You just nod absently, taking in his words. Transformation is impossible, but they’re creatures of magic. A horrible thought dawns, and you fight off nausea. “Am I going to have to eat humans now?” You ask shakily, fingers trembling as you ease in calming breaths, staring up at the rocky ceiling far above. Shake your head. “I can’t eat humans,” you declare decisively, “I’ll starve.”

“We don’t eat humans,” he rasps, the swish of his tail through the water like a hushing lullaby. “Yes you do,” you breathe. “I saw you bite at my—… You bit Alaric’s neck. Bodies wash up on the shore half-eaten. I’ve seen what you do.”

“We don’t eat humans,” he repeats. “Or at least, we avoid it. They don’t taste nice.”

“We don’t taste nice,” you echo, picturing the half-eaten bodies of stolen sailors.

“They don’t taste nice,” he reminds quietly, “you aren’t entirely human anymore.”

You have nothing to say to that, so you lay there silently, listening to the steady swish of his tail as it waves idly through the lagoon. Water splashes with slow movement, then a wet hand touches your arm. You recoil, muscle tensing as you squirm onto your side, curling away from the— He’s warm.

Large, onyx eyes watch you quietly, fingers lightly brushing the skin of your upper arm. He notes your stare, pressing his hand closer to you, palm flat. “You’re changing,” he reminds, “you’re becoming more like us.” His lithe tail flicks behind him, then he retreats back to the waters lapping at the edge. A soft breath shudders from your lips. “So I’m…” You trail off, unable to form the words. “I’m becoming a mer?” You ask, voice trembling.

He nods. “That’s right.”

Slowly, warily, you relax back into the padded bed-spread, keeping the cotton over your chest. “I’m turning into a mer,” you repeat to yourself, hardly even a whisper. Mind catches on what he’d said earlier, a small part he’d mentioned. “You said—” Swallow thickly, trying not to think too hard about it. “You said all the humans are brought here. Who you wish to keep.” Hands ball tight, keeping out the tremors. “Keep for what? And what others?”

“Humans hate us for taking their workers,” the mer explains quietly. “Their hatred is learned from those who came before them. Ours is in response to their cruel methods of torture and mutilation.”

He pauses, and you wonder if it pains him. If he knows the extent of the pain inflicted upon them in your town. “Still, there are occasions, rare occasions, where a human will show their-self to be compassionate, and with our dwindling numbers, and struggles with reproducing, we take who we can,” he finishes. Silence stretches as you comprehend the information. Raise your palm to your forehead, feeling the beginnings of an ache. Release a heavy breath. “My husband’s going to kill me,” you whisper.

The mer’s tail flicks suddenly, and then his hand is again around your upper arm, drawing your attention. Dark, large eyes locking with fear-filled irises, not yet fully changed. “He won’t,” the mer rasps firmly. “And you won’t return to the town you came from. Not at least while they would be able to identify you.” You shift uncomfortably, but the mer holds still, not quite a grip, but his touch lacks the softness you’d like. “You take me from my home,” you say quietly, “leave me in a freezing cave, allow me to drown, and now I can’t even return to the place I grew up? Tell people I’m okay?”

Something passes through his gaze, almost like sorrow, but it’s gone too quickly for you to place. His touch lightens, but he doesn’t fully release you. “They kill us. You haven’t even fully changed, and will have no idea of how to swim. It will take weeks before your muscles fully form, and at least a dozen days before you can learn our ways of movement,” he explains calmly. “The young take mere hours, but you’ve spent decades as a human who walks. It won’t be simple to unlearn those habits.”

You’re poised to argue back, that it’s your home and you can’t just drop everything and leave—though it had kind of already ended the moment your husband saw you free him, but… “Decades?” You snap, sitting upright, turning to him. His hand falls away, and he remains peering up at you silently. Outrage is replaced by infantile concern, “do I look decades old?” You ask, one hand holding the thin blanket to your chest while the other traces the skin of your cheek. The sea air can be harsh to humans.

“Forgive me,” he hedges, noting your worry. “It’s polite to err on the side of caution when speaking of someone’s age.”

“I look older than decades?” You fret, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. The mer are devastatingly beautiful…maybe humans are just ugly to them. That translucent film slides back and forth across his large, onyx gaze, the only sign of his comprehending he allows. “I forget humans prefer to be seen as younger,” he mutters, “so backward.”

Your brows narrow. “Is that not the case with your kind?” He gives you a look that reads you’re part of our kind now, but says nothing, instead answering your question. “Life experience is sought after, yes. Naiveté and innocence, while not inherently negative, are not attractive qualities like they sometimes are for humans,” he answers. You blink, vaguely surprised. Dangerously interested. “Humans do have a strange fixation on their young,” the mer mutters, as an afterthought.

“How old are you?” You ask, eyeing him warily. Dark eyes lift to your own, tail returning to idle swishes. “Thirty-three,” he answers. Brows raise with open surprise this time. You had expected centuries. The mer notes your expression. “In mer years,” he adds on. Suspicion coils in your belly as you shift, legs crossing as you turn to face him, keeping a little out of his reach. “And in human years?” You ask, cautiously. “Around five-hundred,” he answers simply, “give or take a few decades.”

Lips part in surprise, staring at him. The mer doesn’t budge beneath your stare, tail swaying calmly at his back, as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary. You suppose it wouldn’t be for him. “And me?” You manage to get out. “How old would I be in mer years?”

“If you had grown up as a mer?” He asks. You nod your confirmation, feeling a little silly for having your interest so easily captured. “How old are you?” He asks, peering up from the edge of the pool. Your lips purse, but answer him anyway. “Twenty-eight,” you reply, somewhat reluctantly.

“You’d be around four and a half centuries,” he says. You blink—the idea of making it past fifty…

“Having grown up as a human though,” he says, pulling your attention back down to him. “Their bodies mature faster than ours do, much more rapidly, and so they have shorter life spans. Arguably, physically, you are four and a half centuries old, simply lacking the experience of it all.”

“Oh,” you say, unsure how to respond. You’d known they were immortal, but it’s only really hitting you now.

Wince as your legs throb dully, the bones aching. Jaw tightens to keep the sound of pain in, eyes flicking to your concealed lower body. He’d said you were changing…how does that even work? Is it going to hurt? Fear prickles at your skin, concern etching itself into your features.

The mer at your side shifts, beginning to push away from the rock. “You should come in,” he says quietly, raspy voice slightly muffled by the wash of water rippling. “It will help with the ache.” Hesitantly, you raise the blanket, allowing you to peek beneath the cover. They seem fine, no tail in sight, yet the skin looks more lifeless than before. Drained of the warmth of daylight. What’s going to happen to you?

