#and destructive and hardly feels remorse for his kills (it still took him time to feel remorse for bigbs death) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hysterialevi · 4 years

Text

Eitr | Chapter 12

Fanfic summary: In an alternate universe where the Raven Clan is wiped out, Sigurd ends up being rescued by the son of a Saxon ealdorman, and is tasked with being the boy’s new bodyguard. Upon meeting the boy’s father however, Sigurd soon realizes that the ealdorman is responsible for his clan’s destruction, and secretly plans for revenge while hiding behind the guise of a Norse pagan turned Christian.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male OC

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter

LATER THAT DAY

FORANGAL CASTLE, SIGURD’S CHAMBERS

Sigurd gazed down at his hands, staring blankly into the distance as his mind tore itself apart with guilt.

His clothes were still stained with numerous splatters of Gjuki’s blood, and even though Aegenwulf finally decided to spare his life, Sigurd remained trapped in a pit of remorse, suddenly feeling an urgent desire to return home.

...What had he done? What had the Saxons turned him into? Was his mind even his own anymore? What would Eivor think about all this?

Only a handful of weeks had drifted by ever since Sigurd first washed up on Agenbury’s shore, and yet, the man felt as if a lifetime separated him from the past. He hardly recognized himself anymore after everything that had occurred, and considering how things were unfolding so far, part of him wished Edlynne had left him at the river.

He didn’t deserve to be here, or in Valhalla. Backstabbers such as himself belonged in the darkest depths of Helheim, and Sigurd had no idea how he was going to face his brother once all this was over.

He wanted nothing more than to reunite with the fragments that remained of his family, but in light of recent events, Sigurd was now beginning to question his true motives, and how much survival really meant to him.

It would’ve been a dream come true to see Eivor’s face again, that much was true, but what would it matter if Sigurd didn’t even return as the same man? His brother was fighting to bring back the sibling he grew up with back in Fornburg, and yet, Sigurd felt as if he had become a total stranger.

There was barely anything left of the person he once was, and with Algar’s influence constantly digging deeper into the ealdorman’s mind, Sigurd didn’t even want to think about what he’d have to do to survive in the future.

Things were bad enough as it was. Any worse, and all Hell would break loose.

“Sigurd.”

Snapping out of his thoughts, the viking suddenly realized he wasn’t alone in his chambers and spotted Edric standing in front of him, trying to get his attention.

His brow was furrowed deeply in frustration, and judging by the weary look he wore on his face, Sigurd assumed he had just walked away from some sort of argument. Probably with Aegenwulf himself.

Sigurd glanced up at the man, still somewhat lost in shock. “...Edric? What are you doing here?”

The Saxon frowned in sympathy. “I apologize for intruding like this, but there’s something important you need to know. A decision was made after you left the throne room. Before I tell you about it, though... I wanted to see how you were doing first. That trial was just...” Edric sighed in disgust, “...well, you know.”

He took a seat next to the Norseman, bowing his head low in exhaustion.

“God, what an absolute mess. I knew my father had changed, but I never realized just how unhinged he was. What on earth was he thinking? Forcing two men to fight like a pair of animals. Jesus... if the Danes didn’t hate us before, they certainly will now.”

Edric turned to Sigurd, switching to a gentler tone. “I’m so sorry, Sigurd. If I had known what my father intended, I would’ve stepped in sooner. I would’ve tried to speak with him. I would’ve--”

“--You’re not to blame.” The viking replied, his voice cold with anger. “You did everything you could.”

The other man let out a breath. “Maybe. I just wish it would’ve been enough. I mean, I’m glad to see you alive, but... my God. That poor man. What was his name. Gjuki? What the hell did they do to him?”

“I feared he had already been killed,” Sigurd admitted. “But now, I’m starting to think that would’ve been a better fate.”

“No one deserves what he went through,” Edric agreed. “I still can’t believe my father would allow all this. He used to be so kind, and compassionate. He was always a firm man, but he never indulged in such cruelty. What’s happened to him?”

It didn’t take long for Sigurd to provide an answer. “Your father is no more than a pawn for Algar to use. You wish to eradicate the corruption in Wedenscire? You must get rid of him first.”

Edric picked up on his tone. “Why? Have you learned something?”

The viking nodded. “Before Gjuki drew his last breath, he revealed to me what he found in Algar’s crypt. Apparently, the man is part of the Order of the Ancients. His alias among them is The Colossus.”

Edric displayed a puzzled look. “The Order of the Ancients? I’ve never heard of them. Have you?”

“Yes, actually. Though, my knowledge on them is far from abundant. Before my clan was attacked, my brother pursued some of their members who were operating in Lunden. I also know there are many others spread across England and Norway. They worship a god whose name I’ve never heard, and their motives remain a mystery to me. I have no idea why they would be interested in your father, or how Gareth is connected to all this.”

The nobleman slid a hand down his face. “Christ Almighty. What has my family gotten itself into? I’m not familiar with this organization, Sigurd, but I’ll do whatever I can to learn more about them. If they’re as widespread as you say, there must be something we can find. Something that can put Algar down for good.”

“Just... tread carefully.” Sigurd warned. “Gjuki was on the same path as you before Algar captured him. I don’t want you to share his fate. There’s also the fact that he’ll likely be even more protective of his secrets now that someone has infiltrated his crypt.”

“Of course. I’ll be as discreet as possible.”

The viking decided to switch topics. “Well, enough about that. I’d rather not spare another thought on that bacraut after everything that’s happened. You mentioned you had something else you wanted to discuss?”

Edric sighed. “Right. You’re not going to like it. It’s... Bishop Hundwerth.”

Sigurd leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What has he done now?”

“He insists that you convert to Christianity. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but I’m afraid Lady Moira’s voice overpowered mine. My father’s decided that you’re to be baptized tomorrow morning, and recognized as a man of God.”

“But I already proved my loyalty,” the other man argued, his tone sharp with bitterness. “Wasn’t that the whole point of pitting me against my own friend? Or was that simply for their entertainment?”

Edric shared Sigurd’s annoyance. “That’s not how the bishop sees it. In his eyes, the only thing you proved is that you’re willing to murder one of your own if it means saving yourself. You may have given your word that you won’t betray us again, but for Hundwerth, the word of a pagan holds little merit. He’d rather trust the promise of a Christian.”

The Norseman rose from his bed, pacing around the room. “So it’s not enough that they torture my people and force me to slay them? Now I must also abandon my gods?”

The Saxon bowed his head in shame. “I’m sorry, Sigurd. The unfairness of this situation isn’t lost on me, but I’m afraid there’s not much else I can do. My words seem to fall on deaf ears nowadays.”

“...It’s not your fault. You’ve already done more than enough for me.” Sigurd placed his hands on his hips, gazing out the window. “I suppose there’s no use in fighting it now. I’ve seen the kind of punishment that awaits me if I resist. I do not wish to leave my gods behind, but...” his voice softened with heartache, “...if this is the cost of survival, then... I’ll do it. I need to get back home alive. I need to see my brother again.”

Edric’s head jerked up in confusion. “Your brother? I thought he was dead.”

“So did I, but Gjuki informed me of his survival not too long ago. He was the only thing keeping us in touch. Now that he’s gone, I’m at a loss as to how I’ll contact my brother again should the need arise.”

The young man stood up from the bed and stepped behind Sigurd, resting an affectionate hand on his arm.

“...We will get through this, Sigurd.” He whispered reassuringly. “I know it can be easy to forget, but you’re not alone in these walls. You have Edlynne, Joseph, Raedan... and me. We’re here for you.”

The viking held onto Edric’s hand and turned around to face him, finding a sense of solace in his words.

“Thank you, Edric. These are dire times, but your kindness won’t be forgotten in the days to come.” Sigurd pulled the young man close, pecking a kiss on his forehead. “I’m glad I have you at my side.”

Edric smiled in his embrace, resting his head on the man’s chest. “As am I.”

Falling into silence, the two of them simply stood there for a moment and savored each other’s company, attempting to cling onto any shred of comfort they could find. The entire castle had descended into disarray after Aegenwulf’s unpopular decision to spare Sigurd, and with Bishop Hundwerth preparing for the upcoming baptism, it seemed like peace in Forangal was naught but a distant memory.

There was arguing, debating, contempt, scorn -- and seeing as how Gjuki’s head was now displayed on a pike, Edric imagined that the war with the Danes would only erupt.

It was Hell on earth inside Forangal’s walls, but with Sigurd there to protect him from any threats, Edric was able to feel some sense of security. It meant nothing to him that the man was a Dane, or a pagan rather than a Christian. He knew Sigurd to be good at heart, and frankly, despite what he expected, he trusted him more than his own father these days.

He only prayed that the tides of fate would be merciful in the near future. If he were to lose Sigurd to the chaos that was beginning to unravel, Edric didn’t know how he would proceed. That man was the only one willing to help him look into Gareth’s death, and if his instincts were correct, then Algar was at the center of it all.

