#and it was because of this weakness why ranger failed

[myaorta00912d53]

dr. namida is a researcher that specializes in positive emotions. she recently started a new side project, a case study.

the period of data collection officially ended today.

atop a stack of papers sat a broken doll head. the body of her colleague had just been disposed. the death game continues.

red eyes honed in on the growing lines of text on the screen. the rapid pace of keys clicking harmonized with the ambient whir of computer fans.

she doesn't sleep for another night. how could she? in her hands was another beautiful reality. it only served to support her dearest proposition: even positive emotions could kill.

she would write about it all night.

[toptophat]

Goddamnit, Me!!! Why am I so confusing sometimes 😭😭

I realise I won't be able to wait that long I'd probably give up and do it halfway so when Shadow of A Ranger does pop up it's gonna be the second part!! Because this cyborg cowboy just lives rent free in my head and I don't know if he'll ever move out!!! (Pls don't move out! It's a pleasure to have you!! Just pay the gosh darn rent!!!)

SPOILERS FOR 2.6!!! IF YOU DON'T WANT THAT, SAVE YOURSELF!!!

First things first imma talk about the dreampeek call (which I'm surprised is legal, like what if a dream is too private?? 😅) so yeah, in summary, young Boothill is having dinner with his adoptive parents, the "Harsh Male Voice" confirmed to be Nick and the "Gentle Female Voice" which is most likely Graey. So during said dinner Nick is telling Boothill old cowboy tales to which Boothill would ask "To throw all that away to pursue someone who might not even exist, is it worth it?"

Doesn't that remind you of anyone?

Of course it does, cuz that's the exact kind of person the little Boothill would eventually grow up to be! He replaced his human parts for cyborg parts to evolve and grow stronger to chase an IPC scumbag who remains invisible in all but name. He sacrificed all of his happiness for this because justice needs to be served! I also find it interesting how, even in his dream, he can't bring himself to mention his real name... Almost as if he's punishing himself for being the one to survive, he feels as if he doesn't deserve that beautiful name and should instead embrace his role as the Boothill of his fallen home. He never even wants to think of that name because it's a reminder that his past self failed, that his past self was too weak to stop his home from being destroyed. It's like he feels unworthy of that humanity!And now that he's basically been reborn into the cyborg body, his humanity can no longer hold him back from his hunt!

After the young Boothill raises this question, Nick responds with "There ain't no reason needed for vengeance, only baddies need reasons" and yeah, that's true! Boothill never had to make excuses as to why he hunts the IPC, because his motive was always justified, they killed his family and his whole world, of course he doesn't need an excuse!!! And of course this dreampeek call foreshadows my new favourite Boothill scenes!!

The Assistanana therapy session!!! Or rather what it claimed to be one!! So in Boothill's POV he's asked some questions. One of which while less impactful at first, it makes you think, earlier he ordered 7 glasses of malt juice and drank a bit from each of them, passing it off as a habit, malt juice may not just be his go-to drink as a pass time but a comfort drink as a way to drink his sorrows away, it's one of the only things he has left in the world so he clings to it. And it's clear that he ordered 7 specifically because he always used to drink it with his family back then, perhaps now that they're gone, he drinks from each glass to sort of pretend that they're still here with him for a while? And now the Assistanana is asking him that if he gives up this comfort drink "will this make you worse off?" Giving up maybe the only time of bittersweet comfort he has...

The other question is more specific to his current struggle "For a person who has made revenge their sole purpose in life, what would happen if that hatred were to vanish?" Aside from this being the Assistanana's way of getting to Boothill, it does raise another question... Yeah! Boothill has dedicated his life to hunt down the IPC, if he succeeds in this hunt, what exactly will he do after? Sure, he could continue punishing evil but what is there for him to return to? He'd have no more grudges, sure but everything he ever loved is still gone... He'll have nothing to live for, just an empty shell of himself with no more purpose. I think it was also said that people give into Assistanana's words by choice. So Boothill wanted to give in, he wanted to be free of his burden, he wanted to be human again. He wants to have something to live for again! In fact he wants to be alive again... So he gave in...