“Your bones will ache for a little. It’s how your body shows it’s changing. Think of it like growing pains,” he says, drawing closer to the edge again when he sees you aren’t immediately coming in. “Is it going to hurt?” You whisper, lowering the blanket, still pressing the cloth to your chest. The mer blinks quietly with those large, onyx eyes. “Temporarily,” he says at last, your heart sinking in your chest, a cool sweat breaking across your skin. “Badly?” You ask, unable to keep the fear from your voice.

He sighs. “It won’t be pleasant,” he answers. “Had this happened closer to the quarters of the moon’s cycle, it would be easier for you.” You turn to look at him then, brows scrunched in confusion. “During a new moon is when we are closer to humans, while during a full moon we are at our strongest, most primal selves. Tonight we are approaching a waning crescent—days from a new moon—so you will not be in unbearable pain, but neither will you be free of it.”

“You couldn’t have waited?” You ask quietly, but it lacks the bite you want to put in. Too exhausted from the events to be angry. “Where would I have stored you?” He asks, seemingly sincerely. “Our citadel is beneath the waters, where you would be unable to breathe. Had I left you…” He pauses, dark eyes glittering. “You tell me what they would have done.”

Throat rolls, but you remain silent.

The mer nods, then pushes off from the lip again, floating out into the water. Gestures for you to enter, “the water will help. Come in.” Your eyes flick to the pool, remembering its icy bite. How it had made your head pound. But your legs are aching more now, and you would like it to stop. “Do you have names?” You ask quietly, heartbeat picking up. He blinks once, then nods. Tongue flicks out to wet your lips, “what’s yours?” But he doesn’t answer, instead beckoning you in.

Warily, you move toward the lip of the pool, eyeing the water and keeping the blanket to your body. Dip your toes in, preparing for the icy shock, but to your surprise, it’s gentle. Verging on warm. A blink betrays your emotions, one he doesn’t miss. “You’re cold-blooded now,” he rasps, keeping his distance, “your perception of temperature has already begun to shift.”

Your brow narrows, hesitantly lowering your feet into the pool, hanging your legs over the rim of the rock, sitting at the edge. “What do you mean?” You ask, feeling some of the pressure in your bones wash away, as if soothed by the lull of the ocean. “The sea feels cold to humans, because they are accustomed to a higher temperature,” he answers, waiting for you to come deeper. You remain at the lip. “Our skin feels icy to human hands, because of our different heat levels. Now that you are changing, human hands will feel like burning coals, while fire will be unbearable.”

You take in the information dutifully, helping to keep your mind off the ache in your knees and thighs. The slight twinge in your hips and abdomen. He raises his hand again, goading you deeper. “Come in,” he rasps, “once you’re submerged, you’ll feel better.”

“But I’m…I have no clothes,” you reply, pulling the thin cotton sheet closer. He blinks again, at last swimming closer. Muscles tense, but you don’t pull away. He means no harm to you anymore—you’re unsure if he ever did.

“Does that bother you?” He asks, floating a little way from your feet. You watch him quietly, assessing his presence. Dip your head, “do mer not…” Fumble your words, struggling to articulate the weight of nudity. “It’s…very private,” you settle on, eyes lifting to his.

“But does it bother you?” He repeats, swimming closer still. You blink, readjusting your hold on the thin blanket. “Do you know what humans look like?” You divert.

The mer nods his head, “when the new moon comes, we can…” Shakes his head, sighing quietly. Gleaming onyx eyes latch gently with yours, expression softening. “yes, I know what a woman looks like.”

You don’t know why that sets your pulse racing.

He shakes his head, soft-looking mouth tugging upward at the edges. “Humans always have been so bizarre about clothing,” he murmurs to himself. Eyes again lift to yours, features neutral, verging on bland, yet there’s a tenderness there. It’s more of a shock than the icy water—a mer displaying care.

A blue-tinted hand raises from the water, and you tense when he sets it atop your knee, skin tingling at the brush of such a dangerous creature. “Put the sheet away,” he rasps, “the water’s lovely.” If you hadn’t known his throat was damaged from the wire, you would think he had put you under a spell, so easily coaxing you into desiring the raging ocean.

Heartbeat spikes, fingers tightening on the soft cotton, before loosening.

His eyes remain on yours, not even appearing tempted to stray. Simply holding your gaze as he floats in the pool, waiting for you to ready. Throat rolls as the air touches your skin—suddenly feeling hot and dry. Yearning for the soothing lap of the sea to wash and saturate. You push the blanket to the side, fully discarding the thin sheet, before raising your hands to your hair, letting it free of its binding.

Slowly, you easy toward the edge, the mer’s large palms rising higher to help you slide in, making sure the rock doesn’t catch on your tender skin. Especially when it’s already littered with small scratches and marks. Teeth push against your lower lip, tensing as you slide into the pool, the rough flat of his palms spanning your waist to keep you above the surface.

Automatically, you set your hands on the solid width of his shoulders, feet moving with the same idle movements as his tail. Inhale sharply at the proximity, not having anticipated how your heart would beat so wildly, being so close to such a dangerous creature.

Almost terrifying enough to be exhilarating.

The mer doesn’t smile, but the edges of his mouth soften ever so slightly, and you realise the aches along your bones have begun to recede, just as he’d said. Limbs remain a little stiff in places, but simply by being in the water, the pain has lessened. Breathe in softly, dipping your head ever so slightly, confused with the unfamiliar grounds. “Thank you…” you murmur, keeping your eyes on his, unable to shake the feelings of wariness that have been ingrained since a young age.

He’s supposed to be a vicious, flesh-shredding beast, and yet…

“Azriel,” he supplies. “My name is Azriel.”

You nod again. “Thank you, Azriel.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @marvelouslovely-barnes

tdot taglist: @mika-no-sekai-blog @blueeclipsepaperstudent @lalaluch

[dukewrio]

and always (ayato x sick!reader)

request?: yep!

warnings: panic attack, fear of hospitals (specific reason not mentioned), blood mention, some mild spoilers for the musketeer event quest

-

y/n’s legs give out from underneath them as they step out onto the porch adjacent to their room. they fall into the trap of exhaustion, laying fully on the wood planks, gasping in the fresh air. just as the feeling of relief fills y/n’s sickly body, it is immediately replaced by chills. y/n knows their fever has gone up exponentially in the past few days, but still is determined to fight it off traditionally.

normally when they would get sick, ayato would take care of them, he always had the perfect remedy for any ailment. however, ayato was in fontaine when y/n’s symptoms began and since he returned two days ago, he added more tasks to his plate than normal in an attempt to begin foreign cultural exchanges with the other nations in teyvat. seeing this caused y/n to keep their illness from her fiancé, not wanting to add to the tasks he had. it was easy, provided he had spent most of his time locked in his office.

y/n musters the strength to sit up and slouch themselves against the wall. soon regretting the movement as it triggers a coughing fit. their hand flies up to cover their mouth as the coughing worsens. y/n can’t even be surprised when a hand rest on their shoulder, all of their energy being drained. when the coughing finally subsides, y/n pulls their hand from their mouth to be greeted with the alarming sight of blood dripping down their palm. instinctively they look up at their new company in shock, and meet ayato’s eyes. they swear they saw a flash of fear in ayato’s blues right before the calculating mask glazes them over once again.