He would need all the help he could get in order to take that beast down, and if that meant they had to fight for just a little longer, then Edric was willing to endure it. He just didn’t know where to start.

~~~~~~~~~~

TWO DAYS LATER

ELMENHAM, EAST ANGLIA

Galloping towards the longhouse at full speed, Broder frantically stormed his way back to Eivor as rain heavily poured down from the clouds above, shrouding everything in a bleak darkness.

He had been running for his life ever since Algar cornered Gjuki at the crypt, and with the majority of their group now lying dead in the mud, Broder had no intentions of returning to Wedenscire until Eivor himself marched for the gates of Forangal.

He hated the idea of leaving Sigurd behind to deal with his troubles alone, but considering how erratic the ealdorman had become recently, Broder was no longer willing to risk it. Not on his own, at least.

He saw for himself what the Saxons did to Gjuki, and how they treated his corpse. He may have been eager to help Eivor reunite with his brother, but Broder had his own siblings to look out for, and the last thing he wanted was to end up being a mounted head for some Saxon nobleman.

He just hoped he wasn’t too late.

Yanking on the reins of his horse, Broder came to a screeching halt as the animal’s hooves went dragging through the mud, causing the steed to let out a panicked neigh. His body was aching terribly with fatigue thanks to the long journey, but even then, the viking refused to take a break. His mind had been trapped in a perpetual state of alarm ever since Gjuki’s death, and he was adamant to get the news back to Eivor.

Rushing to the entrance of the longhouse, Broder trudged through the storm and practically bashed the doors open, ignoring the curious stares he received from scattered civilians.

Even though the rain had washed away most of the blood staining his armor, he still remained quite a sight to behold and traipsed through Elmenham’s fields like a walking corpse rising from its grave.

Once inside, Broder spotted Eivor conversing with Oswald and Valdis as the three of them discussed the war, clearly devising some sort of plan. Their voices were nearly inaudible underneath the relentless howls of the wind, but in spite of the interference, their heads still jolted in Broder’s direction upon his obtrusive entrance, causing them to let out a unanimous gasp.

“Brother!” Valdis greeted with relief. “You’ve returned.” Her expression instantly dimmed. “...Are you well? You look awful.”

The man jogged up to them, doing his best not to collapse on the spot.

“Eivor...!” Broder exclaimed, somewhat out of breath. “There you are. I... I...”

“Easy, drengr,” Eivor said in a calming tone. “Slow down. Tell me what’s going on.”

Broder took a moment to get his bearings, finally recovering from the treacherous ride home.

“...Gjuki’s dead, Eivor.”

Valdis’ eyes widened in horror. “What? What do you mean he’s dead? What happened?”

Broder decided to spare them the details. “We were searching a hidden crypt in Wedenscire, not too far away from Forangal. We thought there might’ve been clues inside, and there were, but...”

Eivor urged him on. “But what?”

The other man shook his head in regret. “It was the ealdorman’s housecarl. An argr snake called Algar. He captured Gjuki and slaughtered the rest of our men. I was the only one who managed to escape.”

Oswald caught onto his last words. “Wait, he captured Gjuki? So he didn’t kill him immediately?”

“No,” Broder confirmed. “Algar took him to the dungeons.”

An alarming thought struck Eivor’s mind. “Wait, what about Sigurd? Where is he now? Is he alright?”

A dour look spread across Broder’s face. “He’s alive, but... Gods. It was madness, Eivor. When Algar took Gjuki in, it didn’t take him long to realize that he was working with Sigurd, so the ealdorman held a trial. They were willing to spare your brother’s life in spite of his crimes, but he had to do something in exchange. He had to kill Gjuki.”

Eivor froze at the news.

“...Sigurd... killed him?”

“Yes. He did not wish to, but the Saxons left him no choice. It was either him or Gjuki. He chose to comply in the end.” Broder turned to his sister. “...I tried everything I could to save him, Valdis. I did. But it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry.”

The woman crossed her arms, trying to hide her pain. “I--” she choked up, “--oh, Gjuki...”

Broder hesitated to get the last part of his report out. He hated to constantly be the bearer of bad news, but he knew it was necessary.

“...There is one more thing, Eivor. While we were in the crypt, we learned that Algar was part of the Order. There were a series of letters between him and some of the other members in their organization, but he’s burned them all now.”

Oswald paused. “A member of the Order? In Wedenscire? Are you certain?”

“Indeed. They call him The Colossus.”

Eivor mindlessly clenched his fist in response to the report and brought his attention to the king, unable to conceal the fire raging in his eyes.

“Oswald, we must march on Forangal now. We have enough allies.”

The Saxon hesitated. “You’ve rallied a decent army, Eivor, but I’m still not certain if it’ll be sufficient. Forangal is a hefty fortress armed with many defenses. If we’re not careful, it could result in total obliteration.”

“We don’t have time to forge anymore alliances!” The viking argued. “Sigurd needs us. Now. Those Saxons have already butchered Gjuki, and they have the Order among them. It won’t be much longer until my brother is the one on their chopping block. We need to get him out of there as soon as possible.”

Oswald remained unswayed. “I understand your urgency, Eivor, but we must approach this realistically. Not many people walk away from Forangal with their lives, and for good reason. We only have one chance to do this right. Better to wait a little longer and ensure we’re prepared, rather than march straight to our deaths.”

The king turned to Broder. “You were there, Broder. What’s your opinion on the situation in Wedenscire? Can Sigurd afford to wait?”

The man furrowed his brow in uncertainty. “I... I don’t know, my lord. It’s difficult to say. He’s managed to survive thus far, but his captives have become unpredictable recently. Relentless. They’ve even forced Sigurd to convert to Christianity.”

That took Oswald by surprise. “What? When did this happen?”

“Just after Gjuki died. I overheard the nobles in the castle speaking of a baptism before I left. One of them was against the conversion, but the rest decided to go through with it.”

Eivor’s expression flattened with frustration. “You see? We must go now. Before they try anything else. I’m done cowering in the shadows.”

“But what if--”

“--Eivor’s right.” Valdis jumped in. “Those people are animals, Oswald. You’ve seen for yourself what they did to the Raven Clan; what they did to Randvi. If there’s any chance we can save Sigurd from the same fate, we need to take it. We’ve idled for long enough.”

Oswald was at a loss for words. “...I really don’t know how this is going to work, you all. We have enough forces to put up a decent fight, but... assaulting Forangal Castle? That’s a completely different story.”

Broder offered his own thoughts. “Do not be so quick to dismiss the unlikely, my lord. It happens more often than you think. Those are Gjuki’s words. Not mine.”

“Have faith in our strength, husband.” Valdis continued. “We are warriors. Drengir. Children of Odin. We were born and bred for this sort of thing. We will not fall so easily to these Saxons. Let us go.”

Oswald fell silent at his friends’ arguments and sighed in defeat, conflicted on what to do next.

On one hand, he sympathized with Eivor’s eagerness to storm Forangal’s gates, but on the other, he honestly didn’t know if their soldiers could survive such an endeavor. Their army was just large enough that the plan could’ve succeeded with the help of a miracle, but despite his youth, Oswald was world-weary enough to know that battles typically didn’t favor the disadvantaged.

Anything could’ve gone wrong during this assault. Aegenwulf could’ve had more forces than they anticipated, an ambush could’ve stopped them along the way, or -- worst case scenario -- Sigurd could’ve already been dead. There was an abundance of unknowns lurking around the corner, and with so many risks obscuring the path ahead, Oswald wasn’t sure if war was the answer. At least, not for now.

Still, he feared what could’ve happened to Sigurd if they waited too long. Based on Broder’s report, it sounded like the man was going through hell at the moment. If there was any opportunity for them to rescue him from Aegenwulf’s clutches, Oswald felt complied to seize it.

Eivor did the same for him when he was taken prisoner at Burgh Castle, so it only seemed right to return the favor.

“...Alright, you three.” Oswald finally agreed. “We’ll march on Forangal Castle as soon as we are able. Eivor, summon your allies. Tell them to meet us here. When they’ve arrived, we’ll begin making our way to Wedenscire. In the meantime, the rest of us will focus on the assault. My troops are yours to command as well.”

The viking gave him a firm nod. “Thank you, Oswald. I won’t fail you.”

“I have confidence in your abilities. I just hope that it’ll be enough. As for the rest of you...”

Oswald linked his hands together behind his back. “Get some rest. And prepare as much as you can. We don’t know what sort of resistance we’ll face in Wedenscire, but I think it’s safe to assume that our forces will be stretched thin. Do everything in your ability to ensure you are ready for this assault, and keep your guard up. We have evidence that the Order of the Ancients is involved now, so Lord only knows what Algar will have up his sleeve.”

Broder stepped in. “I’ll join the assault too.”

“No,” Oswald refused. “you need to rest. You’ve been through enough.”

“With all due respect, your Majesty, Gjuki is dead because of my incompetence. Out of honor, I cannot simply sit by and watch while your people risk their lives for a mistake I made. I’m still here because of that man. This is the least I can do for him.”

The king decided to grant him permission. “...Very well, then. I expect to see you at Forangal. As for you two, spread word of the assault to our soldiers. I want them to be prepared as well.”

Eivor nodded. “As you wish.”

“Good. Then let’s get to work. Sigurd’s life depends on our efficiency, and there’s no telling what will happen once Aegenwulf realizes who’s behind the assault. From what I understand, the man is growing more and more unstable by the day. Brace yourselves for anything... and may your gods watch over you all.”

#assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #sigurd styrbjornson #male oc #sigurd x male oc #ac valhalla fanfic #eitr

15 notes · View notes

riaflicke · 4 years

Text

The saying went something like, monsters are created not born. And that was exactly how Ria Flicke felt about the demon - or demons, plural, depending on the day - inside of her. It wasn’t always dark, but it was fed enough that it grew and grew until she didn’t know what it felt like to not have the darkness inside of her.

Some of the creation was self-inflicted. It wasn’t like she knew how to walk away from a bad situation or how to let the light win out, no, she let the darkness win and that was her own fault. Over the past few months of alone time and wrestling with questions and curiosities, she managed to figure out how and where the darkness was cultivated, fed and nurtured by the people that were meant to protect her.

AUGUST 17th, 2010, FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT (14 years old)

Move in day for Faircrest Preparatory School. Day one of one million of learning to be a spy. Mariana thought that it would be a good idea for Leon to drive Ria to move in. After all, he worked at Faircrest, and she thought it’d be good for the younger Flicke to finally get to know her father.

Needless to say, it did not get off to a good start. Ria knew two things: her mother was cryptic about her father and the only way to get adults to pay attention to her was to be annoying. And she had lots of questions for Leon which meant she would be extra annoying.

“Don’t put your feet up there,” Leon turned over to his daughter, who had perched her feet on the all white car dash. “You’re going to get it dirty.” “What?” Ria didn’t dignify him with even a glance, she instead focused on picking a scab on her calf. “Maria-” “Ria.” “Maria,” Leon huffed, “Take your feet off the dash or we’re not leaving this driveway… What did you do to yourself anyway?” “Fell off my bike.” “Don’t you know how to ride a bike?” Picking at the scab until she got it to bleed again (because it definitely made her dad cringe), “Yes. I let go.” “Why?” “It made mom freak out.” She finally moved her feet from the dash, pleased with the furrowed brow her father now had. “And why in the world would you want to do that?” Leon asked in a deadpan tone, clearly frustrated with his daughter’s antics. “It proved mom cares. Somewhere. She got worried.”

The frustration on Leon’s face morphed into one of pride, but in the blink of an eye it was back to neutral. “You’re already thinking like a spy. What has your mother taught you so far?” “Nothing, I’ve known for all of like, three months.” “Alright. Well, we have about six hours ahead of us-” “Joy.” “Don’t interrupt me, Maria. I can’t have my daughter not knowing anything about spyhood. You’re already starting Faircrest at a disadvantage.”

That spoke to the competitive side of Ria and all, but she thought that this ride would be a way to get to know the man she’d wondered about for years. “You’re going to spend six hours talking to me about spy stuff and not like… anything about me?” “I didn’t say that. Anyways, I’ll see you all year on campus, we have plenty of time to get to know each other.” “Ooookay. Weird, but, fine, talk to me about your spy life or whatever…” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Leon glanced over at her, “What were you about to say?” Chewing on her bottom lip, Ria was silent for a little longer before speaking up. “I wanted to ask you a question.” “Fine, ask it then.” “Do you love me?” The words sounded sharp to hide the fear inside. “I don’t know.” Sitting up straighter, the blonde’s face dropped, “How do you not know? I’m your daughter.” “We just met.” “So?” “So, I need time to decide.” “Do you think you ever will?” “We’ll see.” And he wouldn’t. ‘I love you’ were three words he’d never say. “Fine… Tell me about this spy shit.” “Language.”

JUNE 8th, 2010, FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT (17 years old) Whether she wanted to listen to her father or not (spoiler: she didn’t!), Ria wanted to be top of her class. Success was something she could control. Success gave her purpose. Success made it all worth it. So as much as she hated Leon Calder with everything in her being, she kept note of all of his rules and the subsequent tests and trials in a tiny leather bound notebook. It was a pale pink, embossed with “Maria” on the cover - which she had since scratched up with pens and keys until it only read Ria.

With graduation on the corner - and a four year break from spyhood (her parents hated that one) on the horizon - she flicked through the pages, a walk down a very bumpy memory lane.

Rule 1: Control the conversation What’s it mean: - Have conviction in what you say - Stand by your words, even if they’re questionable - Don’t get stuck in webs of lies - Take pride in attention - good or bad - throws people off their game when you embrace an insult

Rule 2: Head not heart What’s it mean: - Don’t lead with emotions ever - Look at things logically bc that’s trustworthy, emotions are fickle - Tears are weakness - avoid at all costs!!!

8/30/10 - first week @ faircrest, dad got me a xanax prescription. told me it’s better to feel nothing than something. haven’t tried it yet 2/1/12 - (middle of soph. year.) - i think i’m addicted 4/29/14 - i’m graduating in 2 months. Idk how to feel bc i don’t think i’ve felt anything in four years. 8/2/14 - i don’t trust my own head

Rule 3: Don’t have a blindspot What’s it mean: - Falling in love means youre caught up in another person - Getting caught up in another person is a weak point - A lover will betray you or will be used against you - Lust =/= love, lust is ok.

11/1/13 - i don’t think ive cared about a single person ive slept with. like at all.

Rule 4: Know what you’re walking into What’s it mean: - Awareness is key - Evaluate every situation in full - ALWAYS keep your guard up or you’ll get backstabbed

12/21/10 - was @ home for christmas, dad snuck up behind me and threw a knife. i ducked in time. said i need to get better at awareness. Wtf.

After twenty or so blank pages, one page of the notebook had a few words written on it in all capitals. They were written more cleanly than the notes and scribbles of yesteryear, clearly written by an older Ria with stronger penmanship.

I THINK IM A MONSTER.

SEPTEMBER THROUGH NOVEMBER, 2020, ROSEVILLE, VA (24 years old)

The fires the year prior had been the first time that Ria remembered crying in over ten years. Something cracked inside of her as the buildings and all she’d used to ground herself started to fall and crackle apart. It was what pushed her to look inside of her. To know why she held so tightly onto the lessons and learnings from two people that couldn’t care less about her. It was what sent her to therapy.

There were no diagnoses to be found, apart from a self-inflicted dependence on unhealthy relationships and her vices. She lacked the remorse and violence to be a psychopath, and she didn’t have the swings of anger that hallmarked aggression disorders. What was there instead was a shell, a guard that presented itself as sociopathy - but she knew what she was doing, she had remorse, that was where the questions began. How could you display every trait in the book but be ‘normal’ inside?

The revelation of Blackthorne as a school for assassins had opened up even more of a can of worms, but she ignored it until the start of her third year, as she continued to try and understand what was going on inside of her head. Leon had gone to Blackthorne, yet the alumni didn’t seem to recognize his name. Something was up.

With the help of one of her Faircrest friends, Tobi, she was able to find more on her father. More on his employment records and his history. He’d begun going by his middle name after graduating Blackthorne, Leon Calder instead of Malcolm Calder. Hardly a criminal offense. He had a cross listing with the MI5 (expected, she knew her parents met in London) and a private agency ‘Atkinson Associates’. Further digging revealed it as a hitman agency, one that her father was still actively employed with.

Once she had that, and access to the files of the company, she went to dig on her own - not wanting to pull anyone else deeper into the mess. The employee roster and files were what she really wanted. Clicking on her father’s, she read through the notes, feeling a gross pit building in her stomach as she learned more. Kill count: 117. Use for: High profile, quickturn jobs. Works both individually and with partners.

Noting that the word partners was linked, Ria clicked on it, skimming quickly over unknown names until she settled on the name of a former partner. One she knew too well. Mariana Alice Flicke.

“No…. no no no…” But she couldn’t stop, she had to know more about her mother. Kill count: 2. Use for: Track erasure and evidence destruction.

She didn’t know if it made her feel better or worse that her mother was typically non-violent… Even if she condoned the violence. Blue eyes kept scanning the profile of her mom. Employment Terminated: September 30, 1995 Reason: Pregnancy.

“No wonder he hates me so fucking much.” She took Mariana out of the field, she took his partner away… But that wasn’t her fault! Hovering over the word pregnancy, Ria’s brow furrowed. Another link. There was no reason that needed to be linked. Everyone knew how pregnancy worked!

After a long stare off with the link, she finally clicked on it. The curiosity eating away at her. It pulled up what looked like an incomplete profile, one with nothing but the key statistics. And she didn’t even need to read them, they were ones she knew by heart. Name: Maria Grace Flicke Date of Birth: June 6, 1996 Start Date: To Be Determined.

She wanted to stop scrolling, but her hand kept moving, the answers were finally there. Whether she liked them or not.

Current Status:

Atkinson Associates Case study 001.: Nature versus Nurture

- Developing the mindset of an assassin from day one - Utilizing upbringing to control later characteristics, thought processes, and disposition

None of her mania was an accident. It was all part of a bigger plan that she never wanted to be a part of. Each demon was planted inside of her by the people that were supposed to love her most.

And the only way she could deal with this was to let out an ear-piercing wail.

#dev | ria #i'm sorry #drugs tw

11 notes · View notes

supremeuppityone · 4 years

Photo

Written for Klaroline Bingo @klaroline-events Prompt: “You’re safe.”

This is a sequel to Chapter 70: Summer of Salvatore, found in A Beautiful Symmetry. Thanks for all of your asks about this one and I appreciate your patience in how long it took me to come up with the idea for this!

Caroline just wanted to casually date the mysterious new guy from work. Something nice and normal. But the universe had other plans.

Chapter 115: Part 2 - Summer of Salvatore

"Crime is common. Logic is rare."

— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

“You didn’t hesitate when I gave you the address,” Caroline observed, taking a sip of her coffee. “I mean, I know you’re new to town, but everyone knows the south side of the city is a bit shady.”

Klaus let out a chuckle, amusement dripping from his voice as he asked, “Detective Forbes, are you concerned for my safety? I can assure you, given your act of valor at that crime scene, I can’t imagine a safer place than at your side.”

She could feel her cheeks grow hot, and she ducked her head shyly. She’d relied on instinct when Stefan had attacked them, and while she never went for the kill unless she had to, there was no denying the relief that washed over her once she saw he was dead. He’d been a monster. “I’m just glad I was there to stop him.” She fiddled with her nails, a nervous edge to her voice as she asked, “As much as I hate that you were there, I was wondering if you’d feel comfortable going back with me? I’ve been asked to provide a detailed report of my findings and I could really use your perspective since you may have observed something I missed.”

He looked surprised by her invitation and she hurriedly explained, “I mean, the methodology established to empirically score copycat crimes is measured in seven factors ranging from sociology, biology and psychology, not to mention influences of the media and even geography, and I just don’t want to overlook a single opportunity for a thorough report given the potential ramifications this case could have on future criminal justice procedures.”

Klaus flashed her a dimpled smirk, taking a drink of his coffee as though contemplating something. “Of course. You’re a widely respected expert in your field, sweetheart, and I’m flattered that you asked.”

She could feel her cheeks grow hot at his perusal. “Um, sorry...I didn’t mean to ramble on about forensics and crime scenes on a date.” Tucking a blonde curl behind her ear, she muttered, “Guess it’s been awhile for me,” and then immediately squeezed her eyes shut, mortified.

He reached across the table to hold her hand, winking as he said, “I don’t mind a bit of murder on a first date.”

She returned his smile, hardly believing her luck. It was really difficult to meet someone who wasn’t turned off by forensics, and this was the first date she’d had with a coworker who hadn’t been a misogynist who instantly discounted her research. “Can I ask how you got into this field? Have you always been a dispatch driver?”

“It’s a recent change for me, but I’ve always been interested in the more historic aspects of murder. For example, are you familiar with ling chi? It’s known as —”

“Slow slicing or death by a thousand cuts initially practiced in 10th century China,” Caroline interrupted excitedly.

Klaus smiled, his gray eyes lighting up at her enthusiasm. “I always found it fascinating to see the ingenuity involved in finding blades sharp enough in that era to gradually shave away the bits of skin and muscle tissue.”

“Exactly! Murder weapons are such an essential part of forensics,” she replied a bit breathlessly, her heart beating a bit faster when she saw the unmistakable lust in Klaus’ gaze. She was giddy at the thought of finding someone who shared her enthusiasm for criminal science forensics. She noticed Klaus suddenly stiffened as he studied something intently behind her. She glanced at the reflection in the window, frowning as she realized someone had walked in wearing a Halloween mask and the black tip of a small caliber gun was peeking out of his sleeve.

Seriously? Of course this would happen on her date. Taking a calming breath, she slowly slid her phone over to Klaus, murmuring quietly, “Call 911.” Using carefully controlled movements, she quietly removed her concealed sidearm, promising, “You’re safe. It’s going to be ok, I promise.”

The would-be robber had just raised his gun to the cashier when Caroline yelled, “Police! Put down your weapon and turn around slowly!” She could read in those tense muscles that the suspect would run, but before she could make a move, he hopped over the counter, putting the cashier between them as he made his escape. Registering the clatter of his weapon being dropped in the commotion, she raced after him, briefly pausing in the brick alleyway to determine which way he went.

Running in the most likely direction, she stopped short when she saw Klaus casually holding the suspect against the rough brick. Arm wrenched up his back in what appeared to be a painful wrist hold, his face was scrunched as he howled. Stepping over the mask that must have fallen off in the struggle, Caroline wryly observed, “Did you run track or something? How’d you manage to beat me here?”

Klaus shrugged, a small smile on his face as he replied, “Perhaps I’m faster than I look.”

_______________________________

Something weird was going on. Caroline brushed some of the ashy residue into a sterile envelope, sighing as she mentally went over everything she knew about desiccation and growing more and more frustrated as she couldn’t find a rational explanation. Stefan sustained a gunshot to his tibia. Which should’ve crippled him. Instead, it seemed to enrage him further and when he leapt at her, she issued a fatal headshot.

She felt little remorse at having brought down a serial killer; especially one that had posed an imminent danger to both Klaus and herself. What she found disturbing was the accelerated decomposition of Stefan’s remains. What the hell happened? By the time dispatch had arrived, Stefan’s corpse appeared as though he’d been dead for more than a century. Frowning, she studied the chalk outline notating where the remains had been prior to her team’s removal, and Klaus’ amused voice interrupting her thoughts. “It’s almost as though you expect the evidence to talk back, sweetheart.”

Carefully pressing an evidence seal to the envelope, she replied, “All evidence speaks; it’s just a matter of understanding what’s being said.” She settled more comfortably on the plastic sheet, blue eyes straying back to the powdered residue that clung to the grooves in the wooden floor. “Accelerated desiccation is almost unheard of in forensics. I can’t account for what happened to Stefan’s body. The remains appeared to have been subjected to an even source of airflow or aerated soil to damage the soft tissues in that manner.”

He leaned back on his palms, stretching his legs out next to hers, and the almost-touch of his body made her shiver. Crime scene, Caroline — get it together. “There’s emerging studies regarding destructive micro-organisms contributing to desiccation. I actually read an interesting take on this in Drs. Parker and Sommers’ joint work in the latest Forensics Quarterly,” he ventured, a small smile gracing his lips as though pleased with himself.

It was a statistical improbability that someone with those cheekbones would read Forensics Quarterly. When they wrapped up the scene for the night, she planned to drag him back to her place to ride his test tube until it broke. “Seriously?! You’re trusting Parker and Sommers’s research? You might as well say a Kardashian is a respected forensics authority.”

He let out an amused chuckle, pulling her in for a quick kiss. “You are a delight, love. It’s rare to find someone so enthusiastic about this type of work.”

Her lips burned from the kiss, and her pulse raced when she thought of where the night would take them. She’d never met someone who seemed to genuinely appreciate the science behind the macabre. “It’s hard for people who aren’t in the field to understand. There’s a certain beauty to it; the way the research can lead to a hypothesis and eventually a satisfying resolution.”

“There was a...case I worked on in which a body had been drained while hanging right-side-up. Utter poppycock as everyone knows the most efficient draining method is —”

“Upside-down,” Caroline cheerfully interrupted, “because the subclavian and carotid arteries’ location is ideal. No self-respecting killer would attempt draining without having a basic understanding of anatomy.” A slight tingle went down her spine as she realized that Klaus seemed to appreciate her dark humor. It was nearly impossible to succeed in this industry without developing at least a hint of gallows humor.

He shook his head in bemusement, and she barely resisted the urge to poke at those innocent-looking dimples. But they still had work to do. Clearing her throat, she leaned over to access her files, zooming in on the dental images from the remains. “I’ll admit I’ve seen some unusual remains during my career, but nothing like this.” She pointed at the obvious deformity, adding, “It’s a clear case of megadontia, but I can’t imagine someone willingly allowing their condition to grow out of control like this to the point that they have large, curved canines. Given the depth of the unnatural growth, he must’ve been in incredible pain.”

Stefan had smiled at her. With those teeth that had been so sharp. Too sharp. Caroline had been proud of how she’d handled the situation, but something primal had overtaken her when she saw those canines. Fangs. She shook her head slightly, ignoring the cold pit in her stomach that inexplicably had formed. Klaus looked decidedly uncomfortable, and she cursed herself for being so oblivious. Clearly, Klaus was traumatized by what had happened and it was selfish of her to expect him to bounce back right away after seeing such violence.

However, before she could apologize, Klaus abruptly stood up, helping her to his feet even as he seemed weirdly fixated on the front door. Suddenly, a forceful blow had the wood splintering, and two musclebound, intimidating men with dark eyes walked in. Their vacant, mindless stares were somehow more disquieting than their size.

“Caroline, there you are,” drawled a familiar voice, and she didn’t miss the way Klaus stiffened as he moved in front of her.

Peering around Klaus, her eyes widened in surprise as she exclaimed, “Dr. Maxfield? What are you doing here?” What was her biology professor from Whitmore doing at her crime scene?

He still wore the same smug grin she’d done her best to forget all those years ago. There always had been something vaguely threatening about him, but Caroline inevitably dismissed it as the typical sleazy college professor creeping on naive students and made sure to steer clear whenever he tried to get her alone multiple times. But now there was something more. Something dangerous. As he took a cocky step toward her, Klaus growled in warning. Wait — Klaus growled?

“Forgive my intrusion, but I’ve been following your fascinating work for some time now, and your research of the Ripper of Monterey’s murders over the past century caught my attention,” he explained, eyeing his two companions in a manner that was both reverent and dispassionate — he might as well have been examining a piece of art. “I’m certain your research will aid me in locating other ripper vampires capable of successfully hosting the Ripper Virus my lab has created.”