And here's when things get bananas!!! March 7th interrupts the "therapy session" and tries to escape, the Assistanana blocks their way revealing that Boothill is still in that trance like state and when asked to shoot March 7th it's also revealed that the session had such an effect on Boothill that it set his mind several years into the past, the past he could never bring himself to share. It was definitely an interesting decision to not show a child Boothill model, and I feel like this works, it isn't the way we're used to seeing Boothill act, he's rough, reckless, loud and extroverted, this man points his gun at people before he even decides to introduce himself, and let's not forget that, if not for the synesthesia beacon, he'd be swearing like a sailor!!

So seeing Boothill in the appearance we recognise juxtaposed with him talking as his past self: more innocent, gentle and polite, it definitely got me in the feels. And it shows that his mind was messed with to the point where it escaped to a place he never thought he'd go to again... And this is also the first time he mentioned "Aeragan-Epharshel" and Nick in years and we obviously know why he'd feel uncomfortable bringing it up! But let's see what the young Boothill says about his home world

"Death is the fairest form of grace" especially in battle, when one dies in the heat of conflict they'll be buried right there in the ol Boot Hill. Our man has been longing for this grace ever since Oswaldo Schneider (istg we better get to kill this ugly "thing" soon!!) took his paradise away. Boothill kept on hoping that he'd enter a permanent rest during the surgery. He feels disgraced from the fact that he lived when it could've been any of his loved ones, even his little girl that just started to walk for the first time, she never got to even experience life to understand death, perhaps it wasn't so fair at that moment, remember, Boothill doesn't consider himself to be completely alive, so maybe this form of death wasn't graceful at all

Hmmm, a part of me feels as if that wasn't just the young Boothill talking in those moments... Think about it, he still knew that the Assistanana couldn't be trusted, after all "only baddies need reasons" how even though he became a much more innocent version of himself, his spirit stays the same, perhaps he's always been in tune with himself, sure, he's much more aggressive as an adult but as much as he tries to hide it, he has a good heart, inspiring people to try new things (Robin), making up for first impressions (Luka) and cheering on friends (Rappa) it's also a nice touch that his younger self (in the image) is seen wearing accessories that our Boothill still wears! I remember seeing somewhere that Boothill may have had the sharky teeth even as a child, if that's so then maybe Boothill is more in sync with himself than he'd prefer to say, perhaps Boothill was even letting down his guard willingly, letting himself be vulnerable for a moment to finally get a clear shot? He definitely wanted that escapism but he knows that it's never gonna be real. Because it seems like the past Boothill and our Boothill aren't so different, it's just that our guy is dead set on his sole mission in life, and he's definitely not gonna let some fake euphoria distract him. Perhaps I was wrong, his old self didn't die on Aeragan-Epharshel, it simply adapted, inhabiting this new body and maintaining the new guy's humanity and kindness!

And then he proceeds to go apeshit on the Assistananas and Slumbernana monkeys!! As payback for trespassing in a place where they absolutely were not welcome! I think that was both Boothills in that moment because seriously, wtf Assistanana leave my boi alone!!!! Truly my favourite part of 2.6, heck even the entire game so far!! (I'm not biased) I'm just obsessed with his journey and I can't wait to see how it gets resolved, especially when all Boothill mains can collectively murder and torture Oswaldo 😁

It's just fun to put down my disorganised interpretation of things!

Edit: HOLY BABY!!! HE DID HAVE HIS SHARKY TEETH AS A CHILD!!!

[wolfwhisperertf]

I was tagged by @trickerys-domain to make my OCs this picrew!! Thank you for tagging me, I've honestly been looking for a new OC creator for a while and this one is great!

Merinda Aeducan (she/they): She did their best to embody everything that made a dwarf honorable; strength, cunning, loyalty. She was kind to a fault but made sure no one saw that as a weakness. A powerful duelist that always saw herself walking the path of a general for their family. She never imagined becoming a warden but jumped at the chance since it was the only way they would be able to continue fighting. She fell for Alastair quickly because of their shared humor. She made fast friends with most of the companions... Leliana the sister she never had, Wynn the mother they lost long ago, Alastair the love she thought never to be found again. (she was in love with Gorim) When Merinda learned of the true nature of killing the arch-dragon she was just angry, angry and rescinded. When Morrigan returned with her solution they almost didn't ask Alistair but in the end no one had to die.