“y/n, how long has this been happening?” ayato asks softly.

“about 5 day-“

“5 days?!“ ayato exclaims. “why didn’t you tell me? i have been home for the past two?”

“you just got back and i-“

“i am taking you to the hospital.”

“no!” y/n yells. their eyes widening as they pull away from ayato’s grasp. tears appear cascading down their face. y/n moves their hands to cover their ears, too overwhelmed to notice the slick feel of the blood on their hand resting on their ear. “i can’t, you can’t, please,” they beg.

“y/n, how can i help?” ayato asks, keeping a distance as to not overwhelm them. “i think your illness is out of the scope that i can take care of myself.”

y/n’s head shakes and they begin to hyperventilate.

“no, no hospital please,” y/n sobs. breaths becoming more frequent as they continue to curl themselves away from their fiancé. ayato’s heart breaks at the sight. he knows they aren’t scared of him, only scared that he will take them somewhere they don’t want to go. however, the idea of bringing stress to his loved one instead of protecting them opens an old wound.

at a stalemate of what to do, y/n’s breathing only gets more frantic. the demons swimming in their head only add to the stress of the situation. y/n’s throat feels like it’s on fire, their illness only making it far worse. slowly y/n’s body starts to give in to exhaustion, the blurry world around them goes dark.

“y/n!”

-a couple hours later-

“so they are going to be okay?” ayato’s voice breaks through the dark quietly, still slightly muffled, but nearby.

“yes, i only wish you would have called for me sooner, their condition was rather serious,” a second unfamiliar voice speaks. y/n slowly opens their eyes only to be met with the inside of their and ayato’s shared room. a cool wet rag rests on their forehead. seconds later ayato walks back into the room, immediately making eye contact with y/n.

“you’re awake,” he smiles, a sad one. “i called for the doctor, he said you have a strong respiratory infection,” he stands to the side of the bed, at a distance, still unsure of your comfort with him.

“ayato, i’m sorry, i just-“

“you don’t need to apologize, and we can talk more in depth on this once you are better,” he pulls out a container. “the doctor gave me this prescription for you and some care instructions, you should be better in about a week.”

y/n reaches their hand out towards ayato. he takes it as a sign to come closer, he sits on the edge of their bed holding onto y/n’s hand.

“i’m here for you now, and always.”

-

a/n: hope this is what you had in mind. i kinda broke my heart with ayato for this. like i just started really liking him, and reading his lore.

masterlist

[havenmere]

okay wait but i really thought rhaenyra did throw that match on purpose/bc of alicent. but now she’s swearing to alicent she didn’t in the last chapter…. what is the truth

ok hang on i posted this snippet of deleted rhaenyra pov on twitter after this chapter so i guess i will here too!!

tldr; rhaenyra is not lying

Alicent Hightower worries. She’s a worrier. It’s why she can’t know about the trouble Rhaenyra’s wrist has been giving her. Not that it’s a big deal. Just little twinges here and there. Greg thinks it’s probably fine, just something to keep cautious of.

Contrary to her nature, she’s finding it easy to be cautious; in truth, she’s mildly terrified. Every time there’s a pang in her wrist she reflexively rolls her shoulder, like pain referred along a nerve. All season she’s been perfectly fit and now— right before bloody Wimbledon— her body decides to act up again. If anything, she’s erring into hyper-vigilance, taking it out on her poor physio.

“It’s feeling stiff,” Rhaenyra frets in their team meeting, after practice. Stroppily, she shoves her hand at Greg’s face, a child with a broken toy. Fix it.

He sighs, and digs his thumbs in, massaging. “I told you it would if you kept playing on it. It’ll be fine if you just give it a rest.”

“I told you, I can’t just withdraw— there’s— we’re both going to make the final—“

“Rhaenys?” Greg looks for support from the one person Rhaenyra might listen to. “Can you talk some sense into her?”

“I already tried.” Her aunt barely looks up from her notebook, except to take a sip from her cup of tea. Nobody made Rhaenyra a cup of tea. When had Rhaenys gotten a cup of tea? “It’s an Alicent thing, I gave up.”

Rhaenyra flushes. “Look, this is a big deal. I’ve been making it a big deal, I can’t just—“

“Can’t you just explain to her?”

“No, Elinda, I cannot just explain to her,” Rhaenyra whirls around as best as she can with her right arm trapped, to jab her free pointer finger in her fitness coach’s direction.

“Alicent worries,” Rhaenys elaborates flatly on her behalf.

“Yes, thank you, Rhaenys.” Rhaenyra’s decision not to say anything had been validated on the first day of the tournament, when she’d slipped and — so stupid— put out her racquet arm to catch herself. Alicent claiming after she almost lost her match at the notion of Rhaenyra hurt, sensing it from her own court. “She’s doing so well, I can’t throw her off.”

“Is that really your problem, though?” Addam— sweet Addam, her new strength and conditioning specialist. He’s new, he’s new, Rhaenyra reminds herself.

“She thinks it is,” Greg mutters. Greg is not new, and he’s still holding her hand in front of his face, so she flicks him upside the nose. “Er, alright — employee abuse, much?”

“I’m playing the semi-final.” Her tone makes it clear that it’s not up for discussion. Nobody argues, as she looks around the room, daring her team to disagree. There’s a range of reactions— hands in the air, shrugs, Greg sniggering. Rhaenys drains the last of her tea, and flips her notebook closed.

“Let’s ice it a bit, and we’ll get the timing right on painkillers ahead of the match. Play your angles instead of relying on power, if you can.” Greg lifts her arm in the air like a rag doll before dropping it on top of her head. She lets it drag down her face. “Idiot.”

She swipes at him, but he pulls her in for a miserable hug instead. Maybe the only positive to Alicent’s absence recently— relying more on the depth of support and care for her within her team, with her usual, favoured supply gone.

“Rhaenyra.”

“Yeah?”

“Your priority is Wimbledon.” Her aunt levels her with a stern stare, the same one that had stopped Rhaenyra in her tracks as a little kid, about to loop Rhaenys’ Olympic gold around her neck when she’d let her hold it, relenting but stern. Fine, try it on this once— then you can earn your own. The look that has always seen what she’s capable of. “So play today. But don’t push it.”

“Fine,” Rhaenyra says, some of the fight leaving her, with the reminder of what’s at stake. “If it feels worse—“

“If it keeps bothering you—“

“—if it feels worse,” she says, “if it feels any worse, I’ll retire, alright? I swear.”

Compromise reached, they all disperse. Rhaenyra fetches herself a cup of tea, holding it in her left hand as she imagines a sunny grass court, Alicent on the other side of the net.