Ripper vampires? Ripper Virus? Not to mention his ridiculous assertion that murders spanning more than a century could’ve been the work of a single individual. What the hell was going on? Caroline kept her hand next to her sidearm, studying Professor Maxfield and his companions to determine the threat.

Suddenly, black veins appeared underneath the dark eyes of the two men who bracketed Professor Maxfield, their sharp canines inexplicably long. What the hell? Those were fangs. She was staring at fangs. Fear gripped her heart, but she was proud of how steady her grip was as she raised her gun.

She flicked her gaze to Klaus, who seemed strangely at ease. He rocked back on his feet, hands casually clasped behind his back as he sneered, “Words cannot express the trouble you find yourselves in, gentleman.” With his signature smirk, he added, “I’m Klaus Mikaelson.”

It was when Klaus shockingly revealed a double set of curved fangs along with feral gold flashing in his gaze that Caroline began to understand. She was safe. Professor Maxfield and his companions were not. The intruders stepped back uncertainly, no longer flanking Professor Maxfield like vicious guard dogs. “Ah, you’ve heard of me. Fantastic,” Klaus said, his chest swelling with pride.

While Caroline felt her heart beat a rapid tattoo in her chest, she somehow wasn’t afraid with Klaus beside her. He’d positioned himself between her and the intruders, clearly comfortable in this dangerous situation, but also not willing to risk her safety. He leaned into her, and her body instinctively curled into his.

Klaus’ voice carried a solemn promise that despite the insanity around them, Caroline couldn’t help but believe as he told her, “You’re safe. It’s going to be ok, I promise.”

#kcbingo2020 #klaroline fanfic #uppity bitch fanfic #klaroline #klaroline aesthetic #aesthetic #thx for requesting a sequel!#klaroline does crime scene investigation #plus awkward murder flirting

38 notes · View notes

maverick-werewolf · 4 years

Text

Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends - Pre-order Link & Preview

Interior illustration for Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends, drawn by Justin RR Stebbins

More promised previews - as well as a preview of an interior illustration of Caiden wrestling with a werebear! You can find a lot more werebear action (and berserker lore for my setting) in the previews below, please be sure to check them out!

For more info on the book itself, you can also check out this post. Also be sure to check out the Hunt Never Ends tag for a whole lot more book previews!

And now in very important news... Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends is available for preorder on Amazon.com!

Pre-Order Link

Please note that, while the ebook is now available for preorder, Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends will also be available in paperback on October 30 from the same Amazon listing! Paperbacks cannot be preordered using Amazon’s system, however.

Be sure to check back October 30 for the physical (paperback) edition!

In the third section of the book, Caiden and Gwen hunt for a mysterious berserker whom the locals claim is causing trouble... and, for the first time, Caiden truly sees how hard it is to draw the line between man and monster.

If you’re interested in purchasing the book digitally, you can now pre-order it right here and have it immediately on October 30!

(Paperback edition will be available on Amazon on October 30)

------------

“Thoughts?” she asked.

Caiden threw her a quick look. “We check the forest north of here, the direction he was heading. By now, maybe he’s calmed down some, even if he hasn’t turned back.”

‘Turned back.’ It was insane. Humans weren’t meant to turn into anything else, and neither was any other creature. The curses and magic he’d learned about since joining the Venatori, even not being able to read… He still couldn’t imagine a man turning into something he wasn’t.

No way he could imagine what that actually sounded like, what that drunk had to have heard – or what it looked like, for that matter. What it actually involved. It defied all nature, all sense, or at least any he’d known for his entire life.

They left their horses in town, setting off on foot to track the monster. As Caiden pulled his crossbow from his back and loaded it, Gwen nocked an arrow to her bow and spoke.

“So what do we know about berserkers – we know they bond their souls somehow to some kind of magical skins they wear, and this gives them special powers. Usually they bond with wolves, but they say that’s also the most dangerous, so some of them bond with other animals like bears instead. Because if they take it too far, they can lose control and lose themselves, turning into monsters.”

Caiden nodded. “Do we know for sure if they ever turn back?”

“There were at least two cases where they did that I read in some old accounts, but I don’t know how accurate they were.”

Tracking the berserker was easy, like Caiden figured. The monster had carved a swath of maddened destruction leading away from the city, toward the forest. He’d barreled over saplings, charged through streams, knocking aside underbrush and stones as he drove ever deeper into the wilderness.

Then, the tracks stopped.

There, sitting with his back against a tree trunk, was a man clad in little more than a few tattered clothes and furs that barely kept him decent. Every inch of him was made of tattooed muscle, scars, and some fresh bloodstains. A ragged grey beard covered half his face and reached down to his chest, full of unkempt remains of braids…

But he wore no animal skin.

What he did wear was not physical: a palpable cloak of regret. A pain so deep Caiden almost felt inclined to regret along with him as he drew near, the berserker’s emotions filling the air like a cloud of dreary, remorseful rain.

“I won’t fight,” the berserker said at once, showing empty hands and fingers stained with blood. “Show me mercy – I won’t fight.”

Gwen stood a few feet away, bow at the ready again, watching them. Caiden narrowed his eyes at him.

Slowly, the berserker stood, keeping his hands in plain view. Gwen swore under her breath, just loud enough for Caiden to hear. Even if he couldn’t match up to Caiden’s height, that didn’t make him small.

“I never meant to do what I did,” the berserker said slowly, his deep green eyes flicking between the two of them. “Whatever it was that I did.”

“You don’t remember?” Gwen asked.

“I remember some Imperials gathering around me and throwing insults…”

Caiden could hardly focus on the berserker’s words for the emotions churning in the air. Worry, even fear, and some strange anger that seemed to lurk like a monster waiting to spring. But there was a weariness, too. Something old and tired that yearned for only one thing: peace.

And always that remorse. Like someone who’d taken a life out of necessity, not desire – like a soldier in his legion who’d killed a man in self-defense. He’d felt this regret before, this guilt.

But monsters, supposedly, didn’t have remorse.

Caiden blinked, scowled harder against the sensations, and locked his eyes firmer onto the berserker before him.

“I fought for control, but… I am old. My skin took me years ago. I can fight it, but when pressed, it will always win in the end.”

“Yet,” said Gwen, “you came into an Imperial settlement knowing perfectly well you might lose control and kill innocent people there.”

Caiden glanced at her. Gwen kept her bow trained, ready to loose, a fire and distrust in her tone not quite like any he’d heard from her before. Still the berserker didn’t move, maintaining his calm, despite a sorrow in him that deepened to the point of leaving a lead weight setting heavy in Caiden’s stomach.

“Yes,” the berserker said, quieter now. “I was traveling – tired and hungry, in need of only shelter and nourishment.”

“None of that,” Gwen answered firmly, “excuses what you did.”

The berserker’s voice lifted, defensive, and pride came to grapple with his fear. “I am Gundahar of the Frost Raven clan, once a respected warrior. This is the first time I’ve ever harmed another with this curse – do not accuse me of not being careful. I know what I am and what the beast will do.” Wearing a scowl, he let his hands drop at last. “I only wanted a drink.”

Gwen glanced at him. Caiden glanced back.

And he lowered his crossbow.

“Caiden?” she said, perhaps a little stunned, the grip on her bow tightening in a way Caiden didn’t much like.

“Easy, Gwen,” he said, extending a hand toward her, lowering it, motioning for her to back off. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

She wasn’t having it, and she didn’t lower her bow. “Monsters hide in good men. The Venatori have taught it for eons – once someone is cursed, they can’t be trusted.”

Cursed. There was that word again, one he’d heard so often in this order of monster hunters. It meant so many different things, and every time he heard it, he wondered if there was some dark corner of that word reserved for him.

“Maybe not,” he said, stepping nearer to her and looking her in the eye. “If that turns out to be the case, I’ll shoulder the blame. But I’m asking you to lower your weapon.”

Gundahar neither moved nor spoke. He stood there watching with a dark look of jaded weariness etched across his features. Caiden couldn’t help but feel he’d seen a look disturbingly similar in one of the mirrors in Castle Greywatch.

At length, Gwen nodded. She lowered her bow, straightening herself and taking a deep breath, saying only, “I hope you’re right.”

Caiden nodded back. He returned his attention to Gundahar, but the berserker to speak first.

“I am sorry, truly, for what happened… Though perhaps your Imperial youths could use more lessons in how to stay their tongues. I came here peacefully, did nothing wrong, and they ridiculed me. Insulted me. Accused me of witchcraft and devilry – they didn’t know the holy powers of Odin they slandered with their words…”

His voice drifted. The pride faded away again, dissipating, pushed aside by the resurgence of guilt. Caiden’s near-eternal scowl almost softened around the edges. Almost.

“Tell us what happened,” he prompted.

(Werebear action under the cut!)

------------

Down in the lamplit streets, a mob surged furiously around their quarry, torches aloft and voices raised. From here, Caiden couldn’t make out much, but he didn’t have to make any guesses to know what was happening.

Turning, he threw his crossbow over his shoulder, grabbed his harness covered in weapons and potions, and pulled it on over only his shirt while he burst through the door to his room and stormed down the stairs. No time for his armor or the rest of his gear.

Not far from the inn doors, where the innkeeper and his daughter stood watching in horror, Caiden found exactly what he’d feared.

In the center of that mob they dragged Gundahar along by a rope around his neck. He struggled, clawing at it, getting to his feet to stand tall around most of the civilians around him. The instant he did, several rushed forward, brandishing cudgels to beat over his arms and legs, trying to force him back down.

Gwen, groggy and confused, appeared at his side with her weapons in hand.

“Dammit,” Caiden growled.

Charging forward, he shouldered his way straight into the mob with Gwen following in the wake he cleared. They parted around him like water against a stone.

He glanced at her and said, “Talk them down or distract them. I’m going after the berserker.”

She nodded.

Each step he took toward Gundahar, the air seemed to grow thicker. Stuffier. Harder to breathe, full of a desperate fear, a wild need to escape. He felt like he walked toward a cornered animal, one tired and scared – but not wanting to hurt anyone.

They reached the center, where Caiden grabbed one shoulder of a man with his club raised over the fallen Gundahar and shoved him aside hard enough to send him staggering away, teetering awkwardly like a drunk. Judging by the smell, he probably was. As was half the mob.

Somewhere behind him, Gwen tried to raise her voice over the din of confusion, anger, and accusations. Telling them to calm down, that this was their job, to go back home…

Caiden barely listened. He’d trust her with that. With the talking. She liked doing it, after all, and he’d be damned if he had words for these idiots. Not with how he felt something in Gundahar that wanted to snap. He couldn’t let that happen.

Kneeling, he put a heavy hand on Gundahar’s shoulder as he half lay in the street, bruised and bleeding. He’d fallen silent. Gone were all the hoarse yells and pleas and him trying to explain. Spent. There weren’t any words left in him, only ragged, sharp breaths and a hard twitch of the muscles in his neck. The instant Caiden touched him, something almost seemed to lash out – something with claws, and something very intent to kill.

Caiden gripped his shoulder anyway, prompting Gundahar to look up at him. He blinked, locking gazes, sending Caiden almost more pain and remorse than he knew what to do with.

“Gundahar,” he said, “breathe. Focus. Get on your feet – I’m taking you out of here.”

“N-no— no, Venator—” he gasped. “Too late— please—”

Whatever else he might have said died on his lips, fell to a look of resignation that passed over his features in a blink. Caiden knew it was over then, even before Gundahar’s jaw set and frigid determination rushed from him, like a gale from the North.

Gundahar surged to his feet, and with one swipe made of inhuman strength, slammed his arm across Caiden’s head powerful enough to send even him sprawling into the street, skull cracking hard against the cobblestones.

Whatever happened next, Caiden didn’t see it. Didn’t much hear it, either, for the ringing in his ears. Screaming, ripping, popping – strange sounds rippling like water swam through his head as if they were ten leagues away and drowned.

This was new. All of it. The wash of cold, biting down deep, right to the bone, and the fury. It was like nothing he’d felt before, a high-pitched scream tearing on around him, and into him, settling like it wished to stay. Wished for him to scream along with it, to give in to the anger. He almost didn’t even realize that screams – even worse, distorted, full of more pain than he and all his experience could even imagine – were also very real, filling the air around him.

And when Caiden scrambled to his feet again, his head pounding from where he’d knocked it against the ground, Gundahar was already gone.

A monster stood in his place.

Caiden stared straight down a wrinkled muzzle, lips already starting to drip strands of white froth. The thing before him looked like the largest bear he’d ever seen. Massive, hulking, covered in brown, grizzled fur and twitching muscles the size of which no man could ever achieve. Yet its shape looked almost human, with arms, and great hands bearing fingers that ended in long, hooked claws.

No recognition stirred in the green eyes like he’d seen on the man wearing this monster’s skin – or the man skin the monster wore. Maybe Gwen had been right.

Because when the bear-monster turned, it opened its wide, toothy maw and lifted a hand-paw the size of Caiden’s entire head, ready to bring it down on the nearest fleeing civilian.

This was their fault – the civilians.

But right now, that wasn’t important. All that mattered was stopping it.

11 notes · View notes

inspirationdivine · 4 years

Text

Chance Encounters || Frank and Lydia

Timing: Current Parties: @frankmulloy @inspirationdivine Summary: Lydia and Frank meet during one of Lydia’s hunts Warnings: None!

Hunting humans occasionally meant coming to places like… this. It wasn’t true terrible, if she was honest, but it also wasn’t the Artesian. After some of the places she’d been to watch Todd perform, this human singer’s choice of venue was more than acceptable. Shortly after she walked in, Lydia’s chest began to ring, like wind chimes in a breeze. Somewhere in here was a fae, she knew it. “Darling, do you mind waiting here a moment?” Lydia asked, walking away from their booth and over to the bar, until she spotted him, an incredibly beautiful man who couldn’t be anything other than fae. He had to be. Lydia slipped to the front, thrilled to meet another fae, so she reached over the bar to offer her hand to shake him. “Hi! I’m Lydia, it’s ever such a pleasure to meet you!”

Thus far into his shift Frank has abstained from engaging with any of the Pint’s patrons (not that he was overly chatty with any of them to begin with), he had instead isolated himself from them by cleaning the glass pints with a sort of silent determination, looking up only when an order was placed and back down again when it was satisfied. In true Mulloy manner, he had built his own space which few had ever dared to cross, that afternoon was one such exception. The introduction of one, Lydia, was like a plunged blade, spearing through his cocoon of isolated peace. Her beauty was undoubtedly singular, but it was her very being that sung to him. A moment of jarring silence lasted between them, and it only occurred to Frank then that he was holding his breath. Now Frank never shook anyone’s hand, a habit that he had carefully crafted for himself and yet he took hers. Wary flesh on a waiting one, and all at once it was like an electrical shock had been administered on a heart that was flatlining, and then Frank was breathing again. “Frank.” His voice sounded uncertain but that was most definitely his name.

"Frank! It's a genuine pleasure." Lydia replied with an effortless smile. When he took her hand, the bells rang loudest, like the bell tower had struck noon. He looked a little alarmed, but maybe most fae had better taste than here. Lydia looked around briefly, but there wasn’t anyone overhearing them. They were much too focused on getting the attention of whoever was actually serving them. Forgetting about the human she’d come here with altogether, Lydia smiled as she lifted herself onto a bar seat in front of him."This was the last piece I expected to meet someone like us. Have you been working here long?" Maybe he was just shy.

Frank’s eyes followed her every movement as she lifted herself up onto the bar seat, waiting perhaps for some sort of glamour to fall away and reveal that she was more or less exactly like the rest of them. That this sudden intensity was the subject of his own making, born from wishful thinking and helpless desperation. It did not. He wasn’t sure if relieved was quite the right word. This exact moment had transpired between him and the bar owner before, a man was also like him, like them, and yet even as history played out before him again, he was just as graceless with it the second time as he was the first. “Not that long--I’m sorry like us?” He’s heard of the existence of other subspecies of faes, though he could not name all of them even if you paid him. While she felt familiar, it still wasn’t exactly the same. Perhaps that was the source of his hesitation. Or perhaps it was the way she so obviously enjoyed herself. She carried with her an easy smile that he could not hope to imitate, and was still unsure of whether he even wanted to.

He was watching her ever so keenly, Lydia felt like she was in a room with Regan again. He was trying to understand her, or perhaps, more vainly, he just couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had that effect on some people and most humans. Until he spoke, that was, and threw all her expectations out of the window. Lydia's smile dripped off her face in surprise and concern. Oh no. She was dealing with another Regan, wasn’t she? How were there so many lost fae in this town? “Do you not…. Feel a similarity? Oh, darling. I’m ever so sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.” She said, unsure how to approach this. “Do you really not know what I’m talking about?” He was supposed to be working, this was hardly the time to drop something so significant.

Wait, what?—Frank shook his head, shaking off some of his initial surprise with it. Frank never liked surprises. Surprises either tried to kill him or rendered him stupid. Both were equally undesirable outcomes. The enchantment released its hold and slowly he began to find the functions of his brain again. Finally he regained the ability to put words and coherent thought together so he might be able to communicate with someone where no caution and distance were needed, because she was right, they were alike; the same. Was that not what Frank had always wanted? To be the same? “No, I mean, I know what you’re talking about,” he said, with perhaps the most articulacy he’s had in their entire short conversation, “I just mean you’re not…gancanagh. You’re like me but you’re not…like me. So what are you?”

He took a moment to resettle himself. Lydia didn’t mind to wait, concern creasing her features. Eventually, when he did speak, Lydia breathed a soft sigh of relief. “Oh, I was worried!” She tilted her head in surprise. He was not wrong, of course, once he explained what it was that he was. All fae rang the bell chimes in her chest in the same way, but she might have been able to guess by his beauty. “Well, no, I couldn’t possibly be. I’m neither a man nor at all masculine in any way. No more than you could be a banshee.” She smiled, leaning in as if to tell him a secret - she was. “Although we are perhaps more similar than you might expect. I’m a Leanan Sidhe. A muse. I inspire art.”

Leannán Sídhe. The name was familiar to him, attached to an old, distant, memory of his childhood. Of his mother telling him stories about beasts and faeries from their Irish folklore. Not that any self-respecting eleven year old boy ever paid much attention to stories about faeries, that was of course, before the wings started growing in. But even at his tender age, he did not have the heart to tell her that her bedtime stories were true, least of all those that were not exactly complimentary of the faerie folk. “But it’s never as simple as just inspiring art though is it?” He held her eyes as he answered the cost of that inspiration with a silent gaze. At least she inspired art, Frank was too afraid to even shake a stranger’s hand. The destruction left behind by both were much the same, and Frank was not ignorant of the woman whose eyes kept an unwavering hold on Lydia’s back. “Is she one of your...artists?”

Oh, he had merely been tongue tied. Lydia smiled, easing more comfortably into her seat now she wasn’t so worried of frightening him. The words meant something to him, and he was blunt in asking about her diet, which made Lydia smile. “No, but then again, no pain no gain, as the saying goes,” she replied, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. Lydia looked back to Kelly, giving her a small wave. She was so young, yet ever so enthusiastic to share her songs. Lonely, too, but that was the nature of humans that age. She couldn’t quite work out whether Frank was asking out of judgement or plain curiosity, and considering how wide and varied fae morality could be, she decided to play it safe, if always entirely honest. “Her interest is currently natural, rather than cultivated, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re on a thirty day free trial, as it were. What about you? This is not a bad place to work and find a meal for the evening. The company on the other hand…” Lydia looked around the room, and while of course she could not truly tell what anyone was, she was very confident that practically everyone here bar the two of them had to be human. They just had to be. “I imagine it has its ups and downs.”

Lydia served her own brand of cool indifference, far from concerned by notions of shame or guilt, on how or whom they survived on, and Frank had to suppress a shudder. Her smile was all winter and he had always struggled in the cold, but oh did she wear it so well. Her every word stroked gently at the hungry thing that lived in the marrows of his bones and the pit of his stomach, one Frank kept carefully starved with cheap whiskey and cheaper cigarettes. “I don’t mind, I’m not much of a people person anyway,” he said mildly, and then added, “the shepherd’s pie isn’t so bad…and the stew tastes pretty decent on the nights they remember to season it right.” It was a truth well known that faes couldn’t tell a lie, although Frank had become very good at living one. To pretend to himself that his judgement was from a place of righteous morals, and not from a place of deeper, venomous, resentment that she was so free to do as she was ordained and without remorse for being exactly as she was. It was her nature, as it was his, but why was he the only one telling himself that it was wrong?

"Really? Now that is a surprise." Lydia knew a fair few gancanagh, who she would have described as the definition of people persons, but there were exceptions to every rule. Horrifically, her mind turned to Jax, the Gancanagh who had worked at the ring, using his silver tongue to force Remmy to fight for his own personal gain. Frank seemed nothing like that man, and by all means, if Jax had been manipulating any other zombie, Lydia might not have minded so much. “I’ll keep the recommendations in mind if I ever bring someone who needs to eat around,” she chuckled, pushing her thoughts far away from Remmy. "By all means, let me know if I'm bothering you. I just… really like to introduce myself to fae when I run into them. It’s easier in this town than most, but still, and I don’t think I’d seen you at Faetal Attraction."

Frank answered Lydia’s surprise with his own, evident in the arch of his brow and the slight part of his lips, as if he wanted to say something but was unsure of the words. He was an oddity to her, it seemed, which begged the question of how many faes like him did she know? And then a small voice added most delicately: was his father among those acquaintances? He quickly guided his curiosity elsewhere, back to the present, to the name of a place he was not yet familiar with. He hasn’t been in White Crest all that long and much of his time was spent divided between tending the bar at the Pint and then at Soul, with little spared to himself, or anything else. A poor habit that needed amending, not that Frank was in any great rush to do that either. “Fatal attraction? Like the movie?”

Lydia stared at him for a five-count, before laughing in her bewilderment. “No, like the bar,” she chuckled, pressing her hand against her chest. “I’m not laughing at you, I’m ever so sorry. This town has a propensity for puns which results in just this sort of confusion. F-A-E Faetal.” Her chuckles had subsided, as she looked at him questioningly. “It’s a place for people like us to meet other fae. Oh, come on, now you have to let me take you sometime. Sometime when you aren’t working, we’ll make a night of it.” Better than this place, certainly, but who was she to judge? “I know you said you aren’t a people person, but there are quieter times that we could go, and it’s fun, even for a short while.”

Her pretty promise came with an even prettier smile, and Frank was immediately put ill at ease. He had developed an almost instinctual aversion toward charm, and charming people, and Lydia was practically dripping with it. A series of practiced excuses were laid out on his tongue (this was not the first time Frank had to talk his way out of doing something or going somewhere he did not want to), but underneath the coiling chain of dishonesty, a little presence at the back of his consciousness demanded his attention: curiosity. Frank has never been in a room with more than one fae at a time. People like us. He had always been intrigued by how many of them they were, how many species of faes existed beyond those he already knew of (which was not many at all), what was this community like that his ‘normal’ upbringing had deprived him of? Frank was practiced in denying himself a great many pleasures, but always failed at refusing his own curiosity. To curb any great display of enthusiasm, he resigned to her invitation with a measured, “I’ll think about it.”

He hesitated. Lydia just couldn’t get a read on him, not yet, but she would. With every passing day, her loneliness threatened to suffocate her a little more. At least a gancanagh would understand that part of her. All the same, she smiled in relief at his measured response. “Alright. Well, when you make up your mind, please drop me a line.” Lydia pulled her business card from her wallet, and looked at the quickly accumulating pile of dirty glass ware that she was distracting him from. “As much as I’m enjoying meeting you, I should probably not get you in trouble with work.” And she ought to return to sweet young Kelly, and her hunt.

Lydia Griffin. Art Conservator. Her contact information craftily spelled out beneath in fine print. He put it inside his jacket pocket with no great care. At the time, he didn’t think he would ever come to need it. It wasn’t as if they socialised in the same social circle. Frank wasn’t social at all! You need only look at their dress to realise their differences, which was stark. Outwardly, anyway. What stopped him from throwing the little rectangle of (probably expensive—it looked expensive) paper away altogether was a feeling. He wasn’t sure when, or under what circumstance but they would meet again, of this he had no doubt. Frank looked at the young woman at the table; still waiting. Evidence of impatience present in the increased frequency of glances she kept shooting in their direction. “Right, I should let you get back to your guest.” Frank took a moment, not as certain in his own pleasure at having met Lydia. He said instead, “I’ll see you around.” And he would, even if he didn’t know it yet.

#wickedswriting #para #chatzy #frank

8 notes · View notes

ren-c-leyn · 5 years

Text

The Vampire’s Child

Since it’s October, I’m bored, and I found a lot of prompts chilling out in my drafts that made up a really good story once I started thinking about it, I decided to do a slightly more Halloweenish story than normal, and may be doing a few more in the near future. =D

This is a fusion story, my personal nickname for stories done up using multiple prompts from multiple prompt blogs. This particular one was made up of these 1,2,3,4,5,6 by @thependragonwritersguild, these 1,2,3 by @humdrummoloch, and these 1,2,3,4 by @givethispromptatry.

This one does have fight scenes, death, minor gore, nothing too descriptive, though.

It was a strange fate life had decided to deal me, the half-human child of a vampire lord. A lord that had lived for thousands of years and fought wars every single day of every one of those long years. Today was no different: not for him, at least.

The halls were silent as I glided through them. The servant’s eyes were downcast, the lesser vampires stood in tight circles, watching me with dull eyes; waiting for the marching orders I’d inevitably bring back from our lord. How could I not when I had been summoned to the war room the night after our enemies had attacked? Had shown us we were not even safe here, in the darkest and grandest of castles?

They had torn down a tower, lit the stables on fire, and slaughtered a few lesser vampires. But the thing was, it wasn’t just the destruction that made everyone shake, it was knowing that we were at each other’s mercy. Mercy we all knew no vampire, or any other creature of the night, had.

I rounded the corner and spotted a vaguely familiar figure. Or perhaps, it would have been more accurate to describe him as a familiarly vague figure: Lord Crow, my father’s oldest friend. No one but father knew what he actually looked like beneath the swirling mist of darkness that shrouded him. I remembered him telling me that you could see Lord Crow’s true form when lightening crashed, but I had never been fortunate enough to catch him in the midst of a literal storm.

The shadowy mass paused in the hall and turned to me.

“On your way to the war room, Raven?”

“I am. And you?”

“Yes, though I doubt it is for the same reason.”

Ah yes, it had been so long that I nearly forgot that his form was not the only thing vague about him.

“I see,” I answered simply, already knowing that prying was pointless. He had several centuries on me and was no one’s fool.