[shinjiist]

Curious about your apocalypse au... 👀

I'll open w/ the fact that this is a zombie apocalypse AU

Characteristics of an infected individual shown below (scratched this out really fast for the purpose of this post)

Site A - constant leaking of orifaces, mostly from eyes and mouth.

Site B - destabilization of body; lesions may appear

Site C - spines growing from wounds

Site D - darkening of ink + involuntary change in chromatophores

*also not mentioned in diagram but the white in Callie's tentacles is directly related to the involuntary change in chromatophores as well as the dehydration making it impossible for inkfish to hold artificial dyes in their tentacles/ink.

I'll note (so that this au makes any amount of sense) that I hc that inkfish biology works via like. A central core crystal is the individual and that crystal controls a finite amount of ink that will function as a specific cell when necessary + inkfish are more a membrane containing this ink than like an animal constantly producing more and more ink. Like, splatting is the destabilization of the membrane due to infavorable (acidic) conditions or something like that. And the change between forms is just the stretching of this membrane, swimming is the dissolution of the membrane and the movement of the crystal itself, etc etc. Idk how factual any of that might be but that's what I'm saying.

Anyway back to the fun part, what triggers this disease to spread is a period of uninterrupted rainfall (spanning six weeks of downpour). With inkfish cities being equipped for desert conditions and unprepared for prolonged rainfall and humidity, there is a lot of flooding and a lot of moisture trapped in places that ordinarily would not encounter these conditions. This is worsened by the storm being so prolonged that the air doesn't stay cold. Resultantly, bacteria and mold grow at highly accelerated rates.

The flooding takes a long time to get under control and even begin to drain, so there is a sort of tide pool effect in the desert. Lots of microflora grow, and many oases spring up especially near Splatsville (which become tourist attractions) but there is also an explosion of microfauna.

There is a chain of events specifically responsible for the disease's creation, but that's relatively unimportant rn

Timeline-wise it's kind of like annoying trying to find a cute spot in canon for it + I think canon events r like largely negligible for the purpose of this so like idgaf I'll say right before Splat 3 events happen. I haven't written out a definitive timeline for everyone yet but I'll talk a little bit about each settlement:

Marie is by herself.

Shiver and Eight are both in Splatsville and establish a stable settlement in the city. It's based out of the subway station, and is very small. At most there are around 12 individuals and it is semi-exclusive (aka. be able to bring something to the table), though they will go out of the way to aid individual families/people they run into. Between the Splatsville settlements there are actually like genuine turf wars between settlements (fights over buildings potentially full of resources, shelter, etc) which is the reason for this exclusivity.

Frye and Big Man are both relatively off-grid, acting more to connect smaller countryside settlements. Big Man works more toward diplomacy while Frye works more toward gathering and distributing supplies, leading/overseeing most of the runs into Splatsville. Frye has her eels run notes around for her in the channels of the newly-wetlands. The other agents are also technically connected to this settlement.

Marina and Pearl established a settlement on Pearl's property as it's on a hill and relatively safe from shamblers because they cannot tolerate any amount of water (I hc that healthy inkfish can tolerate being in water if they have enough ink in their bodies; with maintaining an ink tank to fuel their weapons taking any of the ink not immediately necessary to keep an inkfish alive, this is why jumping into water splats them). This settlement is not very exclusive. There are efforts being put into studying the disease, but given Marina is a combat/computer scientist and not a doctor, the going is slow. There is also a radio signal put out every 6 hours by Marina, recited both in Inkling and Octarian.

Those r like the basics of the AU, feel free to ask questions :) I've thought about this a fair amt and have a lot of useless info lol

[codenameredkrystalmatrix]

Feline Shenanigans (Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 4

"Nice!"

You correctly completed a circuit, and the next layer of the puzzle clicked into place. Another magic-based component was revealed. You had to scan through both the conjugation tables and magic guides to make sense of it.

Wait...this symbol represented a verb. But it wasn't in the future or conditional tenses, but in the past. The puzzle had reacted to being activated. In this state, it wasn't that it 'will' or 'would' transform someone into a cat.

It already had.

As your blood ran cold, it all started falling into place. The strange look in his eyes and his food preferences made sense. You hadn't been imagining his oddly correct responses at all when you spoke to him.

Scrambling, you researched the recent supervillain battles. You normally didn't look these things up. Seeing your mother in full villainess mode...would be hard to stomach. Sure enough, there was a recent log of a successful 'operation' carried out on on a certain. Spiderman-2099.

Not even from this universe.

A hero trapped in a body not his own and away from the people who needed him. And his stay stretched on because of your utter naivete. This was an oversight of truly epic proportions. The multiverse was no surprise to you (your mother had proven its existence and had been continuing the investigations for a while), but the personal implications...did more than they really should have to drain your spirits.

Just for a minute, you headed back upstairs. The apartment was too small- too cold. There would never- should never have been a pet in here. You were negligent- unobservant. Things would simply be returning to how they'd meant to be. You, alone.

Bringing your hands up to mute your sobs, you cried, and cried and cried. Why couldn't he have just been a normal cat?

After a while, you heard his little footsteps. A check-up, you guessed.

"You...should have signalled me, Spiderman."

He froze. Then he walked to the side of the chair, and placed a paw on your foot. Small comfort, really.

Out of habit, you'd leaned down a bit to pick him up and snuggle his fur. But you couldn't be selfish. Steeling your nerves, you headed up to the kitchen, brewed your strongest pot of coffee, and prepared to crack the stupid thing wide open.

Past trembling fingers and swimming vision, you figured the last component out. The glow hurt your eyes. The little device rose into the air, reconstructing itself into a power source for...exactly the kind of teleporting machine your mother had built.

This felt highly orchestrated.

You'd found your method of returning him. Now to establish a motive so you could tie up any loose ends. You input the date Cinn-Spiderman-2099 had entered the house into the database, your mother's code for Calypso's magical signature, and radiation data for effects on the environment in the city.

The story unfolded. Several Spidermen had arrived to contain an anomaly, including him. He'd been separated from the team during combat and lured towards Calypso's stakeout location. She shot two bursts of magic- one that transformed him, and another that destroyed his own teleportation device. Despite his struggles, she managed to attach the collar in his new form. Then, there was a pause (them communicating, no doubt), after which he ran off to your address.

But...why?

Her movements traced back to...your mother's...cell. That was where she'd gotten the puzzle from. But it seemed the cameras had been oh-so mysteriously tampered with during their planning phase. You'd have to grill her once the most important things were out of the way. Spiderman likely only received the broad strokes of the situation. A headache was already starting.

Absentmindedly, you'd reached out to pet Cinnamon and soothe your nerves. But your palm only swiped at air. The hero-turned-feline was reviewing the footage a respectful distance away. When he sensed you staring, he turned to acknowledge you.

"Habit. My apologies, Spiderman. If it helps, I'm not professionally affiliated with DockOck."

A long moment featuring his stare. Padding over, he swished the tip of his tail over the 'M' on your keypad. You entered that, then he followed up with the 'I'- then, 'G', 'U', 'E', 'L'.

"Miguel?"

He stared at the panel, then you.

"Ah. I take it that's your name."

A head dip.

"Pleased to meet you, Miguel. Let's get you back to where you need to be."

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

[fiercefauna]

So basically I geek out over this plant for about an hour. If you too have Moon Vally madness feel free to read on, if not enjoy the picture.

Moon Vally Pilea was brought to us by The Color Out of Space, no actually it’s South America, Columbia at least, maybe more places in and around. It’s fog loving, slow growing, probably lives at the base of trees in very dark wet woodlands. Most of the information I can find on it deals with its care and not with its history, save for the European dude who discovered it. It produces two kinds of flowers - a branched, white structure and a slightly more impressive pink berry-like structure- seen here, the latter only if it’s large and in very good condition. The berries may shoot out microscopic spores in little puffs of smoke during the morning hours in response to being misted. It’s possible the pink flowers 🌸 are bi-sex or female, while white is “male.” No other plant I’ve owned has two flower types like this. The white appear to be easier for the plant to make, and smaller plants may produce them.

Note that this looks quite sickly from any other angle, you have to get its good side, lol. If you have a large jar or glass vase with a lid this can keep easily and indefinitely with minimal care, with a layer of soil but for it to really shine you need to give it some room. Either with a bigger enclosure or in the open air - some humidity is a must but most people don’t live in deserts - fresh cuttings should be sheltered to trap moisture around the plant - put them in a big jar or cover with clear plastic, they won’t suffocate like us mortals, lol. When the plant has roots sticking out all over and is making new leaves start to uncover it, but keep an eye on it. Light required is minimal, if it starts to look pale move it further from the window. Grows in regular or cactus soil, fertilize occasionally if reusing soil. It likes a lot of water but don’t flood it like a rush. Well drained constantly damp.

I’m often told it’s bad for animals - I doubt this because it’s not really considered that dangerous to people, (inedible rather than poisonous) but generally I keep it away from animals anyway because it takes for ever to grow like a succulent and unsightly damage sticks around, lol. Small animals that are carnivorous like frogs and terrestrial salamanders are often kept alongside this plant within terrariums. My Green water dragon has damaged this plant by crawling over it but has never tried to eat it.

Whoa! Thanks for reading all that. You must love this plant too. It takes patience but rewards a little effort, very forgiving, it may get ugly if neglected but comes back with a little resetting and attention.

[flatstarcarcosa]

Guess! That! Blorbo! Featuring @one-winged-dreams. Sorry if you don't like strawberry daiquiris btw I couldn't think of anything else.

Entirely mobile piece I hope it doesn't eat yalls dash because readmores don't work despite the button so I can't cut it til I get home.

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

“I'm gonna have to kill him, I think,” says Reese. They pop another peanut into their mouth and crunch angrily, leaning on the bar and glowering into the distance. 

“That's not gonna work for many reasons,” Adri says, quirking an eyebrow and making a show of draining the last of his strawberry daiquiri. The sound of air funneling through the straw causes Reese to snatch the glass out of his hand and begin making another. 

“I can't justify disliking him so obviously the easiest way to resolve the situation is to kill him.” They continue glaring at nothing as they add extra flavoring to the non-alcoholic drink mix. 

“I think the problem is that you don't actually dislike him that much, and you also don't know how to respond to unwavering kindness without trying to bite people like a stray dog,” says Adri. 

Reese raises both eyebrows and blinks several times. “Oh,” they say, “okay are we- are we just going there? Do I need to start digging around in your brain mess Mister Malewife?” 

“At least my reaction to liking someone isn't to jump to murder, is all I'm getting at,” he says. 

“I don't like him! That's the problem!” 

Adri rolls his eyes. “You slept with him.”

“Doesn't fucking mean I like him,” Reese growls. 

“With you?” Adri barks out a laugh. “When you don't like someone you ice them out as much as possible. If you really hated him you'd have already said or done something so heinous he'd never be back in here.” 

Reese says nothing for a moment, instead over mixing the daiquiri as they think. They finally drop the mixer to the bar top with a thud. “He's just so fucking nice!” They snap. “Like, he hasn't actually done anything to warrant me being a cunt about it, which just makes me even madder!” 

“...speaking of cu-” 

“Dick game insane, yes, thanks,” they say. They finally finish the drink and slide it over to him. 

Adri grins deviously around the straw. Reese continues to glower. He drains half the drink and places it on the coaster. “You know,” he says seriously, “to be honest I think… it might be good for you, for a change.” 

“Are you trying to say I have a poor romantic history?” 

“Well hell Reese, how would I know?” he asks. “You have a seemingly terminal allergy to giving anyone information about your personal life. I only know about any of this because of-” 

“I know,” they sigh, interrupting. They lean across the bar again, stretching their arms until their fingers dangle off the opposite side. The wood is cool against their cheek. “I've been conditioned to be wary of things that don't hurt; that's always more dangerous than the obviously painful because it's always a manipulative ruse to cut deeper.” 

Adri lets out a sympathetic hum and mirrors their position across the bar. Reese tilts their head and he stares at his own reflection in their sunglasses. 

“If it helps at all, I promise it's not a trap with him,” he says, then adds in a more jovial tone, “also I think you'd be cute together.” 

“There's no together,” Reese moans. “It's not anything, it won't be anything.”

“What makes you so sure?” Adri asks, straightening up. 

“Because I'm gonna kill him,” they say. 

“For fucks sake-” 

[modern-inheritance]

i want the entire prompt list🥺

but if i have to choose, forgiveness with murtagh and brom!!

Modern Inheritance: Forgiveness (Murtagh and Brom) (One Word Prompt Fill)

Murtagh hesitated, fist raised to knock on the door. The elf manning the outpost’s courtyard had directed the Rider to the room, seemingly unsurprised by his and Thorn’s unannounced appearance. Eragon had previously confirmed that the man would be there, but hadn’t sent word ahead, dryly stating that it would be more likely that Brom would have either fled or set up some trap if he knew Murtagh was coming.

If he had a choice, Murtagh would have used the information to give the outpost and the elder Rider as wide a berth as possible. Brom had warned him that if the young man followed in his father's footsteps then he would not hesitate to kill him. Forced or not, that had come to pass, and now Murtagh would have to face Brom again for the first time since the end of the war.

“What the hell do you want?” Murtagh whirled, banging his fist on the door as he did and letting out a clipped swear. Brom scowled at him from down the hall, sword hand grasping the book tucked under his opposite arm as if he were ready to duel the young man with it. Knuckles throbbing, Murtagh instinctively put his hands up to show he was unarmed. “Answer me, whelp. Before I throw you out.”

The younger Rider stuttered. This already wasn’t going as planned. He had hoped to be the one to start the conversation, draw it away from a conflict as quickly as possible. “I-I need your help.” He rushed to add, “Th-Thorn! Thorn needs your help.”