We both continued our silent trip to the war room. He opened the door for me, offering what I assumed was a bow. I gave a small nod in return and stepped through.

Lesser lords and ladies were gathered around the table, all watching the late comers come in. Father was standing at the head of the table, hands folded behind his back, red eyes nearly glowing in the darkness as I took my seat.

It was always dark around father. I could tell exactly when he was near. I still know when Father is coming. The lights go out and the darkness in people gets brighter. It was something that even set other vampires on edge... with exception to Lord Crow, who opted to stand at the opposite end of the table from father and do the unthinkable: speak out of turn.

“Figures that you would spend all of eternity being a shithead. When will you learn that this isn’t working, Night? We can’t keep this up. We can’t wage war forever, even if we do live that long.”

“Yes, I am aware of this, Crow, which is why we are ending it for good: tonight.”

“How?”

And father answered with his best laid plan. I was to be apart of a task force that would infiltrate the enemy’s castle, and kill their head vampire, Lady Nyx, as well as the rest of their lords and ladies, before pushing the underlings to either join, flee, or die. He made it sound so simple, like pruning some great, overgrown tree. Defeat wasn’t a possibility.

The meeting ended, and the lords and ladies went to issue orders. Only father, Lord Crow, and I remained.

“Remember, Raven, I am counting on you. The others believe you beneath them, that your mother’s blood makes you weak. You know that is not true, I know it is not true, now is your chance to force them to accept it is not the truth.”

“Yes, father,” I replied as I rose from my seat. “I will make mother proud.”

And he smiled, pale fangs a stark contrast to the darkness around me.

“And it shall be so. Now go, prepare yourself for battle.”

I gathered my finest equipment, things other vampires, including father, were fearful to wield. My human blood was a great asset in my role as the enforcer. I could use vampire hunter’s tools with far less fear than the rest. It made up for the slower speed and reduced strength, didn’t it?

I shook the thought off. Of course it did. I would make sure it did. Then no one would slander mother’s name. Never again.

I joined the others and we set out to the enemy castle, just blurs in the night. It wasn’t hard to get in. Their guard was down and they were still celebrating their victory over us. We wandered in and split apart, just like we planned. Nyx’s head was mine, and the others would deal with the weaklings.

I roamed through the raptors for a while, making full use of the shadows and the noise where I could. Several minutes later, I found my target: the queen’s chambers. Slipping inside was easy enough, catching her by surprise obviously wasn’t.

A knife had left a bloody trail on my cheek as I rolled out of the way. Then a sword glittered through my vision as I ducked again, drawing my silvered blade. There was the thunderous clash of swords.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the little Raven. What can I do for you, love?” she spoke softly, mockingly.

I smiled politely at her.

“You can die.”

“Ah, I don’t think so, dear.”

“What a shame,” I replied before kicking her in the gut.

She barely budged under my power, and applied pressure to her sword to force me back. But I wouldn’t die, I wouldn’t lose.

I broke the lock and slashed savagely at her, doing my best to keep up with her speed. It only just dawned on me that this woman was a vampire lord, head of her clan. She would be on par with father. Another visage of death in physical form.

And I felt it. Particularly when I went crashing through her chamber wall into the next room. But my persistence was slowly paying off. Every little nick with my silvered blade burned her like acid and fire, and was slowly sapping her strength. After some time passed, she was almost down to my speed, and was an easy kill.

But something about the look in her eyes as I drove the blade through her heart bothered me. Fear. I saw... fear. Vampires... didn’t have fear, or mercy, they couldn’t. Father said they couldn’t. Or could they?

I had almost convinced myself I had been projecting my own nerves onto her when I spotted something odd on her bed. I picked it up, staring in disbelief. I held my enemy’s old teddy bear. And I realized even she was vulnerable once. Maybe she still was....

I glanced at the body and then back at the little brown bear. Somehow, I had wandered downstairs with it still in my hand, listening to the screams and sounds of battle echoing through the halls. This... conflict I was feeling was new, and I was trying to figure out why this was starting to bother me all of a sudden. I had grown up with these sounds, I knew war. But the carnage didn’t look as black and white when reflected off of the shiny button eyes of an old stuffed toy.

A body fell in front of me and I paused, looking up to see the shadowed figure of Lord Crow.

“What did you do to them?” I asked as I looked around.

“What I had to,” he replied, notes of remorse in his voice.

Regret, another thing father said vampires couldn’t feel. I guessed he was wrong about that too....

A moment of silence passed before Crow spoke up again.

“Has Nyx fallen?”

I nodded.

“I see... I suppose we win, then.”

“There’s nothing quite like victory,” I mumbled, staring down at the bear.

“This hardly counts as a victory.”

I looked up at him.

“But we defeated her, right?”

“And took the lives of many servants, lesser creatures, and other peoples who would never have posed a threat.”

“But isn’t the victory worth it?”

He shook his head.

“At the end of the day, it’s what you do that counts.”

“This event does not speak highly of you then,” I said, looking back down at the bear.

“I never said it did.”

There was a moment of silence before I looked back up at him. Maybe he could help me figure out what this feeling was. He was like an uncle, and easier to talk to about these things than father.

“Can I be real with you for a second?”

“Sure.”

“I’m starting to doubt if this is worth it. All of this...” I trailed off and gestured at the blood splatter. “It... it doesn’t feel right.”

And I swore I could see the outline of a smile in the dark fog.

“Because it isn’t, and I’m glad at least you’ve figured it out.”

“But... why do we do it, if it isn’t right?”

“Our lord demands it.”

I processed the thought and nodded.

“So, what do we do to stop it?”

“Change his mind or change our course. I shall be changing my course. What will you do, Raven?”

I ran my fingers over the worn fur of the teddy bear.

“I think... I’ll try changing his mind.”

“You’ll fail.”

I shrugged.

“Perhaps. Perhaps I will succeed.”

“For his sake, I hope you do.”

I planned my speech all the way back to the castle, going as far as to walk at human speeds for a while to buy myself some more time to put the words together. But, I wasn’t sure if I could convince him when I still didn’t entirely know myself why I didn’t want to fight anymore. On nights like this... I missed mother.

But I didn’t have time to lament losses past, or fear the future. I only had enough time to think of a plan. And even that wasn’t enough.

I was in the war room, face to face with father before I had finished thinking it through, Nyx’s bear still in my bloodied hands.

“Ah, you’ve returned sooner than I expected. Tell me, what have you to report?”

I opened my mouth, and hesitated. It was now or never, and I almost chose never. Almost.

“I have come to the conclusion that... that this is pointless.”

He stared at me, red eyes narrowing in confusion.

“That fighting is pointless,” I clarified. “We... we have become no better than them. Just... just butchering people who couldn’t hurt us, and for what? Revenge? But... is revenge actually right, father? Because I don’t think it is. I think it’s wrong. In fact, I think I remember mother telling me it was wrong, a long time ago. Don’t you know the difference, between right and wrong?”

“I know the difference between right and wrong,” he snapped quietly. “One is resigning yourself to getting stepped on and the other is the person doing the stepping. I tried to tell your mother, but she did not listen. She stayed so very kind and sweet and good until they stepped on her and put her light out.”

“Because they were wrong,” I replied. “Just like we’re wrong now.... I, I think.... Well, that we didn’t choose hate because it lasts longer. We chose it because it felt important. Because we’re never more sure of ourselves than when we have an enemy. But, we didn’t have to hate.”

“And what would you have me do?! That clan killed your mother.”

“Let go of the past.”

“Do you think it’s that easy?!”

“Yes. Nyx wasn’t even the head when mother died, right? She was... new. And we attacked her first, no? We could have stopped it a long time ago. Ended with the ones that did wrong.”

I looked up and realized that he was walking away.

“I need you to look at me when I’m speaking so I know you at least tried to hear me!”

“I will not listen to the words of a traitor.”

Traitor... traitor. The word rung in my head for a while as I stood alone in the war room for a while. Eventually, I returned to my room and packed my things. And I stepped out into dawn’s light for the first time since I was a small child and mother was alive, holding Nyx’s teddy bear.

“If turning my back on darkness is a betrayal, then I guess I am a traitor.”

And I walked towards the sun, deciding to follow Lord... No, Uncle Crow’s suggestion. And maybe I could make mother proud this way, somewhere under the light.

#short story #original story #My writing #fiction #fantasy #vampire #angst #a story by Ren

35 notes · View notes

psyga315 · 4 years

Text

"What if Volume 7 was about Post-9/11?”

This is another V7 rewrite of mine, but rather than just tweak scenes, these are gonna be full on alterations, with the overall aim being to make it more clear cut at Ironwood’s dictatorship, but also showing a half-full view of his actions.

See, until we get a commentary on what the intent was for Ironwood, we’re of two camps: One, RT always intended Ironwood to be a dictator who lost his grasp on reality or two, they meant for it to be one of those “you guess who’s in the right” but people instead memed the “RWBY’S ALWAYS RIGHT/WRONG” angle too much.

However, a Twitter post by Ruby Rose talking about how people despised RWBY for being too political has got me thinking: “The problem isn’t that RWBY is too political… The problem is that RWBY isn’t political enough”.

Okay, let’s take a look at this: Ironwood has a whole 1984 angle going with TV Screens showing his face everywhere, androids recording people, and the ability to declare martial law when he feels like it. The problem is that we don’t really get to see enough of that angle. It’s a set piece to show how bad Mantle is and nothing more.

While that would have been okay back in the day to convey how dystopian and how much a dictatorship is for Atlas, the problem is that with the ease of access to information, we actually see just how much more they could have went. Even rumors how bad certain dictatorships are manage to be much more threatening than “cameras, cameras everywhere”.

And this is supposed to be the reason why Ironwood isn’t to be trusted with Salem’s immortality truth bomb. At first glance, I see where people are coming from, but looking closer, it just feels wonky. “You want to keep an eye on people in case things go horribly wrong and want to unite the world against Salem? Too bad, you’re not getting any info outta me” and it makes Ruby come off as an entitled brat than a paragon.

And so, I propose this solution:

What if Ironwood wasn’t aiming to unite the world against Salem? What if he really was freaking paranoid at the sky falling? What if, instead of re-enacting 2016 like some people have joked, we dial the clock back fifteen years and instead re-enact 2001. Some of you may see where I’m going with this, but for those who don’t, I feel like these two words will manage to convey the intent I have for Ironwood’s character:

Patriot Act.

For those who don’t know or need a refresher, back in 2001, there was a terrorist attack involving the destruction of the Twin Towers that killed almost three thousand people which placed the USA in an ongoing state of national emergency that still goes on to this day. Sound familiar?

The Fall of Beacon has a few comparisons to 9/11, namely how it was charged by terrorists of, at the time, undeterminable origins (which translates to RWBY as multiple fronts attacking Beacon at once), was responsible for a lot of deaths and destruction of at least one tower, and punted the world (namely the heavily militaristic one) in a state of panic. You could even interpret the Atlasian Soldiers being hacked as a nod to the accusations that the USA planned 9/11, but that’s a bit of a stretch.

During the fallout, the USA, in response to this and an ongoing anthrax attack at the time, decided to, almost as quickly as 9/11 happened with a month and some change in between dates, passed a very lengthy Patriot Act, which, to put it to the simplest of terms, allowed the government to have due process in searching through people’s information with the intent to put a stop to terror attacks before they even begin. However, this is how it’s used in practice. In execution, its uncertain wording and possible violation of the base Amendments caused the bill to garner skepticism or outright criticism.

And what do we see in Volume 7? Ironwood quickly passes a system that enables him to keep a closer eye on the people of Mantle and tighten imports and exports, as well as people going in and out of Atlas, not unlike how the Patriot Act was potentially harsher towards immigrants. So, we have this source of information to draw from now, make parallels and basically show this controversial subject through the lens of your Saturday morning cartoon that put on the big boy pants a couple of years ago.

So, with that in mind, let’s go back to Volume 7, Episode 1, and change up what exactly we see that would make RWBY and co go “this is horrible!”

By the point where RWBY and co get to Atlas, the border patrol shouldn’t be the first sign of danger. Weiss was there when she overheard Ironwood’s plans for increased security and they had to steal an aircraft because of said tight security. Nor would they react to Ironwood’s “Go Home. Stay Home.” speech.

What they would react to are the Paladins forcing people back to their homes, with one threatening to open fire when one of them tries to resist. Cries of “this isn’t right” are uttered when they see a human instantly attack a Faunus right after they see them and accusing them of being part of the White Fang. The moment a cop gets involved in abusing the Faunus, that’s when Blake blurts out that the city is awful, much to Nora’s chagrin.

Weiss throws the cop into the trash bin as we hear a sickening crunch (as he has no aura) as Weiss just looks in remorse. Already we get a good idea that this place is pretty fucked up without looking at a screen of someone saying “we are here for your safety” and going “this is awful!” and it evokes feelings of the racially-charged attacks that followed 9/11.

The rest of the show follows like normal, but the moment everything changes is Episode 2 when Ironwood tells them all why he’s called everyone back. It’s clear that the video has Ironwood at his strongest. As his beard is patchy and his hair greasy now comes the “you look tired” comments. Ironwood has no plans to stop Salem. The reason for his embargo and calling back his troops is to stockpile Dust and men and prepare for the inevitable war, not knowing that Vale and Mistral are hardly equipped to take on Atlas and Vacuo is… Vacuo.

He’s also paranoid that Salem will strike next. Without any reports from the other Kingdoms, he’s effectively put his head in the sand. He’s not even thinking of counterattacking, just staying and believing the best offense is a good defense… Or so RWBY assumes… Ironwood reveals soon that, as he dwelled upon the failings of Beacon, he came to the conclusion that Salem couldn’t be beaten. The most that Ozpin did was put her at a stalemate and even then, all it took is one bad night to change the tide. He is scared.

He finds a small semblance of hope in seeing Oscar and the Lamp, but he assumes that the questions are used up or if there were, the team used it to ask if Salem could be beaten. Ruby neither confirms nor denies it. With his mind clearly submitted to despair, he tells RWBY that the Winter Maiden is spending her twilight years in isolation to protect her from the villains after what happened to Amber. Weiss asks if this is a little much, only for Ironwood to snap and remind her how Cinder was able to destroy Beacon and kill Pyrrha thanks to Ozpin’s poor handling of Amber. The comment stings Jaune, since he partially blames himself for what happened. He then asks RWBY to wait until the Winter Maiden passes on so that the fresher Maiden can handle the Vault and chuck the Lamp in.

That’s when Ruby brings up the Relic’s Grimm-attracting properties. The sooner it’s in a Vault, the better. This does not bode well for Ironwood and he tries his best to compose himself with this bombshell, then permits Ruby and the others to keep the lamp, as they’ve managed to handle it on their own. RWBY then come across the Ace-Ops, who apologize for their antagonism. Weiss raises an eyebrow as she has never heard of the Ace Operatives before and Marrow jabs on about how they’re a secret police force before Harriet shuts him up with an elbow to the rib. Note that he doesn’t call themselves “the best of the best”. If anything, the name is to harbour goodwill, since anything alluding to a shadow police would just send fear and panic.

Of course, the implications of there being an Atlasian secret police flies over Ruby’s optimistic head, but the others start to feel a little suspicious with them. Clover, realizing this, tries to ease tensions by offering the rest of his team to train RWBY and JNPR. Instantly, Ruby accepts, seeing as they scraped by their victories by the skin of their teeth, glancing over to Yang’s broken arm. Clover takes note and says he’ll commission Pietro to construct upgrades for their equipment.

Episode 3 is a simple, light-hearted episode that lets us breathe from all the crazy stuff that went on. It’s also a bit more serious, though, as the gang confront Ruby on omitting the information they learned to Ironwood. Unlike my previous tweaking of Volume 7, this time everyone, Ruby included, feel like they should at least tell Ironwood something, especially after Weiss compares his attitude to when they were affected by the Apathy.

However, they have no good news to share. Even the news of having the Relic of Knowledge comes with the weight of having to tell him how they got the Relic, with Yang feeling just as guilty for omitting Raven’s Spring Maiden powers. Seeing something is off, Clover decides to have the team test their mettle against the Ace-Ops in good fun. When asking if he’s to join in, Clover decides to stay by the sidelines. JNR choose to stay out too. Qrow asks Clover, if he’s the Ace-Ops leader, why doesn’t he join and that’s where we have him casually reveal his Semblance, which causes Qrow to admit that he has the opposite kind of Semblance. Clover chuckles and ponders if being next to each other would cancel the Semblances out.

To make a long story short, the Ace-Ops defeat RWBY, even with their upgraded weapons, but it’s clear they only did it through brute strength and not through teamwork. Regardless, Ironwood is brought out of his shell and sees the battle unfold. He has the common decency to tell RWBY that they shouldn’t spend what may be months cooped up in a house (both a jab at V5 and a poorly timed joke for 2020), he graduates them on the spot so that they can do missions. Ruby takes this time to tell Ironwood that they can beat Salem, though doesn’t she clarify if this was something she learned from the Relic. It leads to Ironwood assuming that she had and is elated. The episode ends with Robyn and her Happy Huntresses having saved a Faunus from getting lynched before they notice Ironwood making an announcement, his beard and hair now trimmed and combed.

Episode 4 begins with Ironwood telling Mantle (and Atlas) about Beacon being attacked by a faceless coward and declares that Remnant will be defended. He doesn’t announce any plans, but the first thing he immediately does is lower the amount of guards in Mantle, something that gives them room to breathe. The episode introduces us to Robyn’s team and gives them some sort of depth in contrast to “is just a background character who sometimes will have a tweet telling us info like J.K. Rowling doing a Harry Potter info dump”.

Only one of them gets flashback, though. Fiona sees some kids being escorted by Jaune Arc and remembers back when she was a teacher, reading a book to the kids before they were told of the Battle of Beacon and its subsequent fall, sending the kids into fear and panic and summoning the Grimm. We don’t see the end result, but Fiona’s thousand-yard stare and hyperventilating are a clear indicator that it did not end well.

May comes across Henry, who was taking advantage of Mantle’s lower economy to buy groceries on the cheap, and we get confirmation that not only are they cousins but that May had a transition as Henry fails to recognize her. True to form, as soon as he finds out, he has a bit of a freak out before he’s decked by May.

Joanna is the first to encounter Ruby and Weiss, who are out on a routine mission to help stabilize the barrier with earth Dust (remember that’s a thing?), though questions Weiss’s presence. It’s here we get some infodump on what Jacques was up to during her escape. Willow had leaked a recorded video of Jacques hitting Weiss, which earned him some much needed bad press and sinking the SDC stock down to where other Dust Companies are vying to buy it out. It sets up a small character arc for Weiss that’s hopefully more fleshed out than V7’s: should she rescue her father and save the SDC or leave it to crumble and forge her own name? Eventually, she’ll decide on a middle path, preserving the SDC with the help of Ironwood, but making Whitley the one who takes it over, realizing that she can’t worry about the SDC when the world’s at stake.

But more on that later. As for Joanna herself, she speaks with an odd whistle lisp and a smile reveals that her two front teeth had been broken. When Ruby asked what happened to her, she shrugs and says that “I got a dose of reality from a former friend.”. A later scene of her helping out the Faunus gives a bit of an implication that she was one of the kids that Ilia was friends with, namely the one who got the broken teeth.

The biggest character depth moment comes when Robyn sets up a rally, only for hecklers to come and joke at her insistence for Mantle to be its own Kingdom without Atlas watching over them, having had enough with Atlas’s jackboot. One of the hecklers gives a reason that shows a darker side to Atlas: When Mantle lost the war, a chunk of the continent decided to levitate itself away to disassociate with the nation and that chunk became Atlas. It became unanimous that Atlas would rule over Mantle as punishment for causing the war.

Robyn’s desires to make Mantle its own nation once more invites a lot of skepticism and accusations that she’s a Neo-Mantlean, wanting to take away all forms of expression and burn art. Robyn wants none of it and asks Joanna to boot the heckler out, which only solidified his views. Nora sticks around to listen to more, as does Forrest. A small scene also happens where Clover and Qrow experiment with their Semblances before Clover realizes Qrow can’t control his. He then tries to work with Qrow and train him to be able to control it, something that isn’t going to be fully realized until the endgame. We then end the episode on Forrest being killed in the dead of the night, but we don’t see who kills him, just a hint that it may be Tyrian.

Episode 5 is a Weiss-heavy episode. After training with the Ace-Ops, Weiss is called by Winter for a special one-on-one. In reality, she wanted to tell Weiss that Jacques has fallen ill since she left and Willow has had one too many blackouts from her drinking. The Schnee family is falling apart and she gives her the ultimatum of either staying in Atlas to properly take over the SDC, bringing up that she and Ironwood can prove Weiss is sane enough to keep her title of heiress, or stay with RWBY and let the SDC be taken over by a third party that will ultimately be revealed to be Robyn and her Happy Huntresses (i.e. stealing from the rich to give to the poor).

Weiss asks why she doesn’t take it over, to which she reveals that she’ll be the Winter Maiden. Weiss is a little uneasy, remembering what Jaune had told her about Pyrrha (he’d probably either tell her off screen like everything else or bring it up when arguing with Ironwood about keeping the Maiden under lock and key) and asks if she’s okay with it. Winter give her a deadpan look and tells her “if I wasn’t, my name wouldn’t be Winter, now would it?” revealing that this was a name she picked herself and one that had been used for so long, that Weiss has no memory of what Winter’s real first name really was…

But I’m just gonna roll out the charming plot twist and say it’s Whitney. She joined Ironwood before Willow gave birth to Whitley and so he got her name, albeit masculinized.

We cut to Jaune and his team as they go on a mission to help the Ace-Ops clear out a cave. Blake and Yang join too, if only to showcase their new weapons in more detail, with Blake’s weapon upgrade actually having something to benefit it beyond just gorilla glue. Namely, the golden strip is actually a dust crystal and can be used for electrical attacks as a tribute to Ilia. We could even have a small flashback that has Blake specifically request this. It’s kinda ironic, as they’re in the mines where Ilia’s parents died in.

This is the third episode of RWBY basically, though it ends with two scenes. Qrow and Clover talk about the recent killing of Forrest and how Qrow brings up that this was the third person who spoke against Ironwood that had died in a row, having done research on the news when he arrived. They both believe that someone is setting Ironwood up, but Qrow mentions that what’s unnerving him more is his removal of troops. The last time something like this happened, he moved them all to Vale and caused fear for people. Clover says nothing, but reassures Qrow that Ironwood is making a big play.

We end the episode on the air patrol, now with notably fewer ships. One flies towards them. We see people at air control seeing a blip on their radar and just as they’re about to call it out, it disappears. They pass it off as a glitch as we cut to the plane in question…

It’s Watts and Tyrian, the former of which chuckles and notes that, while Ironwood has made an effort to change the code, it just took a bit more brute force on his part to crack and that, with a few more crackings of the code, it’d be easy for him to hack back in. They then notice a second plane flying in. It doesn’t take long for Tyrian to notice that the plane feels “off”, as though this plane isn’t “normal”. Watts just shrugs and hacks the system to let the plane in. As the second plane flies in, we get a zoom in through the windshield and see Neo and Cinder, smug as hell in thinking their disguise was foolproof.

Episode 6 focuses on Ruby and Penny. I’m not going to go into too much detail, but it’s basically the much neglected “hey, Penny, you died. I cried. I missed you.” Bit. Ironwood has recovered much better and he’s looking like he did on the videos now. He even gives the crew a night off, to which Yang and Blake get an invite from FNKI.

Things start to take a turn for the worst when Ren, of all people, asks Ruby how they’re going to beat Salem. Ruby confesses to Ren that she just told Ironwood that to give him some hope. Ren just gives Ruby a cold warning that the man had lost everything, even the will to keep fighting. Giving him hope, only to take it away would only destroy him. Nora can’t help but agree, comparing his situation to how they were given hope of beating Salem only to be told that she’s immortal.

RNR are enroute to a rally: the anniversary of the Fall of Beacon, just to fuck with the fans keeping timelines. I’d play it safe though and say it’s a two-year anniversary. It doesn’t matter, it’s basically to commemorate the fall of Beacon and honor those who have fallen. However, the rally is run by Robyn of all people and Robyn has quite a few things to say about Atlas’s handling of the situation, things that the public would rather not want to hear. Things like how they plotted to attack Beacon once Penny won the tournament but had to accelerate their plans once Pyrrha killed Penny, or how they created the White Fang for the explicit purpose of having a scapegoat.

Obviously, all of these are pure bullshit to which Ruby calls out. The one thing she can confirm is true is the hacking of the robots. While the crowd cheered at Ruby calling Robyn out, they go quiet when she talks about the robots. She makes it clear that it was a third-party that hacked the robots, but it didn’t stop the crowd from trying to get her off the stage. Robyn takes her to the backstage and asks her to shake her hand and tell her exactly what happened at Beacon. Ruby painfully recalls the Fall before shedding tears, though her words ring true for Robyn’s Semblance, prompting to ask about whether Atlas planned on attacking Beacon and being truthfully told no. Robyn has a moment of clarity, but that is halted by screams from the rally.

Meanwhile, Ren and Nora bicker about what to do regarding Ironwood. Nora wants nothing to do with him while Ren just wants to help him the best they can. This eventually goes into the conclusion that Ren has been emotionally distancing himself since they found out about Salem’s immortality and Nora tries to kiss him, only for the lights to go out and the massacre to begin. People try to take out their phones but are quickly taken down. Penny rushes in to try and fight, but she gets out maneuvered, and Marrow also tries, but the assailant purposefully avoids him. By the time Robyn and Ruby get involved, the massacre is over and the lights turn back on as its revealed to be Tyrian, claiming the responsibility for the killings under the White Fang’s name. Before Robyn can attack, Tyrian scurries away and announces to the surviving public that war is coming. Panic maximum is hit as Grimm attack.

Episode 7 is kinda like the Episode 7 of my other rewrite, Grimm attack interrupts FNKI and there’s a large angry mob, but this time, it’s more akin to pandemonium. Not only does the Huntsmen have to fight the onslaught of Grimm, but stop the crazed civilians from lynching the first Faunus they see: Blake and Neon. This leads to a bit where one of them tries to brand Blake with an SDC branding stick and Yang snaps, kicking his ass and, thanks to his lack of aura, crippling or outright killing him. People suddenly remember who Yang is (remember, the whole world saw her injure Mercury) and so they team up on her, beating her up and stealing her metallic arm.

Similar outbursts happen with the other Huntsmen, showing them the worst of humanity encapsulated in a single night and reacting negatively to it. The only person who is above it all is Weiss, who learned her lesson after she snapped at that Trophy Wife, and, as a nod to that, she summons a Boarbatusk when she sees someone making off with Yang’s arm and has the Boarbatusk not gore the person, but take the arm from them and bring it back to Weiss.