Brom’s eyes narrowed. For a moment he seemed to be contemplating hurling his book at his nemesis’s son. Then, with a long suffering sigh, the man pushed past and unlocked the room. “Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Everything Murtagh had planned to say drained from his mind. Every explanation, every excuse, the defensive retorts and pleas all dropped away. The only thing that he could think of was a relieved, “Thank you.”

~~~

Brom squinted up at Thorn, shading his eyes from what sun the dragon’s head didn’t block. Thorn stared down at him, tasting the air with little flicks of his tongue and eyeing the man with intense curiosity.

The stalemate had been going on for an almost uncomfortable time. Murtagh shifted his weight to his other foot, nervously rubbing his still aching knuckles.  

Finally, Brom lowered his hand. “Well, shit.” Alarmed, Murtagh stepped forward, about to spring to his partner’s defense. “You're a big one, aren’t you? Eragon and Saphira said as much, but you’re quite the specimen up close.”

Thorn let out an amused huff and lowered his head to be level with Brom. To Murtagh’s surprise, the dragon opened his mind and touched Brom’s to speak to him directly, looping his Rider into the conversation. ‘Is that a compliment?’

Brom grunted. “Statement of fact.” 

‘I’ll take it as a compliment.’

“Whatever you like.” Brom tapped his chin. “You say the pain comes on suddenly?” 

Murtagh nodded. He realized Brom couldn’t see him from his angle and added, “Yeah. Sometimes he wakes up with it after having a good day, other times it hits when he’s walking.”

“Only on the ground, then?” Brom walked to Thorn’s side. Conditioned by his lifetime of torment, Thorn let out a sudden growl of low warning as the man approached his tail. “Easy. I won’t touch you.” 

Thorn rumbled deep in his crimson chest, scales along his spine vibrating. Murtagh could feel the beginnings of his unease stirring as Brom moved out of his field of view. The younger Rider touched his mind, doing his best to soothe him as he offered his own eyes to track the old man. “He doesn’t like not being able to see you.”

“I’ll be quick.” True to his word, Brom soon reappeared on the dragon’s other side after stepping over his tail. “Thorn, do you feel the pain more while on the ground?”

‘…Yes.’ The scales on Thorn’s side rustled as he heaved in two quick breaths. 

“Is that bad?” Murtagh rejoined Brom as he returned to his spot in front of the dragon. “Is there something wrong with him?”

The elder Rider sighed. “Yes and no.” This was Brom’s first time seeing the condition, but it wasn’t so uncommon in dragons before the fall. Even his Saphira had suffered a mild case as she grew. Thorn’s forced growth simply accelerated a natural process, and instead of the gradual, more gentle aches it was no wonder he felt such pain.

“The good news is that this will resolve in time. But I’m afraid you’re stuck with it for a while.” Brom gestured up at the great dragon’s head. “It’s akin to growing pains. Galbatorix’s spells might have stopped affecting your growth rate, but your body is still adjusting. Dragons aren’t meant to grow so fast. Your bones should have been steadily building up the strength needed to carry your frame, but instead it’s been forced to pile more and more resources to growing your muscles and your bones fell by the wayside. 

“A few diet changes might help speed up the process of strengthening your bones, but it’s just going to take time for everything to settle into balance.” 

There was a brief silence as Thorn and Murtagh took in the information. 

Then, somewhat jokingly, Thorn asked, ‘Are you calling me fat?’

Murtagh couldn’t help it. He let out a barked laugh. Brom looked shocked at the accusation, then let out a laugh of his own. “Well, I’m not calling you big boned, am I?”

Later that night Murtagh returned to Thorn with his dinner. Even though the occupants of the outpost were Eragon’s allies, all monitoring the route to Mount Arngor, they were still wary of the penitent Rider and dragon whenever they came by to rest. Less than a year after the war, Murtagh couldn’t blame them. But it still stung, especially when he found that everyone moved away from whatever table he chose to dine at. 

So he chose to eat outside, with Thorn to keep him company. In some way, it reminded him of those weeks spent on the run with Eragon, Saphira, Brom and Arya, the quiet comfort of a small fire and a bowl of stew with Thorn’s warm scales at his back. 

He was surprised, then, to see Brom already seated beside his partner. More surprised to see him offering up half a loaf of bread to the dragon. 

“Am I interrupting?” Murtagh stopped several paces away. 

It was Brom’s turn to start, dropping the bread. In a flash Thorn’s tongue shot out and snatched the morsel out of the air, swallowing it whole with a gulp. 

The elder Rider stood and brushed his hands off on his pants. “No. I was just leaving.” Murtagh’s eyebrows went up when Thorn let out a growl. His tail slid around and blocked Brom’s exit. “Fine! I was going to eat here.” He shot the dragon a sharp glare. 

“That’s fine.” Murtagh shrugged and joined him on the ground. His muscles twinged with unease, every fiber yelling for him to fight or flee, but he wrestled them down. This was progress. This was the first step to achieving the peace he and Thorn were working so hard to find.

Brom looked uncomfortable as Murtagh began eating. His eyes flicked from the fire, to Thorn, then to Murtagh, grinding his teeth on his battered pipestem. Doing his best to ignore his presence, the young man began his usual chat with Thorn, going over the events of the day and planning the next leg of their journey. 

He was halfway through his bowl when Brom took his unlit pipe out of his mouth and, in a rush of sharp syllables, spat out, “I’ve got things to say to you, whelp.”

Murtagh tensed. Behind him, Thorn did the same. The faint sound of rustling leaves and tinkling glasses flitted in the air as the scales along his spine lifted slightly. 

So Brom had been waiting till his guard was down. Murtagh rested his spoon in his bowl and set it aside. Best for it to come out now, instead of walking on glass for the rest of the night. “Say them.” He took a deep breath and turned to face his father’s killer. “I deserve what you say.”

“Shut up.” There was venom in the old man’s voice. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve. You killed some people very close to me, and you killed some damn good friends.” 

Murtagh didn’t respond. He knew those words were true. Oromis had trained both Brom and his bastard of a father. Hrothgar had been a tactical choice, not one ordered by the King. Swaths of soldiers and tacticians had fallen to Thorn’s dragonfire and Murtagh’s blade. 

Brom continued, voice rising. “You joined Galbatorix, after everything you said and did on the way to Farthen Dur. You fought him but you gave up. You fucking gave up.” He pointed at the young man before him. “You did shit. You fucked up. Worse than I’ve ever seen! You had a chance to change it, to keep fighting, you could have done more!” 

His next words hit Murtagh like a sack of bricks, thrown from behind and entirely unexpected. “I believed in you, damn it! I knew you could be more than your father! But you gave up!” 

Brom’s voice cracked. Murtagh’s stomach dropped, confused and almost frightened, when the little fire’s flicker suddenly revealed tears streaming down the old Rider’s face. 

“You gave up.” He choked and sucked in a ragged breath. “Your mother did, too. You waited, and you did what you could to save what you could, just like her.” Brom gripped his knees, knuckles white. “Damn it, Murtagh. You’re not your father’s son. You’re Selena’s.” He angrily wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “And I failed you, like I failed her.

“I’m sorry. You deserved better in this life. If I could have stopped all this, brought you to Carvahall-” In a moment of complete weakness, one neither Rider ever expected, Brom buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Murtagh stared. 

He couldn’t think of anything to say. 

Brom, the man who had waged a war not only against Galbatorix and his empire, but waged a war against Morzan, the monster that sired the young man before him, had just forgiven him. Not only that, but he had released him from the final shackle tying him to Morzan, had released him from that damned name that followed him like a black cloud. 

He was no longer Mozan’s son. He was Selena’s son. 

Murtagh did his best to not choke as he let out two words. 

“Thank you.”

[the-strength-of-the-wolffe]

Wolffe’s Story

Intro  Pt1  Pt2  Pt3  Pt4  Pt5

Part 6: The General’s Secret

The 104th’s experience of the war has been an unusual one. The observant and canny among them can point out multiple examples, but most have at least taken notice of their combat record.

Whenever they make landfall, they’re never encamped for long. Their missions inalterably comprise of swift hard-hitting attacks devised and led by General Plo. The objectives vary, but each battle, or their role in it, is straightforward enough to finish in days, if not hours. Then they’re cruiser-bound again, taking a backseat to navy operations.

It’s not a bad life, just not what many of them were expecting. Their upbringing put images of epic months-long campaigns in their heads (which were definitely romanticized). In a battalion like the 104th, they feel ineffective, underused, like they’re stuck on light duty.

Wolffe doesn’t share their restiveness (his contentment firmly secured by his new lease on life), but privately he has bought into the speculation of a handicap, which doesn’t sit well with his proud spirit. If any higher-ups have concerns about him or his battalion, he wants to know why.

His assumptions turn out to be way off the mark.

A relief mission on the edge of a warzone goes sideways when Separatist forces capture several anti-aircraft batteries, trapping the 104th on the surface and halting any air support. With the region under enhanced threat, General Plo marshals all available troops to counter the droid offensive, and after nine days of relentless fighting they succeed. It's the longest, most rip-roaring conflict the 104th has participated in so far; they fought well and they know it. Fired by their success, nobody but Wolffe notices that their general has disappeared.

Through a confidential summons, he finds General Plo sequestered with a medic. The Jedi is obviously unwell, but he takes pains to answer Wolffe’s questions, thus divulging a long-kept secret:

As a Kel Dor far from his homeworld, he can’t remove his breathing apparatus, not even to eat, except within specially designed chambers installed in the Jedi Temple and on his flagship. His body is accustomed to lengthy fasting between visits (he takes injections to maintain hydration), but it suffered immense strain from the prolonged exertion of the battle. Although he toughed it out to the end, he’s utterly drained now and can’t make it back alone.

I actually researched this topic (a bit) but couldn’t find anything official on how Plo sustains himself. The chamber idea I borrowed from Star Trek; I assumed there’s a Star Wars equivalent. Also, this is my explanation for why he’s so thin.

He isn’t insecure about it, and he’s averse to deception, but he thought it best to keep his men in the dark so that they wouldn’t lose confidence in his ability to lead. However, in case of emergency, he entrusted one medic with the secret (this is Corporal Shepherd).

The Jedi Council is careful about which deployments they choose for him lest they send him somewhere too remote or volatile for timely extraction. Being the best judge of his stamina, he has the final say. This is the first time their collective planning went awry.

With his condition on the verge of being discovered, Plo accepted it was time to bring Wolffe into the circle; his assistance would be less conspicuous than Shepherd’s.

Wolffe didn’t know. Out of respect for General Plo’s rank and privacy, he never pried. He feels foolish now, but he gets a grip on himself to focus on their immediate predicament. Under the pretense of being called away, he puts Captain Midnight in charge of wrapping up while he and the General take an empty gunship back to the fleet, where he sees the Jedi safely to his quarters to recover.

In defense of Wolffe’s (and the 104th’s) ignorance, meals aren’t fixed or formal events, especially on deployments; everyone eats when they can, with high-ranking officers often supping in their quarters/tents. In any case, he and Plo spent enough time apart to allay any suspicion.

Although initially ruffled, Wolffe adjusts readily. As a clone commander, he’s expected to adapt to his Jedi general—their fighting style, their temperament, or in this case their physiology—if that means sticking to short-term missions, that’s fine with him (he’s just glad to know the reason). Furthermore, he understands the necessity of keeping secrets as a leader; he made the same call when he concealed his navy background from the 104th. Of course, his deep personal loyalty eclipses everything else. General Plo has done so much for him, and now shown him great trust. To let him down would be the height of dishonor.

He wants to believe the 104th would be equally accepting (he’d bet on Sinker, Boost, and Captain Roan at least), but they aren’t bound by the same duty and history, so he can’t be sure. When the General asks for his silence, he agrees.

The secret stays safe until their next stopover on Coruscant. A mortified Midnight shows up with a report that Wolffe, who takes pride in his men’s professionalism, thought he’d never receive: while on shore leave, one of their squads overheard some disparaging comments being aired about the 104th by another battalion (they’re soft, they haven’t seen real action, etc.) and retaliated, resulting in damaged property and a couple of broken noses. Astute in emotional matters, Midnight sums up the problem: having generated and absorbed falsehoods for some time, the men are losing confidence in themselves.

Clearly, keeping the 104th in the dark about their missions is doing more harm than good now. The best course, General Plo concludes, is honesty. Wolffe stands with him, albeit less serenely, as the whole battalion is called to assembly. The General is gambling his standing for their morale; it’s an uncomfortable tipping point.

An absolute stillness falls over the flight deck as General Plo lays out the facts. Then he puts an offer on the table that staggers everyone, including Wolffe: any trooper who feels truly unhappy with his lot is free to transfer—no fuss, no hard feelings. Military decorum crumbles into something close to bedlam, but their various reactions coalesce into a unanimous sentiment: they’re not going anywhere. They’ll serve wherever and whenever the General can.

They’re a better bunch than Wolffe gave them credit for (to his quick regret). Likewise, General Plo was wrong. Learning about his limitations doesn’t diminish his personhood or authority in their eyes—in fact, it humanizes him: he’s not some mystical invincible being or aloof superior but a mortal like them, a brother-in-arms who’s willing to be real with them. Naturally, they’re also enormously cheered by the affirmation of their competence and worth.

Knowing the truth has remarkable far-reaching effects on the 104th. They become self-assured and focused (if a bit smug); doubts and naysayers have no power over them anymore. They grow more unified as a battalion (although a touch exclusive) and embrace General Plo as part of their family. Critically, they don’t just tolerate their deployments, they strive to become specialists (particularly in rescues, one of the more exciting types of short-term missions) with each captain honing his company’s skills to fulfill a specific role. It’s not long before their hard work earns them repute in the GAR and beyond.