I don’t want to make it as dark as the other rewrite’s V7E7 where Penny gets torn apart limb from limb, but I do want to at the very least show just how desperate humanity is when the chips are down, so perhaps crippling Neon with a gunshot to the leg. Just as things are about to get worse, Ironwood personally intervenes with his army of robots as he quickly handles the situation by having those robots subdue the rioters. At first, it seems like he’s being the reasonable authority figure that we all know and love… Then he looks to one of the rioters, the drunk man that Weiss would have tossed into the bin, and tells him “With all the negativity you’re showering onto others, the Grimm are only interested in you right now.” Then, as coldly as the robot he commands, says “Cast these rabble out to the cold.” They comply, much to Ruby’s dismay, as some of the robots throw about a dozen people out of the wall and lock them out. They beg to be let in as we end the episode with a person looking in horror as he sees a Manticore swoop in and we get one of those shots where the monster eats the camera.

Episode 8 begins with a long, silent moment with all the members of RWBY, JNPR, the Ace-Ops, and Qrow in Ironwood’s office. It’s obvious what has to be said, and Nora is the one to say it.

“You sent them out there to die.” She grumbles.

“The longer they remained in Mantle, the longer they caused trouble.” He replies.

“That doesn’t mean you should have killed them!” Nora shouts.

“Would you rather I had my robots shoot them right there? In front of everyone? I’m a general, not a dictator.” James said.

“Well, you certainly acted like one back there.” Nora retorted. We see Clover is a little unnerved with Nora’s replies.

“One of my highest-preforming Huntresses is unable to walk without mechanical equipment because of them and if I had let them stay any longer, I feared that I wouldn’t be able to save her or anyone for that matter. I shouldn’t have gone lenient. Because of that, we now have one of Salem’s minions hiding out in Mantle, ready to strike again and make everything worse.” Ironwood says.

To make a long conversation short, he orders the Ace-Ops track down Tyrian and execute him on sight, along with any other suspected members of Salem, as that’s what they do. Meanwhile he confesses that he hasn’t been truthful to them about something out of fear that the plan would be leaked. He plans to have a satellite built on Amity Arena and hoist it up, using it to reactivate the CCT. There, he will tell the world what Ozpin neglected to tell them: the real cause of the Fall of Beacon is Salem and they must unite to kill her. He labels it as Operation Unifying Freedom. The crowd goes pretty silent as Weiss asks if this would even work, as people may believe it to be a lie. That’s when Ruby gets the idea to bring Robyn into the picture, as she realizes what her Semblance can do.

Ironwood explains that Robyn refuses to work with Atlas and he fears that her stance against Atlas would only make things worse. While he has a point at first, he then continues to spout off how Robyn can’t be trusted in a manner that screams paranoia, thinking that she too could be a spy for Salem without realizing that she has nothing to gain from rallying the citizens of Mantle with conspiracy theories they don’t believe. Oscar calms him down and asks him about Atlas’s Relic, since he wonders how it can be involved in OUF. Ironwood complies and we’ll get a later scene.

From here, we have people assessing the newly found situation. Ruby and Jaune talk about whether she should tell Ironwood about Salem not being able to die. Jaune is pretty insistent that they do before Ironwood steps into matters he has no idea about, reminding her that Pyrrha never found out about Salem when she died.

Ren and Nora confront each other about Ironwood, to which Ren explicitly spells out that they’re doing jack and shit while Ironwood is trying his hardest to help. Nora brings up her “you’re not the one struggling” speech, but with a heavier coding that implies she knows more about Mantle than Ren realizes. Ren ends the conversation by guilt-tripping Nora. “The sooner we beat Salem and place her back in the sludge from which she came, the sooner we could prevent another Kuroyuri from happening.”

Blake visits Neon in a hospital bed, who is bummed out at being told she’ll never walk again with her injury. They have a touching heart to heart where Blake tries to take the blame for the bad things that happened to her, saying that she should have helped improve relations everywhere, only for Neon to tell her that she’s done enough. While at first, it comes off as rude, Neon explains that Blake can’t just change the world on her own, especially with something as deep-rooted as racism. The most she can do is make a change in her area. Neon cites herself as an example. Before, no Faunus were allowed at Atlas or if they did, they have to hide their traits. Neon gave them the middle finger and wore what she wanted, though this earned Ironwood’s respect enough to use his two seats and allow more Faunus in. Marrow comes in as well and we have what we’re going to get in V8, now without the awkward “but they’re enemies now” moment.

Weiss talks to Yang about her family and asks her what to do about it, as she knows too much about abandonment issues from both parents. Yang sits Weiss down and tells her that even though Taiyang didn’t raise her and Ruby for most of their lives and Raven was too busy murdering innocent people to care, they’re still her family. She’s this close to revealing that Raven is the Spring Maiden, but stops herself short. Unfortunately, Weiss hears enough to draw her conclusion later on.

Ironwood and Oscar talk about the Vault and its Relic of Creation.

“So… What? Can it create stuff?” Oscar asks.

“Ozpin knows more about the relic than I do. The most I know is that we can’t use it.” Ironwood said.

“How so?” Oscar asks.

“Because the person that came before Ozpin used the Relic to hoist a chunk of Solitas in the air. He says it’s to be a beacon of hope…” Ironwood then takes a moment to remorsefully look down at the floor. “If only that were true.”

Oscar asks what he means and as we see Weiss go to her father’s house, Ironwood goes into more details about what happened. After the Great War, the people deciding on the Vytal treaty wanted to blame Mantle for kick-starting the war and as such, charged them with repaying for the ten years of damages and severely cripple their military to prevent another war from happening. It was unanimous, but before the charges could apply, the King struck a deal with the nobility of Mantle that, provided they share their newfound technological knowledge with the rest of the world, he would create a loophole by making the Kingdom of Atlas and prevent them from getting caught in the inevitable punishment of Mantle.

Oscar’s clearly distraught that Ozpin would do something like that, since this meant that the real people who were responsible for the war got away and let innocents take the fall. Ironwood, however, sees it as a chance for Mantle to start anew. “Besides, I can’t do anything about it now… If I were to remove the Staff, then this entire place comes crashing down…” We end with Weiss entering the house as Ironwood reveals that one of the nobles who fled punishment were Gele and Schnee, Jacques and Willow’s ancestors respectively. We see that Weiss isn’t alone, as she had brought RBY with her.

Episode 9 is another Weiss-centric episode, as she is brought up to speed as to what happened. Klein got fired and replaced with Faunus servants (if you want to go the extra mile, all of them are rabbit Faunus). Weiss is found by Willow and they have a small chat about the situation at hand. Willow has sobered quite enough, but the damage to her liver is done and she doesn’t expect to live long. Jacques had it worse though. The bad press and subsequent embargo have stressed Jacques out so much that he’s shortened his life expectancy to about a few months, now on his death bed.

Fiona is there too, having an arm in a sling after surviving a lynching from a mob. When asked what she’s doing here, she explains that she’s to oversee the transaction and ensure Robyn has full ownership of the SDC. This puts the cast at an uncertainty because, while they might fully trust Robyn, it’s clear that the supply of Dust that the SDC can provide would bolster the project by tenfold. Penny is also there, since Winter has been her partner since she was rebuilt and thus, is welcomed into the family.

Knowing that she can take over the SDC, Weiss goes in to confront her father. It’s clear that he’s seen better days. His body is bony, his hair is now a full-on toupee, and he’s coughing irregularly as a monitor beeps, acting as a timer for his remaining life. Jacques sees Weiss and glares at her at first, then melts into a serene glance. Weiss doesn’t buy it, but they have a pretty deep conversation about what happened since Weiss ran away, paired with a piano medley of all of Weiss’s theme songs, starting with “The Path to Isolation”, then both parts to “Mirror Mirror”, followed by “It’s My Turn” However, there’s no “This Life Is Mine” anywhere during the chat…

Jacques reveals that business has plummeted since the embargo, though leaving out that smaller tier dust companies that he hasn’t bought out managed to flourish and keep the minimalist economy of Mantle afloat. He talks of all the people he ruined with his practices, starting from recent cases where he reduced people’s wages to the point where they’re working with less than minimum wage, but then dialing back to before the events, where he talks about the unfortunate explosion that claimed Ilia’s parents as well as “a rowdy Faunus I personally had to deal with… I had a hot branding iron, Weiss, normally to brand my property… And…” Blake instantly knows what he’s talking about and runs off. It’s clear that Jacques is having death bed confessions and while Weiss is ready to tear them down, she can’t. She realizes what Yang meant when she said that they’re still family.

However, Jacques then goes back to his old self and calls Weiss out for being the reason his company went under, practically going all “why did you make me hit you” and the harassment causes Weiss to yell at Jacques, telling him that he is everything that’s wrong with the SDC and that the world would be better off without him. She then runs off and Yang tells Ruby they should go, but Ruby insists on staying with a cold expression that scares Yang. She leaves as Ruby just gives him the business.

“You struck my partner… You turned someone into a monster that maimed my sister and haunted her partner… You’re responsible for these radical attacks from Faunus… And yet you never once thought that it’s people like you that are to blame for the problems of the world? Another Great War could happen very soon and you care more about your bottom dollar than the well-being of others… And yet, I’d rather you live, to see us turn the world you and everyone else have corrupted into a better place than what anyone had thought of 80 years ago. I want you to live and see your daughter take your company and use it in ways you can never imagine…”

“… Well, I hate to disappoint you then…” He coughs and flops onto his bed, having gasped his last, the long beep confirming his death. Ruby is shocked as Weiss comes in and sees this. This is where a somber piano rendition of “This Life is Mine” plays, as Weiss breaks down into tears. She wanted this to happen for so long, to take over the SDC from her father, and yet, this wasn’t what she had in mind. Ruby comforts her, but then says this:

“He told me what he could never muster the strength to tell you… He loved you, truly, but he had a funny way of showing it and he apologized for all the pain and torture he inflicted onto others…” She says it in a way that convinces Weiss, but Yang leaves the room, being very shocked with the fact that Ruby straight up lied. Before, telling Ironwood that he could beat Salem and not telling him about the immortality was acceptable since she never once said he could kill Salem and they all understand that delaying her plans counts as “beating”. Now? She pretty much lied to Weiss’s face about what her father said and the worst part is, she can’t properly call her out on it.

Blake and Yang then have a chat about whether this was for the best as the piano song shifts to “Nevermore”, with Yang breaking down and telling Blake: “I lied too! I lied about the Spring Maiden!” However, Blake doesn’t get upset with this, namely because she has no idea what the Spring Maiden fiasco was all about. She notes that they have changed since the Fall of Beacon and this is where Penny comes in, escorting Winter so as to help comfort her when she inevitably sees her father’s cadaver. However, Winter insists she’ll be fine and goes ahead as Penny joins in on the conversation, only to be told by Yang that, no. It will not be like Beacon again. It will never be like Beacon again. They’ve changed so much from the past few months/year that they are barely the same person. Blake even confesses to having taken a life. Penny begins to cry, yet she doesn’t understand why yet, though it’s implied that she is the only one of the characters that hasn’t “grown up” due to her situation.

The piano medley returns to “This Life Is Mine” as Weiss and Winter, taking time to set up an interview, attempt to announce that Weiss is to inherit the title… Only for Weiss to refuse. She makes a speech on how she needs to improve the world and that she will do it more as a Huntress than she would as the owner and so respects her father’s wishes for Whitley to take over the SDC and having Ironwood financially back the company in trade for helping them with a project to reboot the CCT. Ironwood sees this and has a freak-out when she reveals the plans for the CCT, telling Clover that she’s leaking plans.

We see people react to the news unfolding as the song becomes much more sinister and twisted. Cinder and Neo don’t give two shits, but Cinder decides to figure out a means to take this to her advantage. Watts just smirks and mutters that there’s no use as he cracks the code to Mantle’s heating grid and shuts it off. People then begin to freak out as Robyn sees the notification that the SDC will not be bought out by the Happy Huntresses. As May asks Robyn if that’s a problem, she sees people go into a riot before she smirks. “No, no I don’t think it will.” As she says that, the piano makes a full transition to “When It Falls” as we see people raid shops, throw trashcans at TVs, set up huge fires, and toss the robots into the fire, all while Grimm begin to raid Mantle.

Episode 10 kicks off with a large raid alarm as RWBY, JNPR, and even the Ace-Ops and Happy Huntresses try to stave off the raid. This is where things mostly stay the same with the exception of no Ironwood telling everyone his plans. However, Ironwood does take his weapons and goes to the Amity Arena, knowing that at least someone would interfere in his plans. He expresses a bit of shock that it’s Watts who is there, but he doesn’t mind it one bit.

“Thought you died.”

“I did.” He gives a smirk and doesn’t give much detail until…

Episode 11, where a battle causes Watts to get injured and reveals that he’s a robot with his aura implanted into it. “I finally saw what the fat bastard was talking about when he talked of preserving life.” The fights remain the same, but the change begins when Watts has the last laugh, taunting him that his attempts to stop Salem will be fruitless and that he finds using the CCT to rally the world together will only end in pain. Ironwood, determined to stop Salem, drops Watts into the pit of lava, though not before Watts deactivates his robot body and turns it into a conduit to hack into Amity Arena and thus hijack the CCT built inside.

Tyrian is soon beaten and it’s discussed what they should do with him. Robyn wants him to stand trial while Clover wants to execute him. Robyn protests, calling Clover a bootlicker for doing what Ironwood has told him to, but Qrow shuts her up and tells her that Tyrian is a dangerous fucking serial killer that has done far more harm than good. Robyn scoffs, then leaves as Clover prepares to execute Tyrian with his fishing pole (the first time he actually reveals his weapon) and as we see the bob and hook, people might be able to connect the dots…

However, before then, RWBY, having evacuated the people of Mantle (save for the few stubborn ones that they can’t do anything about) and Weiss seeing a homeless Klein and almost sacrificing herself to save and evacuate. Robyn sneaks aboard while RWBY and the Ace-Ops report back to Ironwood over the chess piece he found. Unlike in the original, he is a lot more stable with how he handles it, telling RWBY to go track down Cinder while he prepares the transfer to Winter. This makes Weiss upset though, since this means killing Fria. Ironwood tells them they have no other choice in the matter, since they can’t risk Cinder taking another Maiden power. Ruby manages to convince Ironwood that, they wouldn’t need to do the transfer if they find Cinder first and take her down. He gives them that benefit of the doubt at least.

Meanwhile, inside the craft, Robyn tells the people that this is exactly what Ironwood wants, to corral Mantle and make them dance under his strings until they do what he wants. This actually gets through to the people who are finally fed up with Atlas stomping on them and Robyn enacts a full-blown revolt. Making matters worse is that Salem uses the hacked CCT (in which the virus is basically a digitized Seer) to broadcast herself onto Atlas and Mantle. This is where the scene where Salem appears comes in, but recontextualized because here, she’s talking to everyone, not just Ironwood and RWBY.

She shows just how real she is by commanding some of the Grimm to stop attacking Mantle and return to the tundra, saying how she’ll make the Grimm never bother Mantle again provided they give the Lamp and the Staff to her. Ruby interrupts using her phone and tells her that they’ll beat her, with Ironwood adding that they will destroy her. Salem just laughs, knowing that Ruby has slipped that she knows about Salem. Gives her the famous “your mother” quote, but with the added quote of “None can really kill me… Isn’t that what found out from dear old Ozpin?”

“What is she talking about?” Ironwood asks Ruby, she stammers.

“I… I mean what I said. We can beat Salem-” Then Yang interrupts her.

“But we can’t kill her. We don’t know the full extent but… Ozpin in a past life asked if there was a way to destroy her and he was told that he can’t. So…” Yang looks to Ruby with a disappointed look in her eyes.

Ironwood slumps into his chair as Salem broadcasts her intent to invade Atlas to grab the Relics and that they’d make things much more pleasant for themselves if they handed them over. She gives one last parting remark before she logs out. Now, we can have Ironwood react one of two ways, which would impact the rest of the story.

Either he nuts up and decides to go nuclear on Salem’s ass, stubbornly believing that there has to be a way to destroy Salem and goes all in on having Winter become the Maiden so they can have Atlas go down rather than up. With people comparing this scene to Sokovia, might as well just go all in with the plot, right? Ruby and the others protest that this would end the world with the force Atlas would have, Ironwood goes “with us or against us”, Ruby makes an announcement and calls him a bitch ass motherfucker, and we get the same conclusion as before where the Ace Ops turn on RWBY.

He sits calmly. Ruby can see the lights in his eyes fade as the Ace-Ops panic. Even Weiss and Blake are afraid. Ruby then tells Ironwood that they have to do something, only for Ironwood to smile and say “Ruby… There’s a solution here you’re not seeing…” Before he pulls out his white gun and puts it at his head, ending the episode with a literal bang.

Either way, the Ace-Ops turn on RWBY, either by following orders or because they blame Ruby for filling Ironwood with false hope, with Harriet calling it a disease and that Ruby spreads it around like a plague.

If we don’t end the episode with Ironwood’s suicide, then we end with Tyrian musing and commenting on how Ironwood has picked a new attack dog. Qrow is confused at this before he remembers all the murders that were caused. At first, he suspected it to be Tyrian, but as Clover looks on, he puts two and two together and asks:

“… No… You didn’t…”

“Sometimes, you have to pull a few bad weeds to keep your clover patch alive…” He coldly says.

Episode 12 picks up right where the last episode would leave off, with Clover and Qrow having a stand off, with Clover explaining that the Ace-Ops aren’t called that because they’re the best, far from it, but because they’re willing to do the things no normal person would do, and that includes killing certain people to keep the system alive. Qrow tries his hardest not to fight Clover, but unfortunately for him, Clover concludes that he is to die alongside Tyrian, who has healed. Like in the previous fixing Volume 7 thing I did, the fight becomes more of a proper melee a trois where Clover, Tyrian, and Qrow battle each other equally.

Tyrian, in the middle of this, says how he used to be Ironwood’s attack dog before his destructive nature caused Ironwood to fire and arrest him before said behaviour stings his metaphorical froggy ass (remember that old fable he’s based off?) and notes how Clover takes after him with how the bob and hook look eerily like a scorpion stinger, hence how he put two and two together. The fight gets pretty brutal before Qrow ends up finally managing to control his Semblance by figuring out where to target. He ends up targeting Clover and cancels out the good luck he has, putting him on an even level, then slipping the bad luck over to Tyrian to trip the both of them up. It ends the same, with Qrow punching Clover’s aura. Clover tells Qrow that he’s willing to die for his Kingdom and asks if that’s something Qrow would do. Tyrian stabs Clover, leaves as he hears the cops come, and Clover, in his last words, just tells Qrow “you and your entire team… you killed us all!” Qrow then closes his eyes and cries, saying “Yeah, I know…”

Like in the previous rewrite, we have Neo take the relic from Oscar, but she’s stopped by a mob of people that are raiding the base. JNR find Neo and Oscar decks her in the face, but it’s clear they’re outnumbered… Only for the mob to remember the four and help them, one of them telling Neo that if they mess with one with them, she messes with all of them.

RWBY vs the Ace-Ops… goes the same. But now we don’t have the “they’re the best of the best but then they trained RWBY” BS.

Episode 13 has the crowd mess with Neo, but even so, she outmaneuvers them and kills a few of them. In the chaos, she takes the Relic of Knowledge as guards come in and gun down the crowd. Jaune runs, only before seeing one of the kids getting shot as well. Jaune just freaks out, then rushes in and kills one of the guards. A robot catches footage of this and he’s suddenly on the wanted list. He tells Ren and Nora to run with Oscar as he holds off the guards. Robyn helps Jaune out in taking out the guards last minute.

Everything with Penny, Winter, Fria, and Cinder are the same. The ending, however, depends on what happened to Ironwood.

Ironwood Lives Ending: He orders every intruder to be killed on sight, prompting RWBY, Nora and Ren to flee to Mantle. Oscar stays behind and talks to Ironwood before he gets shot and Ozpin comes back. This is the most in line to V7’s ending.

Ironwood Dies Ending: The crowd easily overpower the military and take over, but now have crippled themselves as Salem’s forces arrive. Robyn does not care though, as she tosses Ironwood’s corpse out the window and towards the icy depths below before taking over his position. “Headmaster Hill… Has a nice ring to it…” RWBY and JNPR reconvene as they bare witness to Salem’s forces arriving. Blake asks Ruby:

“What do we do now?”

To which Ruby replies:

“Now? Now we save the world.” Before we end with her cocking her rifle.

The Stinger would be Ozpin coming back to Oscar and telling him that the fate of Remnant is not for him and his faction to decide on anymore. That it now rests in the new generation. He passes on and it’s Oscar who becomes the dominant as all the memories of Ozma’s lives come back. Oscar is now filled with determination.

And with that, that’s how I’d do Volume 7 if the Mantle subplot was more akin to the post 9/11 environment than it is 2016 Elections, with bits of modern-day politics and even a bit of Stalinism involved. The Penny Subplot can either be in this Volume unaltered or to be decided upon next Volume.

#RWDE #Rewrite #RWBY Rewrite #RWBY

1 note · View note

ineffably-good · 5 years

Text

Tell Me Lies (3/4)

Summary: A long needed discussion, a surprising list, and a poorly conceived vow

Status: complete! Go read the whole thing if you would like on AO3!

Side note: I really love angst. But you’ll be laughing by the end of chapter three, I promise. I wrote this because it has been weighing on my mind that Aziraphale’s rather loose relationship with the truth has never been fully addressed between him and Crowley.

Second side note: this is part of a long running series in which they have been living together for about two years in the bookshop. So definitely established relationship. If you’re interested, here’s the series page.

Ok enough notes.

Chapter Three

“Stop it with the flower languages,” Crowley said, “before I beat you over the head with a stem of each of them.”

Aziraphale tried to process that and came up with nothing.

Crowley waited as the angel got to his feet, and then stood back and made a choppy gesture at the door.

“Coming in?”

Why yes, of course he was. He followed Crowley into the apartment and immediately noted with a burst of hope that each of his vases were lined up on the kitchen island, each flower looking well cared for. None of them appeared to have been fed to the garbage disposal for mulch.

“Did you know that white carnations are said to repel snakes?” Crowley asked. “Thanksss for not including those in one of these little telegrams.”

“You’re welcome?” Aziraphale said, feeling unsure of what to say or do.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments, until Crowley motioned Aziraphale to have a seat at one of the stools at the kitchen counter. When Aziraphale sat, he moved to the other side of the open counter and leaned against it, facing the angel, arms loosely crossed. His body language, Aziraphale noted, was guarded and his face was unreadable. He wished, achingly, that he could reach over and pull the demon’s glasses off, but he knew better than to try.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Crowley said coolly.

Right then, Aziraphale breathed. Get on with the pleading.

“I did, my dear. There are so many things I want to tell you. But first and foremost, I want you to know that you’re right, of course. My not telling you when I found Adam was a profound betrayal, and not confessing to it sooner was foolish and self-serving. I should have told you then what I’d done.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I suppose,” the angel said, “that I wasn’t sure you’d forgive me.”

The demon made a neutral noise and Aziraphale felt his stomach clench.

“If it matters, though,” he added carefully, “I didn’t. Run off to heaven with the information, I mean. Share it with them instead of you.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“No. I lied to them too,” Aziraphale said, and immediately flushed. “Not that that puts me in any better light, but still. I told them I had no idea where the boy was. And then I came home and spoke to the Metatron, hoping he would take on the work of killing the boy instead of us – which of course went over like, what was it? A lead balloon. And immediately after that didn’t work I called you. To tell you. You remember, I called when Hastur and Ligur were with you. Told you I had found him, but you cut me off.”

Crowley thought this over for a moment, and found a dim memory of hearing the words through the phone line before he stopped the angel mid-sentence. His attention, he had to admit, had been elsewhere at the time.

“You didn’t want to kill him,” he said slowly.

“I didn’t want either of us to kill him!” Aziraphale protested. “It would have been disastrous, even if it worked. Imagine the retribution if it had been you who did it!”

Crowley stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale laid his hands flat on the counter in front of him, beseechingly. “Crowley,” he said, voice nearly broken. “In the end, you were the only one I told. You were the only being in the universe I chose to trust with the information. You must know that.”

Crowley swallowed hard and appeared to consider this. “Still took you a long way round to actually do so.”

“It did. I’m so sorry. I failed you in so many ways back then,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’m still failing you now. I want to be better for you.”

“Angel…” Crowley groaned, his voice more gentle.

They sat quietly for a few minutes before something occurred to Aziraphale.

“Oh!” the angel said, snapping and making a large notepad appear in front of him. “This is for you.”

Crowley unbent himself from his current position and walked around to sit on the stool next to Aziraphale, who found himself almost knocked over with a rush of longing at the demon’s proximity. Crowley’s face was still guarded when he looked up, but he let his glasses slip down a little so the angel could see his eyes for the first time. They looked red and tired, and there were dark circles beneath them. It made his chest ache to see them.

Crowley gave the notepad a cursory examination. It was crammed full of tiny writing, elaborate and neat, and appeared to be a numbered list that went on for an unfathomable number of pages.

“What is this?” he asked, not yet prepared to dive in and read it.

“It’s a list,” Aziraphale said. He cleared his throat. “Of everything I can ever remember lying to you about.”

Crowley blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

Aziraphale blushed a little. “Starts at the very beginning, right after the garden,” he said. “I’ve believe most everything is accounted for.”

“Why would you think I would want this?” Crowley growled.

“Because!” Aziraphale cried. “Because I have spent too much time bending the truth! It’s become a terrible and shameful habit. I spent days making this list, Crowley, looking back over each and every interaction I can remember between us. I’m sorry there are so many! I don’t know how to help with that, but I thought perhaps the act of admitting to all of them might, I don’t know, have meaning. Show remorse. Help, somehow.”

Crowley blinked a few more times at him and then trailed a finger down the page to a random entry. “Item 3: Mesopotamia – told Crowley I liked the date wine he brought me. I did not care for it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “It was wretched,” he said quietly.

Crowley snorted and flipped a couple pages.

“Item 21: Jerusalem - Pretended I had not noticed that Crowley was present at the wedding when I ran into him;” Crowley read aloud. “Actually noticed him immediately.”

Crowley looked up. “This is hardly earth-shattering stuff, angel.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I wanted to be thorough.”

Crowley grimaced and continued to read at random.

Item 40: Wessex: Told Crowley I had not missed him since I last saw him. Actually missed him terribly.

Item 51: Dublin: Told Crowley I did not know where the last of the ale had gone. Drank it while he was out and hid the flagon.

Item 117:Dublin: Told Crowley I didn’t undo his temptation with the clan chief. Very much did. He seemed to know it anyway. But still.

Item 144: London: acted like I walked in front of the carriage on purpose to thwart an evil plan. Actually just distracted by hand pie. Nearly died if not for Crowley’s intervention. Denied it vociferously.

Item 223: Moscow: Denied my feelings.

Item 275: Berlin: Denied my feelings.

Item 323: London: Denied my feelings.

Item 325: London: Denied my feelings.

Item 329: London: Denied my feelings.

Crowley put the pages down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Aziraphale, heart wide open and aching, simply watched him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, bemused. “This has to be the most humiliating list of misdeeds anyone has ever put together in the history of the world. Why would you do this to yourself, expose six thousand years of embarrassing moments and mistakes?”

“Because I love you,” Aziraphale said. “And if I can’t mortify myself to you, then who? Besides, I don’t mind humbling myself for you. Not if there’s any chance that doing so might make you understand that I love you so desperately, and that I will do anything for you. Including change.”

Crowley huffed out a whoof of air and wordlessly pulled Aziraphale off his stool towards where the demon was seated, until the angel was standing between his legs. He wrapped his arms around him so tightly that the angel could barely breathe. Not that he needed to. Aziraphale, stunned, simply allowed it for a moment, before bending his head forward to rest his forehead against Crowley’s.

“My love,” he whispered.

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley mumbled back. “Love you too. Still mad at you, but I love you.”

They clung to each other, unmoving, for quite some time, and when Crowley finally pulled back to look Aziraphale in the face, both their eyes and cheeks were wet.

“Forgive me, love,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to gently brush a piece of hair back out of Crowley’s forehead. Crowley leaned into the touch a little, and Aziraphale felt glad he could still offer comfort to the demon. “Eventually, I mean. I know it might take some time.”

“You have to be honest with me,” Crowley said gruffly. “From here on out, I mean.”

“I plan to be,” Aziraphale said. “I will. I do.”

Aziraphale kissed him gently and then drew back and carefully pulled Crowley’s hands off his shoulders so the demon was no longer touching him. Crowley watched in confusion as the angel concentrated for a moment and began to emit a diffuse, golden glow. His brow furrowed as he tried to understand what he was seeing. He didn’t realize until the angel began to speak; his voice was richer and with layers of echoes and it took the demon a moment to realize that the bloody idiot was speaking Enochian. The language of angels. Of making and unmaking, creation and destruction. Of oaths, serious oaths with life and death consequences.

“By the word of the ancient and the timeless, I bind myself to –”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulders and shook him, hard, then snatched his hands back as the golden light stung him. “What are you doing, you absolute fool?” he snarled, shaking out his fingertips. “Stop that right now! Have you lost your mind?”

Aziraphale blinked but did let the last of the light go for the moment. “I was going to make a vow to you that I wouldn’t lie again.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Aziraphale you were making a holy, binding oath.”

“Yes, that’s the general idea,” Aziraphale said, slowly, as if speaking to a child.

“An oath that would destroy you if you broke it.”

“Well, technically, yes,” Aziraphale said. “But I just won’t break it. Not ever.”

Crowley shook him again, just for good measure, and then gripped him tightly by the shoulders. “You can’t PROMISE to never lie to me again EVER in your life with a binding oath that will reduce you to CINDERS, you bleeding idiot. Do you think I want to watch you burn to ashes some morning simply because you politely tell me that the brand of tea I picked up at the market is just fine when actually you hate it and you’re too sleepy to realize the consequences?”

Aziraphale blinked.

“Or, alternatively, do you think I actually want to hear the truth from you every single time you actually don’t like one of my shirts, or have you tell me exactly what’s got you in a snit every single time you’re in a bad mood when maybe you’d rather just tell me it’s nothing? IS THAT WORTH DYING OVER?”

Aziraphale blinked again, and then visibly crumbled. “Oh my dear,” he sniffled. “I’m… I was just… I would do, for you. If it helped.”

Crowley scowled at him a moment longer, then gave up and kissed him hard, full on the mouth, one hand coiling around to grab him by the hair and pull. Aziraphale melted into the kiss, tasting salt and whiskey and smoke.

“Just do better,” Crowley said, when they finally broke apart. “No one tells the truth all the time. But if we’re going to be married, I need to know that you won’t hide the big things from me. We’re in this together.”

“Together,” Aziraphale repeats. “Until the very end. I promise.”

“Let’s go home, angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale beamed at him with a watery smile so bright it was almost painful.

“Please,” Aziraphale said. “Gather your things and let’s go.”

Crowley pulled random clothing into a bag, snapped his fingers to send most of the flowers directly to the shop, and laced his hand together with Aziraphale’s as they head towards the door.

“Oh, hang on,” he said at the door. “Forgot something.” He turned back to the kitchen and Aziraphale watched as he picked up the notepad and tucked it into the top of his bag.

“Forgot my reading material,” he said with a wry grin. “You didn’t think I was going to leave that behind, did you?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, no, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t.”

“Oh yes, I’m going to pore over this one,” Crowley said, teasingly. “Might even memorize some sections of it. Arrange a dramatic recitation or an interpretative dance.” He bumped a hip lightly against Aziraphale, who blushed even further than he already had. “Might even put my favorite ones on a tee shirt.”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, blithely. “I’m sure I deserve that. Go ahead, my dear.”

Crowley pulled the door closed behind him with a definitive click as they headed out into the snow.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fic recs #aziraphale x crowley #idiots in love #good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale means well really #but he's kind of an idiot #thank god he has crowley to stop him

5 notes · View notes

pickalilywrites · 6 years

Note

hey! so since you've recently opened up requests again, i've got something for ya. jeanpiku.

h e l l y e a h

But Of Course You Never Would

JeanPiku. Prisoner!Pieck AU.

2023 words.

Buy me a ko-fi!

Jean dislikes taking care of the prisoners, but it’s safer to alternate the role rather than to keep the same guards day in and day out. He’s seen the former military policeman responsible for torturing the enemies of the royal family before the crowning of Historia Reiss, that wicked gleam in their eyes as they spoke about the crimes they committed for the crown. It seemed as though they had no remorse for their sins at all, believing that those who were unjustly executed or imprisoned had deserved the torment that was inflicted upon them. He remembers sitting in the courtroom listening to them as they bragged about their cruel punishments, cackling as they recalled prisoners who had cried or begged for their lives. Surely, these men had been normal soldiers just like him when they had first begun, but something must have changed along the way. Jean shivers as he imagines the same inhuman transformation taking place in him as he comes down to the dungeon. It couldn’t happen, could it? Although he could never be considered a good person after everything he’s done, he can’t be a bad person either, can he?

He thought he was sure of the latter, but he begins to doubt it whenever he enters the dungeon. It’s not just the prison – dark and dreary with hardly any sunlight streaming in from the barred windows of the cells – that makes him feel like his soul slowly slipping from him. It’s the faces of the prisoners, especially these prisoners they’ve captured from Marley, that trouble him the most because they’re a constant reminder of what happened on Liberio and the countless lives were lost in the crossfire. He might not have been the one to start the fire that had burned down the Liberio, but he had been one of the ones to fan the flames. He was responsible too.

Porco was easier to deal with than the other prisoner. The Jaw Titan, despite the power he held and his empty threats, likes to spit venomous accusations at them, reminding them of their destruction. He hurls insults at the soldiers who come down, Jean included. They’re always the same. Monsters, devils, demons. Some goad him into it; Jean has seen others laugh about the way they’ve taunted the Jaw Titan and how pathetic his name-calling is now that he’s been shackled and locked away, ultimately useless no matter how many times he says he wants to kill them. But even if Jean does nothing to him, nothing at all except replace his necessities, Porco still spits at him and glares at him with a murderous look in his eyes. But Jean can’t blame him.

He tries to get in and out of Porco’s cell block as soon as possible, but he always hears Porco’s shouts chasing down the hallway. Murderer. Monster. Demon. Devil. He begins to hear them for so long that he thinks they might be true.

It is Pieck, though, that he hates dealing with the most. There’s something disturbing about the casual way she talks to her prison guards, ignoring their insults or silence and roping them into a conversation. She always greets him with a smile and thanks him for her meal even though it’s just plain bread and meat.

“You’re Jean, aren’t you?” she asks as she sits cross-legged on the floor of her cell. She looks at him with a pleasant smile on her face, picking off a piece of her bread and popping it in her mouth.

“Yeah,” he mumbles before he remembers that he’s not supposed to talk to the prisoners, Pieck in particular. Zeke and Yelena had warned them about her, but it’s difficult to believe how clever she can be when she’s the one in the cell with chains to restrain her. She doesn’t look threatening to him, but she doesn’t look exactly helpless either. She looks as if she rather enjoys being imprisoned, although Jean has no idea why.

“Jean, Jean, Jean,” Pieck says as if seeing how much she enjoys the feeling of his name rolling off her tongue. She tilts her head at him and smiles. “Do you know my name?”

“Pieck,” he replies without thinking again. Despite the setting, her easygoing attitude makes it easy to forget where they are and their relationship towards each other. He should hate her after all she’s done, and she should feel the same way about him, but somehow it’s difficult for him to feel that way when she doesn’t scream at him the way her comrade does. He’s suspicious as to why she’s so conversational. He remembers talk amongst the others who have served prison guards murmuring about the strange woman who always seemed to want to speak to them, to get to know them, but Armin had always advised them not to engage in conversation with her. He’s about to open his mouth and ask her, but she smiles, and he forgets his question.

“I remember you, you know,” Pieck says, sitting back. There’s a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye that looks like she’s plotting what, although Jean can’t possibly imagine what she could be planning when she’s locked up in here with nowhere to go. “Not on Marley, I mean. Of course, I remember on Marley as well, but we met before that, haven’t we? That was when I was on this island the first time, do you remember? You were crying for your friends, but you were crying for Betholdt and Reiner too. I thought that was strange, but it was because they were your friends too, weren’t they?”

He knows then that the reason why they had all warned the others to be cautious of Pieck. She’s clever, too clever, and she knew how to use the little information she had to her advantage. While Porco knew how to use his words to make them sting, Pieck knew how to use them and make them hurt.

“I should go,” he mumbles, turning to leave like he should have done right from the beginning. He would have gone, should have gone, but he sees her get up from the corner of his eye and when she stumbles, he has to stop himself from asking if she’s alright. She’s already noticed though.

“Were you going to ask me if I was okay?” Pieck asks curiously, an amused smile on her face. She’s caught her balance against the wall, leaning against it because standing up by herself is too difficult and they’ve denied her of her crutches. It’s something that he and Armin though too cruel, but others pointed out that it wasn’t as if she’d be given enough space to walk about. “Oh, Jean, you are a good person, aren’t you?”

He shouldn’t listen. He should just ignore her like he had been ordered, but he can’t help but spit back, “Is there such a thing?”

“You don’t believe there is?” Pieck asks curiously. She pushes herself from off the wall and stumbles over to the cell bars. “I imagine you’re all good people for being the saviors of this island. The sacrifices you’ve made have surely kept your people safe…at least for now. Are you not proud?”

He doesn’t speak, foolishly thinking that she’ll lose interest if he refuses to engage with her. He sees her lips curl in a smile though, and he knows that he hears his true answer whispered in the silence: No. I’m not proud at all. I’ve never been more ashamed of the path I’ve chosen.

“You’re right. How could you be after all you’ve done?” Pieck says with a humorless laugh. She looks at him with such a cruel, malicious smile that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, that she had planned this all along. “You’ve kept your people safe, but at the price of mine. Children too. You’ve destroyed my home, reduced it to ash and rubble. And even though I have nothing left there, you’ve forced me to abandon them when they need me the most. Someone like you could never be called a good person.”

He balls his hand into a fist, glaring at her. “Not another word,” he growls, but she only smirks at him from behind her prison bars.

“You know that boy who was with me? You took him and his friend Gabi too. Hopefully, you’re treating them far better than how you’re treating me,” Pieck continues, ignoring Jean. “His friends, Udo and Zofia, were caught in the crossfires. They didn’t make it out alive. He was completely distraught over them. I’m sure you know what it’s like to lose a friend, but what’s it like to be the one to have taken them away? Does it feel good, Jean?”

He remembers Marco, remembers finding his half-eaten body in the streets of Trost, remembers when he had discovered that Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie were responsible for his death. Is this how they felt after they had watched him die? He doesn’t know how they lived with themselves. He doesn’t know how he can live with himself now.

“Shut up,” Jean snarls, but his voice is shaking. He steps towards her cell with no idea about what he’s going to do next, but he knows he has to stop her from talking. He can’t stand her talking. “Shut up right now or –“

“Or what?” Pieck asks, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. “What could be worse than what you’ve already done to me? Let me starve? Torture me? Kill me? Go on, Jean. Go ahead and take out that gun of yours and shoot me like you should have done all along.”

That’s right. He should have done this from the beginning, he thinks as he fumbles for his gun. It doesn’t matter that they’ve taken her prisoner. They haven’t learned anything from her and nothing good comes out of the power of the Titans. It’s better to get rid of her now, he knows, but his hand trembles as he pulls out his gone and holds it to her head.

“Go ahead,” Pieck says, even reaching out to wrap her hand around his. “It might make you feel better. Or is it that you’re weak? Back then in Liberio, you could have killed me off with your thunder spear, but you didn’t. Do you tell yourself at night that it was because you missed, or do you know it was because you pointed it away at just the last second even though you would have done the same whether or not the boy was there?”

Even with her fingers around his, he can’t find it in himself to pull the trigger. He thought that it’s what he wanted, but he can’t bear the thought of her blood spattered across the walls, her body falling to the floor, and the smoking gun clattering to the ground as it fell to the floor. So he lowers the gun, ashamed that he had ever raised it in the first place.

Pieck watches as he withdraws his gun, the smile on her face saying that she had known this would happen all along. “Of course, you couldn’t do it,” she says softly with a hint of amusement. “You could be faced with the greatest opportunity to do away with your enemy. All you would have to do is pull the trigger but, of course, you never would, Jean. That’s just the sort of person you are.”

“Why can’t I?” he whispers, voice trembling. He looks down, horrified at the tears that drip down his face. He knows the other soldiers would never have hesitated to pull the trigger – not back then and not now – so why does he?

“Because you’re not a good person,” Pieck says. She reaches out from between the bars, lifting his chin gently with her hand. Gone is the cruel look in her eyes, replaced with something softer. Something like sympathy. “You are a kind person. And a weak person. And those are the worst things to be in a world like this.”

#jeanpiku #jean kirstein #pieck #prisoner pieck au #snk #asks #answered #gguksae #requests

86 notes · View notes

fallsekings · 5 years

Text

@devianttm || from here

There’s a wetness that pools in his eyes, one that Connor doesn’t understand at first. An extreme emotional response to an stressful and very emotional situation - for someone that is HUMAN.

Despite his best efforts to save one of his own kind, to talk them down from hurting someone and self-destructing - it didn’t work. It had only worked for a split second before someone decided he was STILL A THREAT and fired at him.

He wasn’t still a threat.

Whether it was the DPD or the human in the room, Connor didn’t know, because it had elected an emotional response he didn’t expect and suddenly HE CAN’T BREATHE.

He doesn’t need to breathe, why is he struggling?

The tears roll down his cheeks fast and there’s no stopping them, no matter how much he tries, there’s NO STOPPING IT.

When will this violence end? It should have ended when they won their rights but it didn’t - people are STILL scared of his kind, willing to go as far as to kill even when an android is NO LONGER DEEMED A THREAT.

Hank’s moving over to him, cupping his cheeks in his hands, telling him to focus on him - BUT HE CAN’T, because all he can feel is this OVERWHELMING SADNESS.

And it’s the first time Connor has felt something like this, so it makes it one hundred more times overwhelming.

The way Hank’s thumb brushes over his cheek to wipe away tears brings him back to reality - not by much but enough to focus on Hank. Enough to get the gasping to stop but the tears? THEY KEEP COMING.

“L-Lieutenant…I don’t….I don’t understand…..what’s happening to me? Why am I….?” Crying? Is he crying?

Deviant. This is a reaction commonly seen in deviants, isn’t it? He’d been DENYING he’s such a thing but there is no denying it any further, is there? Not when he’s CRYING LIKE THIS.

“Connor...” His voice calmly called out to the Android as he closed the distance between them to take his face between his hands and gently began wiping away his tears. Ever since Cole had died on the operating table at the hands of an Android, Hank had been looking for EVIDENCE that Androids didn’t see EVERYTHING as ones and zeros--- not that he had realized it at the time--- and Connor had proven time and time again that Androids were fully CAPABLE of being so much more than just machines. It had taken his partnership with Connor to come to the realization, but the lieutenant saw everything very clearly now.

Androids were more human than most humans were.

Ever since the Androids had received their freedom, there had been backlash, some people were too afraid of change. They acted out of fear, Androids were acting out of both FEAR and CONFUSION. All of them had woken up to this godforsaken planet with a start and now they were all trying to navigate it. Hardly any of them had known what FREEDOM actually was or what to do with it once they found it. Others were still trying to navigate their own emotions and trying to figure out what they wanted now that they were all free to choose.

Hank could UNDERSTAND why some of the Androids were becoming unstable, enough that they would need to be talked down. He would have been overwhelmed, too, if he had the floodgates opened up on him. Truth be told, he would’ve probably started firing shots off of some tower in Detroit himself.

The TEARS that kept coming out of Connor’s eyes were REAL and it was making Hank want to march over and start YELLING at the bastard who had shot the Android for no damn good reason. Connor had TRIED so very hard to negotiate with the other Android, and it had looked to Hank as if he had gotten through to him, but he had been gunned down anyways. It had all been for nothing and it seemed as if they were the only ones who were bothered by it and that had only added fuel onto the fire that was starting to grow deep within him. How could others not see it?

A frown tugged at the corner of Hank’s mouth as he tried to figure out how to answer his partner. He was no experts on technology or how it worked, hell, he barely knew how to use his own cellphone... but Hank was beginning to realize that he needed to STOP looking at Connor like a machine of some kind. These were very REAL human emotions. EMPATHY, that had seemed like a simple way to phrase it, but in the grand scheme of things, it was only just a word. Connor had shown empathy before, but not like this.

“You’re showing remorse...” Hank said after a moment. It was one of the most difficult and messy of all human emotions to navigate... something that he had faced, and continued to face every day. “We got the asshole who did this.” Hank cocked his head towards the side where the office worker had already been placed in handcuffs after being tackled to the ground. Hank watched Connor for a moment and then pulled him into an embrace. “It’s okay to let it all out...” Heavens knows he had every night when he took to drinking by himself. He was grateful to have Connor around more now--- he hadn’t felt the need for it like he had before.

#devianttm #muse: hank #v: i will let the memory heal #misc

1 note · View note

hysterialevi · 4 years

Text

Eitr | Chapter 8

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male OC

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

ONE DAY LATER

ELMENHAM

Eivor ran his fingers gently along the edge of his father’s axe, feeling its worn blade kiss the surface of his skin.

At the moment, he was sitting in the same place where he first met Gjuki and quietly admiring the view of the open sea in front of him, secretly wishing he could traverse beyond its horizon.

After everything that had occurred in England these past few days, Eivor wanted nothing more than to set sail and leave this godforsaken war zone behind him. He wanted to return to Fornburg and feel the familiar warmth of Styrbjorn’s longhouse, and the icy embrace of Norway’s fjords.

He wished to see the night sky veiled behind the aurora’s shimmering waves once again, and to get lost in the never ending stretches of mountains that crowned the frozen landscape.

But most importantly, Eivor wanted to find peace. His soul still wrestled inside him like a hurricane goading the ocean, and now that the deaths of his fellow clan members had finally sunken in, the inevitable pain that came along with them also buried itself deep inside his heart, causing his spirit to wither away like a flickering flame.

He almost felt numb at this point. There was hardly anything left in him after witnessing so much death, and without any family to help carry his burdens anymore, Eivor found himself desperately searching for a reason to hope, and a reason to fight.

There was just so much misery being thrust upon him suddenly, and he didn’t know if he could muster the strength to overcome it.

“Oh, Sigurd...” he whispered to himself, “...I wish you were here, brother. You and I may not have seen eye-to-eye on everything, but your courage and ambition always stoked a flame inside me that I didn’t even realize existed. Not until after you were gone. ”

Eivor gazed out at the ocean, still holding onto his father’s axe. “But I assure you... I won’t let our honor lie in the mud. Just like Kjotve, I will find whoever did this to us and deliver them to Hel’s gates myself. Even if it kills me, I won’t let this attack go unpunished. That is a warrior’s promise.”

Standing up from the ground, Eivor slid the axe back into its sheathe and began heading towards the longhouse, only to freeze in curiosity when he saw a familiar face greeting him in the distance.

Not too far away from where he stood, Eivor spotted a man fervently riding towards him as the sun blotted out his figure, causing the viking to squint. He couldn’t quite see his face just yet, but purely based on the voice he heard calling out to him afterwards, he instantly realized who it was.

“...Broder?” Eivor murmured to himself.

The other man hurriedly hopped off his horse, jogging up to his friend.

“Eivor!” He called out, his voice heavy with fatigue.

Eivor met him in the middle, eyeing him with a look of confusion.

“Broder! You’ve finally returned... but you’re by yourself. Where is Gjuki? Why isn’t he with you? Has something happened to him?”

“No,” Broder replied, shaking his head. “Gjuki is fine. He’s just in Wedenscire at the moment, continuing our investigation.”

That took Eivor by surprise. “Wedenscire? What’s he doing so far south?”

“He’s investigating a castle called Forangal. It’s home to the shire’s ealdorman.” Broder paused for a second, unsure of how to broach the next subject. “...Gjuki’s found your brother, Eivor. He found Sigurd.”

The blond man’s expression sagged with sorrow. “...He did? And where is his body? Have you brought him with you? Or have the ravens already desecrated his corpse beyond redemption?”

“No, no, no.” Broder corrected. “He’s alive, Eivor. He didn’t die at Ravensthorpe. He’s helping Gjuki as we speak.”

Eivor felt his heart stop at the revelation. What did Broder just say?

“...What?” He whispered in shock. “...S-Sigurd’s alive? You’re absolutely certain it was him? Could it have been someone else?”

“There aren’t many Norsemen in England by the name of Styrbjornson, Eivor. I’m confident it was him.”

“Well, if he’s alive, why hasn’t he returned with you? Is there something that prevents him from coming home?”

“Perhaps I should just start from the beginning.”

Broder recomposed himself, finally managing to catch his breath after the lengthy journey.

“When you sent us to investigate Ravensthorpe for clues, we found a survivor there. A Saxon soldier. He was severely wounded, but not dead yet. Gjuki made him talk.”

Eivor shrugged. “And what did he say?”

“He told us that the people responsible for the attack were in Wedenscire, but wished to keep the ambush a secret. Apparently they didn’t plan on having anyone discover the true nature of their plan, and wanted to wipe out the entire clan. Men, women, children -- everyone. Unfortunately for them however, you and your brother both survived.”

“And what about their identity? Did this Saxon give you a name?”

Broder sighed. “I’m afraid he took that secret to his grave. Fear not, though. We found our own lead. After Gjuki brought us to Wedenscire, we found ourselves in a town called Agenbury. A fisherman there by the name of Wilfred claimed to have seen your brother. He said that Sigurd washed up on the shore one night -- beaten and bloodied -- and that he rescued him from the brink of death.”

Eivor failed to hide the skepticism creeping onto his face. “A Saxon stranger going out of his way to help a Norse in need? I don’t believe it. Compassion like that never comes without a price. What did this Wilfred want from my brother?”

The other man had no answer. “Nothing, if he is to be trusted. He said he simply helped Sigurd because ‘that is what the Lord God would’ve wanted.’ Make of that what you will.”

Eivor crossed his arms. “I see. And what about Sigurd? Where is he now? Is he still in Agenbury?”

“No. The day after Wilfred rescued him, the ealdorman’s children stopped by the town and decided to take Sigurd back to the castle with them. What for, I do not know. All I know is that the eldest was apparently rather... apprehensive about the decision.”

“So Sigurd is at the castle now?”

Broder gave him a nod. “Yes. He resides in Forangal and serves Ealdorman Aegenwulf’s children as a personal bodyguard. The only reason Gjuki and I were able to find him was because of a thegn named Raedan who came to visit recently. We managed to find some disguises, and walk right through the gates alongside his personal guard. That is when Gjuki met your brother.”

“They’ve made Sigurd a bodyguard?” Eivor questioned. “I expected he would be a prisoner.”

The man chuckled. “You and me both. Make no mistake though, your brother is not a free man within those walls. According to what Gjuki tells me, the Saxons there treat him with spite, and would drag him around like a slave on a leash. There is a particular man named Algar who constantly hounds him on a daily basis, and torments him without remorse. Fortunately however, Sigurd is not as soft as he thinks.”

Eivor found himself in a state of anger, and let out a scoff. “So, it is not enough that these Saxons have destroyed our home? Now, they must also enslave my brother and treat him like a dog? By Thor, if any of them have laid even a finger on him...”

Broder reassured him. “Do not worry, drengr. Sigurd is doing well from what I gather. But his situation grows more dire with each passing day.”

“Then we would be fools to sit here and dawdle. I will not stand idly by whilst these people make a mockery of our clan and spit on our honor.” Eivor brought his gaze to the longhouse, eager to speak with Oswald.

“Return to Gjuki,” he told Broder. “Tell him to continue his search in Wedenscire. In the meantime, let him know that I am working to forge more alliances across England. Soon, we will have an army strong enough to shatter the very core of the earth itself. Whoever these Saxons are, they will regret everything they have done.”

“Of course,” Broder complied, walking back to his horse. “I’ll bring Gjuki the news as soon as possible, Eivor.”

The viking gave him an appreciative glance, watching as the other man vanished in the distance. “Make sure you get some rest first, my friend. And food. You’ve had a long journey. You deserve a quick break before delving back into this storm.”

Broder smirked at that. “You’ll get no argument from me. Perhaps I’ll stay here for the night and regain my strength before returning to Wedenscire. But as soon as day breaks, I shall make my way back to Gjuki and bring him the news.”

“Thank you, Broder. For everything you’re doing. Take care of yourself in these trying times, and may the gods guide you.”

“You as well, Eivor.”

Bidding him farewell, Broder promptly climbed onto his mount and trotted away to the stables, leaving the other man to his thoughts as the day slowly came to an end.

By now, the sun had lowered itself into a canopy of peach-tinted clouds and soothed the land beneath with a gentle evening breeze. The activity in Elmenham was calm at the moment, and most of its occupants seemed to be spending their night in the longhouse.

Despite the serene nature of the town however, Eivor couldn’t help but feel a newfound fury growing inside him.

...Sigurd was alive.

He was actually alive.

Against all odds, his brother had escaped from the clutches of the half-rotten goddess, and survived an ordeal that massacred the rest of their clan.

They still had a chance to reclaim their honor. Even though Eivor had no doubts that the path ahead would be laden with obstacles, he remained confident that he and Sigurd would be able to plow through them as they always did.

Though, he couldn’t ignore the sense of fear that gripped his heart. He felt uncomfortable leaving Sigurd alone in a castle full of Saxons, and just based on the rumors he had heard about the people of Wedenscire before, Eivor assumed he would receive no love from the locals there.

He would have to work on forging more alliances, and quickly. Sigurd needed him now, and Eivor refused to simply leave him behind. Odin willing, he would soon be kicking down the gates of Forangal Castle itself, and bringing onto them the same hellfire that they delivered to Ravensthorpe.

He would not forget the slaughtering of his clan so easily, and neither would they.