Ironically, Wolffe is the one who ends up worse off. He can’t shake the feeling of negligence nor the memory of General Plo in the gunship: wan and wasted, head bowed, arm-in-arm with him to brace against turbulence. It sharpens his awareness and apprehension, compels him to be more proactive and protective. From now on, he’s reluctant to be removed from the Jedi’s side.

It’s around this time that his dreams take a disturbing turn.

[bsairtechmumbai]

Comprehensive Guide to AC Repair in Panvel: How to Maintain Your Cooling Systems

Panvel, located near the bustling city of Mumbai, experiences sweltering heat, especially during the summer months. The scorching temperatures make air conditioners (ACs) a necessity rather than a luxury in most homes and businesses. However, just like any other appliance, air conditioners can face wear and tear, leading to breakdowns and inefficiency. Regular maintenance is essential to keep your AC running smoothly and to prevent costly repairs.

Whether you're dealing with a malfunctioning unit or simply need advice on maintaining your cooling system, understanding the importance of AC care is key. This comprehensive guide provides valuable insights on how to maintain your AC system and when it's time to call in professionals for AC repair in Panvel.

The Importance of Regular AC Maintenance

Regular maintenance of your air conditioner is essential to its longevity and efficient performance. By taking proactive measures to maintain your AC unit, you can avoid sudden breakdowns, reduce energy consumption, and improve indoor air quality. Here’s why maintaining your air conditioning system is so important:

Prevents Costly Repairs: Regular maintenance helps identify and address small issues before they develop into expensive repairs. For instance, cleaning air filters or inspecting coils can prevent the need for a compressor replacement.

Improves Efficiency: A well-maintained AC system runs more efficiently, providing optimal cooling with less energy consumption. This reduces utility bills and enhances the comfort of your home.

Extends the Life of Your Unit: Just like any mechanical system, an AC unit requires care to ensure it operates for many years. With regular maintenance, you can extend its lifespan and get the most out of your investment.

Improves Air Quality: A dirty air filter can spread dust and allergens throughout your home, making the indoor air quality poor. Clean filters and coils help improve the air that circulates in your home, ensuring better health for you and your family.

Basic AC Maintenance Tips

Here are some basic tips for maintaining your AC and ensuring it performs at its best:

1. Clean or Replace Air Filters Regularly

The air filter is one of the most critical components of your air conditioner. It helps to trap dust, dirt, and debris, preventing these particles from entering the system and affecting its performance. Over time, filters can become clogged, reducing airflow and making the AC work harder. This can lead to increased energy consumption and reduced efficiency.

Frequency: Check the air filter every month during peak usage (typically in the summer). Replace or clean it every 3 to 6 months, depending on usage.

How to Clean: For washable filters, use water and mild detergent. For disposable filters, replace them with a new one.

2. Clean the Coils

The evaporator and condenser coils are essential for the cooling process. Dirt and debris can accumulate on the coils, preventing proper heat exchange, which leads to inefficient cooling. If the coils become too dirty, the system may overheat or fail to cool the space effectively.

How to Clean: Use a soft brush or vacuum to gently remove dust from the coils. It’s also a good idea to call a professional for thorough coil cleaning.

3. Inspect the Refrigerant Levels

The refrigerant in your AC system is responsible for transferring heat from inside your home to the outdoors. If the refrigerant levels are low, it can lead to poor cooling performance. Low refrigerant levels are usually caused by leaks, which should be fixed by a professional technician.

When to Check: If you notice that your AC is running but not cooling effectively, it might be time to check the refrigerant levels. A professional AC repair in Panvel technician will be able to diagnose and fix refrigerant issues.

4. Clean the Condensate Drain

The condensate drain removes excess moisture from your AC system, preventing water damage. If the drain becomes clogged, it can lead to water pooling around the unit and potentially cause mold growth or water damage to your walls and floors.

How to Clean: Use a mixture of bleach and water to clear the drain. You can also use a wet-dry vacuum to suck out any debris that may be blocking the line.

5. Check the Thermostat Settings

Your thermostat controls the temperature of your home and tells the AC when to turn on and off. Sometimes, a malfunctioning thermostat can lead to poor temperature regulation or inefficient energy usage.

What to Do: Ensure the thermostat is set to the correct temperature and is not malfunctioning. You can also consider upgrading to a smart thermostat that allows you to control the temperature remotely for better energy savings.

Signs Your AC Needs Repair

Even with proper maintenance, there will be times when your AC unit requires repair. Here are some signs to watch out for that indicate it's time to call in a professional for AC repair in Panvel:

Weak or Warm Airflow: If the air coming from your AC is warm or weak, it might be a sign that there is a problem with the refrigerant, compressor, or other vital components.

Strange Noises: Unusual sounds such as grinding, squealing, or clanking could indicate a problem with the motor, fan, or other moving parts.

Water Leaks: Excessive water around the AC unit could be a sign that the drain is clogged or that the coils are frozen.

Frequent Cycling: If your AC turns on and off frequently, it may be struggling to cool the room or experiencing issues with the thermostat or compressor.

Unpleasant Odors: Foul smells could indicate mold growth, a dirty filter, or a refrigerant leak. These issues should be addressed immediately.

When to Call a Professional for AC Repair

While some basic maintenance tasks can be performed by homeowners, more complex issues require professional help. Calling a qualified technician for AC repair in Panvel ensures that the problem is diagnosed and fixed correctly, preventing further damage to your unit.

Here are some scenarios where you should contact a professional:

If the air conditioner is making strange sounds or is leaking water

If there is a noticeable decrease in cooling efficiency despite regular maintenance

If the refrigerant levels are low or you suspect a refrigerant leak

If the unit is not turning on or is malfunctioning in any way

A professional technician will be able to inspect the unit, identify the root cause of the issue, and recommend the best course of action. They will also be able to perform any repairs needed safely, ensuring that your AC unit is working at its best.

Why Choose Professional AC Repair Services in Panvel

Choosing a reliable AC repair service is crucial to ensure that your system gets the best care. Professional technicians bring years of experience, specialized knowledge, and the right tools to handle all types of AC repairs. Here’s why it’s beneficial to hire a professional:

Expert Diagnosis and Repair: A professional can quickly identify the issue and fix it correctly the first time.

Access to Specialized Tools: Technicians have the tools necessary to perform advanced repairs and maintenance tasks that might not be possible with DIY methods.

Long-Term Savings: While hiring a professional may seem more expensive upfront, it can save you money in the long run by preventing further damage and improving energy efficiency.

Safety: AC repairs can involve electrical components, refrigerants, and other hazardous materials. A professional ensures that all safety protocols are followed.