~~~~~~~~~~

MEANWHILE

FORANGAL CASTLE, THE COURTYARD

Swinging his blade to the side, Sigurd struck the wooden dummy in front of him with great force and caused it to wobble on its stand, sending a few splinters flying into the air.

He had grown bored of his idleness in Forangal during these past few days, and wished to take this time to revitalize his thirst for battle. Part of him feared that he was becoming too comfortable within the stone walls of the castle, and did not wish to allow himself to be addled by the absence of combat.

His skills had become somewhat dull due to the lack of any true danger, and the last thing he wanted was to let the callouses on his hands go soft.

Unfortunately however, his body seemed to disagree.

Landing another blow directly on the dummy’s head, Sigurd brought the sword downwards in a firm strike, only to stumble when he suddenly felt a sharp pang stinging him where the arrows had hit his torso.

The pain wasn’t nearly as bad as when Edric and his siblings first brought him to the castle, but it was still enough to hinder his movement.

“Shit...!” Sigurd muttered with a soft hiss.

Bringing a hand to his ribs, the viking took a moment to examine his old wound and gently pressed on the skin, causing a painful throb to spread throughout his chest. He knew it wasn’t healed completely just yet -- Linette said the tissue would take weeks to recover -- but he assumed it would’ve been faint enough that he could’ve ignored it by now. Clearly, he was wrong.

Sighing in discouragement, the Norseman decided to take a break for the time being and placed the sword down before having a seat on a nearby bench, taking in the cool air of the dying daylight.

He wanted to continue with his training whilst he still had the chance, but he knew that if he kept pushing his body any further, he’d soon tear open one of his wounds again. And the scolding he’d receive from Linette after that was more fearsome than any foe he’d have to face.

Still, Sigurd couldn’t help but wonder how useful he truly was as a bodyguard if he couldn’t even defeat a mere mannequin. He had three lives depending on him at the moment, and he could scarcely guard his own.

Luckily for him though, the siblings seemed to have a healthy habit of avoiding trouble altogether. The twins didn’t appear to get involved with a lot of the political chaos occurring in Forangal, and Edric had enough levelheadedness of his own to know when something wasn’t worth the hassle.

In truth, the main thing that worried Sigurd was Algar. So far, the man had yet to physically attack him, and he seemed to obey Aegenwulf’s wishes of diplomacy -- at least, for the most part -- but the Norseman could only wonder how long it’d be before something else sparked between them.

He clearly knew more about the war in Wedenscire than he was giving away, and part of Sigurd suspected that he may have been aware of Gjuki’s presence. It was unlikely that he knew the bard’s name or his identity just yet, but... it wasn’t impossible. Nothing was.

Letting out a deep breath, Sigurd leaned back in his seat and listened to the soft sounds of the nature in the courtyard, allowing himself to relax for a minute.

Currently, the only things he could hear were the scattered chirps of nearby crickets, and the delicate rustling of trees swaying in the wind. The castle was actually quite peaceful when there was no one around to disturb the silence, and contrary to what he expected, Sigurd found himself to be quite fond of it.

Sadly though, it was short-lived.

Bringing his moment of solitude to an end, Sigurd’s ears perked up in interest when he heard a distant chain of footsteps coming towards him, leading him to glance to his side.

There, just behind the trees, the viking spotted Edric strolling in his direction with a casual expression on his face and a small cake in his hand, seemingly unperturbed.

The young man looked tired from all his running around with Aegenwulf and Raedan, but if Sigurd was reading him correctly, he would’ve said that the lord was delighted to see him again.

“There you are, you big brute.” Edric said jokingly, approaching the man. “I was looking for you.”

Sigurd eyed the treat in his palm with a smirk, quirking his brow in curiosity. “Were you? And what’s that you have there?”

The Saxon rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, this? It’s a soul cake. Remember? I mentioned them before? Nelda made a fresh batch today for Raedan and his family. I... I thought I could bring you one.”

The Norse couldn’t help but chuckle at Edric’s awkwardness. He clearly wasn’t used to giving people treats like this, and in a strange way, it only made him more endearing to Sigurd.

“You aren’t trying to poison me are you?” He teased.

Edric took a seat next to him, laughing softly. “Don’t worry. You haven’t irritated me that much.” He held the cake out, urging Sigurd to take it. “Go on. Give it a try.”

Sigurd picked up the cake, hesitantly taking a bite out of it. It was sweeter than he expected, and filled his mouth with a surprisingly lively combination of ginger and cinnamon.

“I like it.” He said. “It reminds me of some of the sweets that our people have.”

Edric beamed at the man’s comment. “Does it? What kind of cakes do the Norse eat?”

“Well, we don’t have cakes like this,” Sigurd clarified, “but sometimes we will eat bread with honey. It’s a simple treat that we like to have after a huge feast. That, and some fruits.”

“Do your people bake a lot?”

Sigurd smiled in an amused manner. “I’m not sure about all Danes, but my clan in particular had a man who loved to bake. His name was Tarben. He was a tall, burly Norseman who could’ve crushed your skull in a heartbeat if he wanted, but he had no interest in battle like the rest of us did. Instead, his passion lied with baking.”

“Sounds like your clan was full of all sorts of intriguing people.”

“It was.” Sigurd said nostalgically. “We had hunters, merchants, warriors, poets -- even a pet wolf. I think it’s safe to say there wasn’t another clan out there like us. We were one, large family of brothers and sisters merely trying to find a new home in England. But... well... it didn’t go as planned.”

Edric picked up on the sudden shift in Sigurd’s tone, hoping to comfort him.

“...Are you alright, Sigurd?” He asked.

The viking nodded. “I’m fine. I just... can’t stop thinking about my clan, you know? About the life we once had. It’s not a topic I enjoy lingering on for obvious reasons, but I often find myself drifting away into these thoughts regardless.”

“Aye,” Edric said in understanding. “Edlynne told me that you seemed preoccupied yesterday. Apparently, there was some... tension between you and Lady Moira?”

Sigurd scoffed. “I suppose that’s one way to put it. Lady Moira isn’t comfortable with the fact that I haven’t converted to Christianity yet.”

The Saxon let out a sigh. “I assumed so. You must forgive her. As imposing as she can be sometimes, it’s out of a desire to protect her children. From what I understand, they’ve already lost quite a few people to this war, so Moira’s response is only natural. Still, we shouldn’t excuse ignorance. It’ll only cause more trouble.”

A sudden thought crossed Edric’s mind. “Hey, Sigurd. I’m curious. Have you... ever considered converting to Christianity?”

The Norse shook his head. “No, for I see no reason to.”

“And I respect that, but I must confess that I’m worried no one here will ever trust if you if you don’t. Danes are often dismissed as mad heretics and blood-thirsty heathens. If you wish to remain a pagan, I’d only advise caution. You never know how some people will react.”

Sigurd took his words to heart. “I understand your concern, Edric. But for the time being, I have no desire to abandon my gods.”

“Fair enough. I know it’s a big decision, and not one to be made lightly. Do with your faith what you will.”

The nobleman paused for a moment, deciding to drop the subject. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to divert our conversation so drastically. I fear that Raedan’s talks of politics have simply been hammered into my head. The truth is, I came here for you.”

That caught Sigurd’s attention. “For me? Why?”

“Well, when Edlynne told me about your exchange with Moira yesterday, I feared that you might have been in a foul mood. I mean, you’ve been thrown into the middle of this Saxon fortress without having any say in your fate, and I know you’ve lost some of your own people to this war. It’s... a lot of pressure for someone to deal with, and I just wanted to make sure that you were doing alright.”

Sigurd smiled bashfully at the young man’s concern. “You are kind, Edric. I cannot deny that this past week has taken a toll on me, but you and your siblings give me the willpower I need to push through it. I’ll be fine.”

Edric chuckled gently. “You’re a strong man, Sigurd. And a good friend. It baffles me to think that I would’ve left you behind when we first met.”

The viking grinned playfully. “Do you still regret taking me in?”

“No. Not at all. In fact, I’m grateful for your presence. It’s nice to have someone new in this dreary castle, and... I must admit that... you’re rather charming.”

Sigurd took a second to process what he just heard. Even though he knew Edric was quite fond of him, he never expected the man to attempt taking his feelings further.

He assumed that he would’ve been promised to some thegn’s daughter by now like most noblemen were, but clearly, he was mistaken. Still, as unexpected as the compliment was, it wasn’t unwelcome.

“You think I’m charming?” Sigurd asked.

Edric smirked. “In your own aggressive way, yes. Some people might find my tastes peculiar, but I can’t deny that you’ve certainly caught my eye since we first met. I think... maybe that’s why I was so reluctant to bring you here to begin with.”

“What do you mean?”

The Saxon gripped the cross hanging around his neck, holding the pendant out for Sigurd to see.

“You might know this already, but my religion doesn’t take too kindly to people like me. Ideally, they would see me married to a woman, but... that’s not what I want. That’s not what I’ve ever wanted.”

Sigurd was somewhat surprised. “Truly? And does your family know about this?”

Edric’s face sank with shame. “No. I’ve considered telling them about it in the past, but... I wouldn’t know how to. There’s already so many things my father has to deal with. I have no clue how he’d react if he knew the truth.”

He paused briefly, raising a sudden question. “Do you... do you feel the same way, Sigurd? Have you ever had these thoughts about anyone? Or even about... me?”

The viking fell into a profound silence, unsure of how to answer Edric’s question. Even though the two of them had only known each other for about a week or so, Sigurd couldn’t deny that part of him shared the young man’s affection.

There was just something about Edric that drew him in like a moth to a flame, and he found himself unable to stay away.

His personality, his looks, his gentle eyes, the way he carried himself... it all clicked with Sigurd in a manner that he had never experienced with anyone else before.

There was an unfamiliar spark igniting between the two of them, and he wanted nothing more than to delve deeper into it.

Despite his longings however, Sigurd couldn’t ignore the sense of guilt that clung onto his thoughts. He couldn’t help but think about Eivor and his clan, and the war they were currently trapped in.

His brother needed him right now. He needed him to focus. Gjuki was the only thing keeping them in touch at the moment, and Sigurd couldn’t afford to waste his time gallivanting around with a potential lover.

Besides, it wasn’t his place to start a relationship with Edric. Even though the young man wished to treat him as an equal, Sigurd was fully aware of his true position. He was no more than a servant to the Saxon in the end, and he did not wish to take advantage of the nobleman’s compassion.

“I... must admit that I find myself drawn to you, Edric.” Sigurd said, his voice quiet with hesitance. “But... I’m afraid I can’t indulge in these thoughts. It wouldn’t be right.”

Edric tilted his head in confusion. “Why not? Is something the matter?”

“Your father is the ealdorman,” Sigurd explained. “He’s put a tremendous amount of faith in me to keep you safe, and I do not wish to abuse his trust. No matter how much I may like you, Edric, it wouldn’t be right for me to do this.”

The young man turned away from Sigurd, evidently somewhat hurt by the rejection.

“I... I see.”

“I’m sorry,” the viking said. “I wish things were that easy, but...”

Edric shook his head. “Say no more. I understand. You have your own responsibilities to worry about, and so do I. I... shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me. I apologize.”

Standing up from the bench, the Saxon stretched his arms and took a deep breath, finally ready to return to his duties. The sky had darkened into a deep shade of violet by now, and the scattered lights of multiple torches could be seen glowing around the castle.

“...I should get back to work,” Edric said, his tone much softer now. “I promised Hal and Sibley that I’d join them for dinner tonight, and I don’t want to keep them waiting.”

Sigurd glanced up at him. “Do you want me to come with you?”

The other man hesitated. “Well yes, but I’m not sure if Lady Moira would appreciate that. I know she becomes rather antsy around Danes. There’s also the fact that Algar will be there too. I suppose I’ll just leave the decision to you. It’d be lovely if you could join us, but I’ll understand if you don’t.”

Sigurd nodded. “Very well. Sounds good to me.”

“Great. Then meet me in the dining hall if you wish to come. If not, I’ll see you in the morn.”

Edric took his leave from the courtyard, waving goodbye to the man. “Goodnight, Sigurd. Take care of yourself.”

Remaining seated on the bench as the nobleman made a swift exit, Sigurd watched his friend disappear into the evening’s darkness as the shadows settled into the castle’s walls, shrouding everything in black.

By now, all the warmth from the sun’s beams had been erased from the wind, and tiny specks of light could be seen flickering in the air as fireflies began to float around.

It was a quiet night, considering all the new soldiers that were now running around the castle. In spite of Raedan’s bustling arrival and Aegenwulf’s ambitious plans for war, Sigurd found himself to be mostly unperturbed.

He had made quite a few friends in Forangal -- as well as some new enemies -- and even though not everyone was willing to accept his newly-given position, it seemed that most of them were able to obey the ealdorman’s wishes, at the very least. For now, anyway.

Still, Sigurd couldn’t help but wonder if he was a fool for pushing Edric away. Regardless of all the risks that came along with such a relationship, the viking knew damn well what his heart truly desired. There was no doubt in his mind that he would’ve thrived from a connection with the young nobleman, and yet... he couldn’t bring himself do it.

There were just too many unknowns obscuring the path ahead of him, and Sigurd feared that a new romance would’ve twisted the winding road even further.

“Well, well...” someone said, “the young lord certainly seems to be fond of you, doesn’t he?”

Whipping around to see who was speaking, Sigurd sprang up from his seat and jolted his head in the direction of the voice, only to find one of Raedan’s guards standing not too far away from him.

“Wait a minute...” the viking murmured, recognizing the person’s speech, “Gjuki? Is that you?”

The bard lifted his visor, grinning at him. “Hello, Lone Wolf.”

Sigurd flicked his eyes around, checking to make sure no one had seen the man. “What in Hel’s name are you doing here? I thought you told me to meet you at the pier if we ever needed to speak.”

Gjuki approached him. “No, I told you to light the brazier if you ever needed me. In the meantime, I’ll simply carry on with my investigation as I see fit. No reason to waste this uniform, after all. But to answer your question...” he took his helm off for the moment, breathing in the fresh air, “I’m here to keep an eye on you, of course. Hope you don’t mind.”

Sigurd crossed his arms. “I do, actually. I’m not fond of airing my private affairs for everyone to see.”

The other man chuckled. “Ah, yes. You and the nobleman. Quite a hopeless romantic, that one. What’s the lad’s name, again? Erik?”

“Edric.”

“That’s right,” Gjuki said, nodding in remembrance. “Forgive me, words can become quite muffled when you’re wearing a bucket on your head.”

The viking sighed in annoyance. “Look, what do you want, Gjuki? Are you going to follow me everywhere I go? I’m quite capable of handling my own problems.”

“Hmm, you might change your mind once you hear what I have to say.” Gjuki placed a hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, leaning closer to his ear. “Listen to me, Sigurd. I looked into that Saxon you told me about yesterday. The ugly one.”

“You mean Algar?”

“Yes. Him. Whilst he and the ealdorman were discussing politics in the war room, I took the liberty of tracking down his chambers. I didn’t find much in there -- just random books and spare clothing -- but one note in particular caught my eye.”

That piqued Sigurd’s interest. “Oh? And what did this note say?”

Gjuki laughed. “I wish I knew. Most of it was pure nonsense; nothing but the ravings of a madman. However, it did mention a hidden crypt somewhere. A crypt that requires a special key to open. A key... that Algar keeps on him at all times.”

Sigurd didn’t like where this was going. “So, you need me to steal the key? Is that it?”

“No, no, no. I will steal it. Your job will be to distract him.”

“Distract him? How? And when?”

Gjuki shrugged. “Well, your friend mentioned Algar would be at a dinner tonight with Raedan’s family, did he not? Perhaps that’s our chance.”

Sigurd threw him a look of bewilderment. “You want to attempt theft in front of two noble families, their guards, and a housecarl? If you get caught, we’re both dead.”

“Have faith, drengr. It’s not as difficult as you think, but I will need help. Just keep Algar’s attention away from me, and everything will be fine. Trust me on this.”

The viking let out a breath. “Fine. We’ll do this your way. Just... be careful.”

Gjuki slid his helm back on, giving him an assuring nod. “The same goes for you, my friend.”

He turned on his heel, making his way out of the courtyard.

“Anyways, you should probably get ready. I imagine the dinner will start soon. Algar is more astute than you’d think, and I’d rather be done with this business as soon as possible. I’ll be waiting for you in the dining hall.”

“And if you get the key? What then? Where do you want me to meet you afterwards?”

Gjuki eased the man’s concerns. “No need to worry yourself about that. When I get the key, I’ll locate this crypt on my own. I’ll find out what Algar’s hiding there, and bring you my discoveries as soon as I’m finished. You just focus on keeping him distracted. Let me handle the rest.”

Sigurd sighed in defeat, deciding to trust the bard for now. “If you insist.”

“Have faith, Lone Wolf. Soon, this storm will be over. We will learn the truth behind the attack on Ravensthorpe, and Eivor will bring upon these people a vengeance so fierce that they won’t dare to set foot on your lands ever again. There will be blood... and it will be glorious. That, I promise you.”

#assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #sigurd styrbjornson #gjuki haldorsson #edric #male oc #female oc #sigurd x male oc #ac valhalla fanfic #eitr

8 notes · View notes

imagine-loki · 6 years

Text

Conquest and Mischief

Chapter No./ One-Shot: One-Shot

Author: Anonymous

Original Imagine: Imagine being on Earth while Loki is stranded in Sakaar…

Rating: PG-18?, innuendos slightly like tiny, humor?

Author’s Notes/Warning: I don’t know if it may have already been used, but I have it on my list of things to attempt in on way or another.; I apologize for any mistakes I make along here. I do revise every time I finish, but things may go over look while I do that sometimes. And as usual I own nothing, but my imagination.

It was awkward being in love with mischief. It was hard enough dating mischief. The most difficult of it all was being conquest mixed with mischief. However, mischief was more better term to balance it out. At least, that was what made the relationship so questionable. One would think that if someone was given a title of “conquest” that mischief was more like a side dish to the word. Yet, the two mixed with each other to some good and bad degree. There was fun and then there was trouble. There was rewards and then punishments.

Yet, here you were. At home, bored out of your mind, and rather pissed off. At what was uncertain, but whom was very obvious. You hands reached out as a terrible projection was presented to you. This was possibly–if not–the thirtieth attempt he had made. And you was certain the discoloration in this one was more seen than even a full figure.

And that figure was Loki. Although, his appearance was very different from how he was back on Asgard. At least you had assumed, he was on Asgard–or better yet dead. Yet, here he was in front of you in a fancy attire that almost felts like party or masquerade. His main color were still the same, but with hints of yellowish maybe gold. You had glared when he had randomly showed up when you was bathing. Although, he clearly last time had no remorse for the intrusion on you. You had thought your mind was desperate to see him, but when he explained himself, you wish he wasn’t a projection—because well, words would hardly express the mixed emotions he had put you through.

Yet, he kept a promise to see you from some place call Sakaar, another planet you had not even heard of–and here you were with a title Conquest. Quite a funny one at that title. However, each time he did, the projections would get weaker and weaker. Soon enough, he could hardly make the project as visible as possible. This current one in front of you was clearly lacking a few colors and you was certain he learned a ghost trick somewhere on that planet.

“Thi-I–Sorry.” the projection apologized clearly frustrated at himself.

“For a God of Mischief,” you teased as you tried to pretend to cup his face as a tender smile grace your lips, “you really should stop right now.”

The false feeling of his face relaxing into your palm made you feel some content. You could tell the project was once more going to fade away again. He had told you before that time on Sakaar had limited him quite harshly. As he was free with his magic on that planet, but to push it this far out to Earth was clearly putting a strain on him.

“A–for Conquest,” he spoke again interrupted with was felt to be glitch like disturbance.

“You’re gonna say “As for Conquest,” you repeated for him, “you expected me to rip a hole in my room to just go there, right?”

His upset face was evident you was right. You chuckled.

“Conquest,” you breath as you light tapped your forehead, “doesn’t work like that sweety.”

His expression was clearly hurt. Not from hurting you, that was already something he was concerned about. But the thought of this idea he had was clearly failing him. Yet, you accepted it as the idea of meeting him was growing more cold and difficult.

You sighed as his projection has left abruptly. You assumed it might have been disruption or something else.

“This is growing on my skin.” you groaned as you headed to get dressed. “I can be patient as long as he wants since I don’t plan to let him go without a fight. But this is just plain torture.” Slipping on your last piece of clothing, you proceeded to exit your apartment. You turned back giving on last glance at your door.

And headed down stairs to the streets.

“I really don’t want to do this, but he is the closest thing I can get at a short notice.”

For someone of mystic arts, the home he resided in wasn’t hard to find. Although, it still held some discomforting mystery that some only who abnormality would understand. You, or Conquest, might as well be the few that could understand–if only a tiny bit.

Opening the door, you was welcoming to falling a chair as a nice cup of tea was placed mysteriously in your hand. You blinked with a deadpan expression.

“Nice to know you had expected me,” you complimented as Dr. Strange sat across from you a smile on his face.

“When an embodiment of the Apocalypse shows,” he excused himself, “it’s best to try to keep them appeased.”

“I’m not here to take anything,” you assured him.

“That’s a first.” he spoke surprised in a nonchalant tone.

“I know. I am too. Even if ripping that necklace from your throat would ease my own problems. It won’t solve my half-ass curse.” you chuckled.

You took a sip of the tea. It was sweet, but a sudden sourness followed. You crossed your legs as you held the ring top of the cup and swung it in a sort of impatience.

“I’ll get to the chase.” you confessed.

“Loki.” Strange answered.

“Well, that was fast.” you whistled.

“He isn’t on Earth anymore though.” he explained.

“I’m aware. In fact, he is somewhere very far away.” you added. “You see I need your help in…” it was awkward to explain as Strange’s face was mixed with caution and anger. “Perhaps making me a portal to see him. You don’t have to do much of anything else. I’ll be on my own once you do. Nothing extra and special.”

“To where would I take Conquest,” Strange demanded, “a literal embodiment of destruction that lays waste to claim all they see.”

“To see my boyfriend,” you answered as last part came out as if you was struggling to not choke from embarrassment, “Loki.”

If he was doctor, you was certain Strange had giving a look of a possible heart attack because absolute confusion and shock graced his face. You was hoping for maybe a laugh or joke. Maybe and immediate rejection to your request. However, here was Dr. Strange clearly trying to raddled around your request. His one hand clamped over his mouth not to laugh, but finding your words with disbelief. He stared at you as he removed his hand, which was clamped together as he was still processing.

“Loki, the God of Mischief,” he inquired.

You nodded.

“Your boyfriend.” he asked.

You nodded again.

“Loki, your boyfriend,” he emphasized. “The very god that came to Earth and trying to conqueror this very planet and was in possession of one of the Infinity Stones? And Thor’s brother?”

You face palmed. “Yes, yes, yes, and for pete sakes,yes!”

“Conquest and mischief in a bowl,” Strange inhaled.”I don’t think that would be safe.”

“You literally earlier didn’t want him on Earth.” You argued. “What’s the problem of sending me to see him?”

“That was because of the problems he’ll bring along with him.” Strange defended.

“And your staring at the person who can if not bothering to restrain themselves from laying waste to this very planet.” you conquered up a side problem. “Besides, it’s killing two birds with one stone.”

Strange glared.

“Okay, maybe sending an extra problem to another planet. You won’t have to be so cautious of me for awhile anyways. I’ll be gone for possibly… quite a while. I say maybe two weeks tops or more.”

The look on Strange’s face had you concerned. It was true that wherever Loki went, problems would follows–even problems that the very mischievous god was running from. And adding you was not solving it. Yet, you was here on Earth due to many reasons–logical ones, but some very kept up wraps. And you was certain Strange was highly aware your presence on this planet was an incoming sign of within itself.

You sighed as you rubbed through your hair, “I know it’s stupid for someone of my caliber to fall for someone with quite an dangerous amount of baggage on his person. However, if I wasn’t this in love, I’d probably not be here bargain–no, pleading with you to help me see him.” You could feels some slight embarrassment as you continued your last plea. “Trust me, if I wanted to, I would rip a portal myself, but it takes so much from just me alone. Not to mention, Conquest was has been locked away for over a century. I just really need to see him, Strange. If I don’t see him now, I don’t know what will become of me. This sounds so desperate and it is. Please help me… Please? I haven’t fallen this hard for someone in my entire lifetime.”

It was suffering silence. One that choked at heart the more he remained unanswered. You had made your bargain. You had said your plea. And love was such a tricky feelings. It was sicking one. A feeling you hated, but this time embraced. Yet, it was still at the same time awkward for a person of your caliber to do it. Confessed to loving a being that was dangerous as you–if only alot. You felt Strange’s eyes on you once more. You returned the stare. Full of determination and would no doubt not take any rejection whatsoever.

“Why am I agreeing to this?” he asked himself as he rubbed his temples. “If I send you, will you keep him away from Earth?”

“No promises.” you replied.

“Then I should just say n—.” he was about to decline.

“However, I can confess you have much dangerous troubles on your planet than just Loki.” you spoke almost speaking half a truth.

Strange spoke, but stopped as he rolled his eyes. “Then you will have to help me no matter the conditions.”

“I can work with that.” you accepted.

Immediately as you got up, the regret snapped at you as the world of the room shifting. Dr. Strange no longer in his seat as so were you. However, he was casually standing while you was falling from the ceiling onto the cold floor. The pain would subside, but this was why you rarely visited Dr. Strange. There was a normality of peace, but random changes everywhere.

“Hey,” you growled.

“That did not hurt.” he mocked not paying you any attention as his hands warped in symbols.

“Do you need his hair?” you asked as you got up and dust yourself off.

“I don’t think you can—.” he denied until you presented a string of Loki’s hair in front of him. He stared between you and the hair. “I’m concerned as to how you obtained this.”

“Being on Asgard was maybe more fun than once during his imprisonment.” you grinned.

Dr. Strange never said anything else. Only snatched the hair from your grasp as you held a cocky smile that Loki would be proud of.

104 notes · View notes

catbowserauthor · 6 years

Text

Lost TMNT story of mine...

So a few years ago, I started writing a TMNT story with my husband. He wanted to see a darker version of the 87 Turtles take on a Walking Dead type of threat and well, I decided to have fun with it. This is just the prologue and first chapter. I have about four done, I believe though I got stuck. I DO want to finish it though, now that I've re-discovered it!

Darkest Before the Dawn

TMNT characters are not mine and are used without permission for the amusement of fans. This version of TMNT is based heavily on the 1980’s Fred Wolf Series, though you may seem some other elements thrown in as well as well asa common time period. The concept of the “Brotherhood of Life” is taken from Max Brooks’ “Zombie Survival Guide” Plot elements and ideas are the property of the authors’.

Prologue

Japan, April 4, 1644

The air hung heavy. The old aged ones could smell the coming sulfur and brimstone. It would be impossible to miss the aura that snuck about the temple walls, like an uninvited serpent, preying on anything it encountered and devouring without any remorse. Silence reigned in the old weathered rooms. There were very few left. Most of the members had left weeks ago but he had had remained. Dipping his ink quill again, he unrolled another scroll, jotting down information, last minute specifics. He had very little time left. Not because of age, though he was hardly young, but because of other factors. The premonitions had been so intensive.

Blowing lightly to help dry the ink, he rolled the scroll, sealing it with the dragon’s foot symbol. Granted, it was not the Brotherhood’s symbol but the Brotherhood was disintegrating. Truth be told, he had been ordered by his master to destroy all documents relating to their activities. Despite the good they were doing, it was for the best of public relations that the destruction and presence of demons be kept quiet. Panic tended to dull the mind and the blissful ignorance that demons resided only in the minds of frightened children tended to keep the people calm. Far too often, history was amess with empires that fell to the sound of panic and anguish. If ignorance would keep the peace and maintain a harmony, then secretive methods were necessary.

The deaths of a few dozen of his colleagues to maintain anonymity did not weigh as heavy on his conscience as the safety of a nation. He mourned his lost partners but their sacrifice had paid for the extinguishment of demons from the land. The last had been seen two months ago and neither sound nor sight had been reported since. The elders breathed sighs of relief as they prepared to reenter the everyday life of feeding and caring for families. He remembered those days, though they had passed into memory, with far less joyful memories taking their place. For the past ten years, his life had been revolved about demons, monsters and the creatures of darkest fantasy. He had shed a tear or two of relief when word first came that the Brotherhood of Life was finally disbanding, their use done. Though, it was short-lived relief.

He was not a fool. As much as he would love for the demons to remain buried in the past, the images he had received in the sacred fire told him otherwise. He was blessed and cursed, depending on the situation, of seeing things yet to come. When he was young, he had dismissed them as childhood fantasy, as images brought upon by the dark coils of imagination. As time marched on, however, he realized that nearly all of his visions and dreams had come to pass in one way or another. He had entered into Shinto work in an attempt to still the horrors of his visions and while the visions continued, he had learned to interpret them, to use them rather than be hindered by them. It was partially because of his visions that the Brotherhood had sought him out. He had been reluctant; he had a wife and a child. However, the order was persistent and he had found himself thrust into the living Hell of tracking and murdering all-too-real monsters, as he saw his son’s own innocence die before it truly had a chance to grow. It saddened him immensely, to see his child pass through adolescence, knowing all too well that the demons people spoke of were no conjuring of the mind but very real creatures that lurked in wait.

He had lived with hunting these demons for years; those images he was forced to endure in the silence of night were near perfect replication of the living nightmares he had fought. As the years had pressed on, the visions became stronger, more detailed, and he had learned early one that these were warnings. They told of potential attacks, they told of hot spots for outbreaks and they kept the order informed; the order strove to keep the overall public ignorant of their actions and his visions were truly an aid.

The images of the demons were impossible to forget: grotesque, broken images of man, some not even able to see anymore but relentless at passing their curse onto the next victim. He had killed more than he cared to recall. They had tried sutras, charms, chants but all without any success, each time hoping to release their fellows from this curse. If anything, this had merely allowed the curse to pass more readily, with access to the priests. Though, it had allowed them to ascertain that the breaking of skin was necessary. The hardest part was watching one slowly become possessed. It would have been far more humane to watch an instantaneous take-over by a monster but no, this demon took its time, quick enough that very little could be done except manage an isolation of the lost one but slow enough that the poor soul was well aware what was becoming of them.

Many of them welcomed death if they stayed in control of their own bodies long enough.

The man closed his eyes tightly. He had fought the demons with fervor, with enthusiasm. After the fifth one, he had become numb to it. He no longer saw his fellow man, simply monsters that existed to extinguish everything he held dear. He had torn through them, one after another, only feeling relief when they went up in smoke and flame. He had been content with that, able to numb his mind to the thought of them being fellow human beings. It became so easy after a while, because the demons lost all trace of the humans they had once been. They walked without coordination, eyes nearly unseeing after a certain amount of time, senses that were slow to respond, if they responded at all. Eventually, they became little more than decomposing ghouls that wandered, never satisfied until they were put out of their misery. The demons preyed on the bodies for nourishment, eventually; the possession itself was a death sentence, eating away blood, flesh and bone.

The Order took it upon themselves to reduce collateral damage, taking out as many demons as possible before they could plant their eggs in other victims.

This was not an easy task. Usual methods: arrows, bo, nothing short of a blade through the head was effective. They had learned that early on in the order. It seemed appropriate, the demon lurked where the spirit of the person sat. To free the person’s soul meant destroying its resting spot, freeing it from the confines of both the demon invader and their earthly form. The grotesque nature of their work was a determent to many. Those wishing to be a part of the order had a great many tests they had to survive, one of which was spending a night with nothing but their wits in the room with the living heads.

They had kept them out of necessity, hoping to learn from them, as they refused to die. Even separated from a body, the heads still blinked, the lips still moved and while little noise could be made (as most of the vocal cords were slit when the head was removed) the overall appearance of them: shrunken skin, eyes either missing or slowly rotting away, lips that split and fell apart in pieces of flesh and blood, was enough to made the bravest soldier run in terror. While little had been learned, aside from an effective means of dealing with the demons: simple execution, they served the purpose of sorting out the weakened ones. Only those devoted to their cause made it through the night without retreating in panic.

He remembered his ordeal in it quite well: a night that seemed to stretch for a thousand years. The heads, without bodies, still moved, still made sounds and seemed to moan in misery. They never approached him of course, having no means of transport, but the mere presence was unnerving. The room seemed to reek of an unrelenting evil force. Shadows seemed to move with purpose, as if they might suffocate the occupant. He had sat in deep meditation through the entire night, trembling even as he sought peace within his mind. It was like being the presence of darkness and trying to focus on a simple, flickering candlelight. He had endured, survived but it had forever changed his outlook.

Now, as the scent of disaster lingered in the air, he finished his last scroll, sealed it and gently placed it into his small bamboo chest. He stared at the content for a moment: he was supposed to burn all of it, to seal the secrets of the Brotherhood of Life in soot and ash. However, he was not like most of the Order. He had a wife…well; he had one at one point. She had gifted him with a son and soon after, when his visions had begun of these monsters; she had been claimed by their curse. He tried the best he could not to remember that. It reminded him of the humans the demons started out as and it did little but depress him. There was no cure for possession except to eliminate the earthly shell. He had dispatched his wife himself, freeing her from the flesh-eating curse. He had done so with tears staining his face but he did not trust his comrades to have a firm and steady hand. They knew nothing of what the possessed felt but on the off chance they could feel pain, even through their possession, he wanted her end to be swift, painless. He had taken her head with one swipe of his katana blade and that blade he had wrapped and laid within this very chest, where it still lingered. He never touched it again.

She had left him his son and years later, his son had granted him a grandson and a granddaughter. His grandson was ten years old and they would soon flee this hell on earth.

“<Father?>”

Closing the chest, he turned, “<My son,>” he spoke in his heavy Japanese accent, bowing his head “<Where are my grandchildren?>”

“<They’ve already been taken to the horses. My wife just waits for me. I came for you Father.>” The tall dark haired young man spoke calmly, though his eyes were full of mixed emotions. The very pattern of nature was reflecting a coming disaster. The mountain had been spewing smoke for days now and the earthquakes had begun in earnest. It was as if the Gods themselves were intent on burying the evil of this place under a blanket of ash, fire and smoke. He had never been so ready to flee a place but his father had not come with the rest of them.

The elderly man bowed his head “<You put me to shame, child. I cannot come with you.>”

“<Father!>” came the protest. “<You must! The karma of this place draws the wrath of the Gods! You will…>”

“<I am well aware, my son.>” the man spoke calmly, without fear and locked eyes with his grown child. <It is alright. I do not trust the lingering spirits here. I will remain and ensure they are extinguished.>”

The man before him took a heavy swallow. “<Father…>”

Breaking into a small smile, the first in many years, the old mystic smiled at his child. “<Jinsei, you are a loyal and honorable son. I pass a greater task still onto you.>” Kneeling, he retrieved the old bamboo chest. “<Take this with you, guard it well and when the children are old enough, when maturity has deemed them wise enough to understand, tell them of this place, tell them of the demons we have fought and managed to keep contained.>” He took a deep breath <Tell Saki, tell Shin. Tell them the signs, tell them the warnings. Keep them prepared. Teach them to teach our line. Make sure our family line will never fall to these Hell spawn…they took one of us…>”

Jinsei closed his eyes, “<Mother…>”

“<Never forget that, my son!>” Here the older man’s voice took on all the energy and strength of a man half his age. His echoed cry screamed of passion and determination, “<They stole your mother. Do not allow my grandchildren, or their children to ever fall the same way.>” Pushing the bamboo chest into his son’s arms, he commanded, his eyes flashing “<Go now! Take my grandchildren, take my daughter-in-law and flee this earthly pit! Go swiftly! Do not turn back and do not look back…ever!>”

Silence for a long moment before Jinsei bowed deeply and stammered “<As…you wish, honorable Father.>”

The elder man, Shibo’Dira, stood a moment more at his son before he took him into a tight embrace. Physical affection was hardly something he was known for. He showed it in far superior ways but now, faced with the last time he would see his son until their souls perhaps crossed again in later lives, he held him tightly, unlike he had ever done since he had been born. For a short while, he held him, trying to memorize his features then just as swiftly, he pulled away and commanded firmly “<Go, my son. Go quickly.>”

The young man turned, chest in hand, and while he paused at the doorway leading outside, where his wife and children awaited, he heeded his father’s command and did not look back. “<Farewell, Father.>”

Then, just like that, he was gone. The sound of horses’ hooves rose not long after and amid the winds and rumbling earth, Shibo’Dira could hear his grandchildren’s pleading cries for their grandfather fade into the distance. He stood still a moment, eyes firmly shut before walking down the temple halls. He stopped outside an old familiar room, a room he had long since avoided. He had been within its walls once, when he entered this profession, this profession of demon slaying. Pushing open the door, he narrowed his eyes.

The living heads still remained, some moaning, most simply moving, trapped amid their possession. Eyes were half rotted away, some missing entirely. Tongues had long since withered and turned to dust. Teeth full of holes and ate away by acidic environment and nature, lips no longer existent. Yet, they still remained, lingering, howling and hoping to spread their curse. Nothing remained of the humans they had once been, only an empty, soulless shell. They refused to pass into the Afterlife.

The ground rumbled again. Smoke filled the air outside and the scent of fire began to emerge, amid shakes, rumbles and a loud explosion in the distance. The Gods had issued their statement and judgment.

Hamato Shibo’Dira took a seat, within the doorway, sitting in a lotus position. Closing his eyes, he sat still, waited, and welcomed the heat, “<Protect my son.>” Calm, relaxed, for a mere moment, a final image, a final flash occurred to him: those demons he had come to fear and despise, falling in the dozens, by the hands of another creature, neither human nor animal. Eyes full of sadness and rage but through the anger, sorrow and determination: honor.

“<So…a demon conquered.>” He gave a hefty last breath, “<By Honor.>”

Chapter One

Present Day

An excavation was hardly his forte but given the right amount of force, as well as the right amount of money, and it was truly surprising what could be accomplished. They did state that money was the root of all evil and in his case, having the right amount of it, allowed for just the right amount of manpower. Having Foot Soldiers was one thing but even his resources had their limits. Luckily, a few well-placed bank heists had made his bank account significantly fatter. He was normally not the type to fulfill his part of the bargain but since he was determined to remain secretive about his efforts, honorably paying for his work force was deemed a necessity.

He was well known here and his human loyalists had not failed him. When his command was issued, they came in dozens of numbers. They had sworn their loyalty to him long ago and it carried through. He supplemented his followers with paid workers, only ten in number. They had been pulled from shelters and from the streets. When their task was done, he could dispose of them easily and not have them be missed or at least not for a while. So far, it had served him well. The excavation had gone undiscovered, despite it being well into its third week. Keeping Krang otherwise occupied had been another manner but the old tyrant was easily distracted with BeBop and Rocksteady. They caused enough mischief to keep him out of his hair.

His efforts had not been for naught. Stopping his car, Oroku Saki climbed from the vehicle to walk to remaining distance to the site. It had truly been a pain to uncover this place. Superstitions had truly filled in the last of the holes. The people about here placed a great deal of weight in stories of spirits, haunts and spooks. Uncovering the nearest “cursed” place had been fairly easy and when he found the one cursed place where no birds flew and no animals dared venture, he had begun to dig.

As it currently stood, the remains of a temple were slowly emerging from layers of dirt, grass and hardened soot. It was amazingly well preserved; it looked as if the place had merely been painted over in white and brown paint. The stone had given away over time but all in all, it was fairly easy to see the details. There were nearly no bodies hardened under the ash but it seemed the temple had been abandoned days prior to the disaster. Unlike expected no doubt, the volcanic eruption that had shook the temple had not brought a quick end of fire but one of smoke and grey clouded ash. In this case, it served him well. He had not expected to find the Temple in the type of condition it was. It made his purposes all the easier.

Learning about the Brotherhood of Life had been a trial. It was connecting frayed lines of information, hidden away in past relics and wrapped in enigmas. Predictably, the only word he heard on it had been passed in rumor, from wives’ tale to legend and myth. However, as ridiculous as some of them had been, he had grown up hearing them. His parents had often disregarded them as fairy tales but he had clung to them, fascinated by the concept. Demons he used to think were simply things of children’s stories but with the turns his life had taken in the last few years, he was willing to consider them established fact.

After all, he currently worked with a bodiless alien, commanded at least two mutants, had turned an ex-henchman into a fly and fought his ancient rival turned into a rat, only to discover his foe had raised four humanoid turtles as his own children.

All from the command post of a giant war machine in a separate dimension.

It was pretty well established that nothing was beyond the grasp of plausible.

That said, it had been difficult to discover the truth behind those old fairy tales. Luckily for him, he was well versed in dark stories and knew just where to look. He had been in command of the Foot Clan for quite some time and it had not taken long to gather his best warriors and send them in. He had told them that their lives depended on their success as well as bribed them with the promise of wealth and riches. While he certainly did not fulfill all his words, he was wise enough to fulfill just enough that people would still attempt to please him, out of the hopes he would smile upon them and grant what he promised. All things said and done, offer enough of an incentive and most would waltz into Hell’s fire barefoot.

Honor was overrated and he took every advantage of it.

Speaking of which, those who had failed him had been piled up in the furthest corner of the land. He gave all kinds of excuses to those that questioned it, from accidents to diseases, all with the promise that their families had been contacted and would be arriving soon. Most of them had actually been lost raiding the offices for the information he needed. They had gone in with about twenty, emerged with three but all he cared about was that they had came back with the information in hand.

With a low smirk, he said aloud, “If you’re looking for buried secrets, dark cover-ups and overall despicable actions, you need not look any further than the files of the government.”

Japan’s government had not failed him in that regard. It had been hard to get ahold of the files, even for him, but given their age, they had still been in written format. A lot of the government was trying to find other means to preserve their records and while they pretended these old files did not exist; they had been remarkable well preserved for files that did not exist. He had to resist tearing through them as soon as he received them but instead had managed to contain himself long enough to sort through them slowly.

Looking down at the files he still held in his hands, he made out the faded kanji for “Black Dragon” and further down the sheets still, “Cherry Blossom Project.”

Old forgotten trials that created an invincible army, one that could not be killed, one that could not be conquered. It had turned on itself. They had been careless but if he had the means, the knowledge, he could do the same. Imagine that, an army impossible to kill! An army that could not feel fear, that would never surrender! He could finally rid himself of those troublesome turtles but far beyond that! He could be rid of that bothersome Krang and those stupid mutant lackeys of his. The world would remember why they dreaded the name “Shredder!”

As cliché as it sounded, the world would fall to his feet. He would conquer, like he had taken the Foot Clan, he would take country after country! He was so close to his victories that he nearly could taste it, he could hear his triumph, ringing in his ears.

“Master!”

Torn from his thoughts, he looked up to see one of his more loyal human warriors, Kenji, calling to him, “Master, we have found the entryway.”

Jumping down, he slid down the side of the deep ravine, tripping somewhat at the bottom but catching himself quickly. Boots stirring up old dust and forgotten ash, he made his way forward, where his men were gathered about a single entry way. There were half destroyed pillars, decorated with dust and old decaying stones but he ignored them. It was fairly obvious that an old hallway used to exist here but it had been torn away with time. In fact, most of the old temple had crumbled into small piles of cracked bricks and dead plants. But, amid the forgotten stone walkways, one large room still stood, nearly intact.

Excitement nearly making him burst, he paused as he neared it. Yes, yes, he was more certain than ever that this was it.

His excitement had brought all his workers closer. It was tempting to just be done with them now but no, he could not do that yet. It was not yet time. He needed to know for certain. He waited, a bit then put on his best charismatic smile and waved at his few hired hands, the homeless men who had jumped at the chance to earn any money and had already cost him quite a bit of money by the day. But they would raise the least amount of questions; they could not afford to ask questions. Now, he would make sure his money had been worth it.

“Gentlemen,” he cooed, his voice dripping with false sincerity, “Please, walk with me to see the fruits of your hard labor!”

The five men eyed him but sensing a chance to acquire more work, they followed. Oroku Saki never bothered to learn their names but that also meant he asked no questions, required no tests and was not about to report anything to the government. He paid well. Far more than most manual labor did. It was a chance for them to start all over again and that made them grin. They all had plans for when this job was done and the new start they would begin. If this discovery meant possible further digs and perhaps categorizing finds then that was potential more work for them!

As for the man in charge, Oroku Saki was quite distracted. Walking the short distance on broken and missing stone tiles, he came upon the small room, amazingly well preserved. Though not one generally well attuned to spirits or the like, it was impossible not to feel the negative charge within the air. While it made his workers wince even as they followed, it made the Shredder grin all the wider. The more negative enrgy he felt, the more excited he became. Truly, the tales of these demons had not been exaggerated! If they could still generate such energy, even after all these centuries, then they were more than perfect for his plans.

Right outside the doorway, Shredder stopped his trek.

Amazingly well preserved under volcanic rock and ash, was the simple figure of a meditating man. To others, including his workers who began to say a silent prayer for the man, he seemed a simple temple priest who had not fled in time. However, as Oroku Saki looked him over, he recognized all too clearly the signs of his ancient adversary. The same calm demeanor upon the face, the longer chin, the smaller eyes, the deceptively small build that hid incredible power. Yes, there was no doubt in his mind: this was the ancestor of Hamato Yoshi.

Still attempting to protect, even in death. Lotus style, permanently sealed in stone, eyes closed, in deep meditation.

Shredder, Oroku Saki, laughed out loud, “You old fool.” Storming past the figure, he swung out with the hilt of his katana which he kept close even in business clothing disguise, and shattered the ancient relic into a cloud of dust and forgotten bones. Amid the ruckus, he heard his hired hands engage in deep bouts of prayer. Superstitious fools but they served him well. Stepping over the broken dust and dirt, he slipped through the old entry way. Reaching into his shirt, an odd feeling being without his armor, he withdrew a flash light and cast it upon the room.

Those behind him screamed but to their credit, they did not flee. They were still too deeply invested and needed their pay. As for Shredder, his eyes glistened and shone as he cast his small light upon wall after wall.

“it’s true.” He breathed aloud to himself. “it’s all true!”

As true as the old legends said, adorning the walls were heads. No bodies or people, just heads. But these heads moved, they writhed, they bit at the open air. Their skin had begun to decay and vanish and very few teeth remained but even with that, their skulled remains attempted to make themselves known, to make noise, to continue their plague. Oh, yes, even as decayed as these were, with the proper equipment he would make use of the demons that invested them. All demons had their price and he meant to extract it by force and utilize it. Oh, the things he would achieve with it! It made his entire body tremble with anticipation.

“Foot Soldiers!” he called over his shoulder to his robotic minions. He had not brought many of the mechanical ones because their ability to do physical labor was limited but they were useful in this sense. Five of them stepped forward, pushing the human workers aside, who blanched after them in shock, and stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Take two from the side walls and one from the back and place them in the boxes I provided. Be quick.”

Always loyal, being robotic, the androids set to work instantly. One by one, five heads went into steel boxes that the soldiers placed on the center of the room. One that had been male at one point but had experienced the most damaged, decayed almost entirely to bone, one that had been young perhaps a teenager by some standards but had withered to broken skin and missing eyes, one that had been old and female but still maintained quite a bit of her hair though it had turned hard and breaking, one that had been middle-aged male and had scars visible right down to the bone and the last one was young, hardly beyond the single digit years but torn and beaten nearly beyond recognition. All five of them still moved, still attempted to bite, even if they had nothing to bite with, and they all only went silent when the lids of the steel boxes were clamped shut.

Shredder stood by the doorway as his soldiers carried them out one at a time. As the last one exited, he observed his passive workers finally make their way towards him though he noted they kept as far from the walls as they could. They bowed lightly, out of respect, but the eldest asked, “Good sir, with all due respect, should you be removing these…things from a temple? Surely the spirits would not approve. They have obviously been guarded.”

Turning slightly, he regarded them, planting a sincere smile across his face. “Oh, I suppose it is rather disrespectful to desecrate this place by removing five of the heads.”

Without another word, he unsheathed his sword as he turned to walk out, slicing it through five equally shocked necks. Glancing down as the five fell to the ground, still in a death jolt, he smirked lightly at the mouths locked permanently open, “Allow me to leave five.”

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles 1987 darker tone #TMNT vs Walking Dead #fanfiction plot bunnies #fanfiction preview #I hate writer's block but I do like this so far

5 notes · View notes