Tahoe Hawke (he/him): A mage who only ever wished to protect his family. In the beginning I played Tahoe much more blue, a paragon that tried to save everyone he could. The more he failed at that task however, the more purple he became. He liked Isabela but only truly ever had eyes for Fenris. Their relationship was not all sunshine and rainbows however, if Fenris said something hurtful about mages, Tahoe would openly flirt with Isabela. Eventually they figured their romance out but the more Fenris healed the more Tahoe broke. *trigger warning* His sacrifice in the Fade was just a thinly veiled suicide... Varric knew it, Fenris knew it.

Eirwen Lavellan (she/her): Once a hunter for her clan but always a ranger at heart. Eirwen wore the vallaslin of Gilan'nain because of her hope to one day become the clan's Halla keeper like her grandfather. She loved to explore the forest and like many of her clan she was fast to tolerate humans. She took it one step farther however, she befriended some of the human hunter's that shared the same woods as her clan. It was because of her open heart that the Keeper sent Eirwen to the conclave. Becoming the Inquisitor was hard but somehow through all of it Eirwen enjoyed it, she enjoyed learning about the world, seeing forgotten ruins, making friends in all corners of the nations... strange as it sounds maybe that's why she found it so easy to let go of. For now Eirwen is content living out the rest of her years with her Cully-Wully, helping him with his Templar Sanctuary. Spending nights listing to Dorian complain about magisters or pretending to complain about the last surprise Bull sent him. And on very rare nights she sneaks off in her old armor with a crossbow hidden under her cloak.

No pressure tag to @afamoore, @dovahbee, and anyone else who wants to! (doesn't even have to be dragon age)

[danwhobrowses]

So I Finally Finished a Playthrough of Baldur's Gate 3

It's been months of playing over my holidays and the weekends, but I've finally completed my first playthrough of what was deemed Game of the Year for 2023.

As someone whose only D&D experiences come from the two movies (the bad one that traumatized me as a kid by killing Snails and the good one that deserves more love) and Critical Role, I didn't know much of what I was getting into, only my coworkers saying 'buy it, it's a masterpiece' unanimously when I inquired about it. Having no idea how to play or the lore, I was very much entering blind.

Continued down the Keep Reading

So, I'm sure we gotta get through the first set of questions so let's get to them.

What was your Tav? It took a long time to realise that 'Tav' meant your player character among fanpages, I can't tell you why it's Tav still, but I only pieced it together from Durge naming too. My Tav is Dec, short for December because that's when I started playing and I couldn't waste too much time on stream thinking up a clever name. He was a High Elf Guild Artisan, for Class I started as a Beast Master Ranger, ironic that Ranger is deemed one of the lesser classes among the community, I was adamant to not use archery at the start but by the end of it I was a Crossbow Expert. I went 9/3 with Rogue to get Assassin, but then respec'd my Ranger into a Gloomstalker, since I never really summoned the bear (probably should've learned from Sam's constant dissing of Trinket eh?) plus when I remembered Dread Ambusher it gave me 3 attacks on the first turn. He has combustible blood thanks to Araj and some tadpole powers after consuming them after the creche incident made him more open to trusting the Dream Visitor; Charm - which failed 90% of the time - Psionic Backlash, Favourable Beginnings and Luck of the Far Realms used mainly, I had Stage Fright and Force Tunnel but didn't use it, same for Cull the Weak. Likes to talk things through, especially with Persuasion/Charisma buffing invisible hats. Has the Duellist's Perogative Sword and the Swire's Sledboard Shield for Melee, and the AC bonus, plus the Armor of Agility giving him an evasive 24 AC with Advantage thanks to 20 DEX and the Cloak of Displacement.

You can't see his scar and tattoo too well from here but I had to show off his Black Furnace and Red dye on his armour it looks too good. Here's a better look of his face:

For his tattoo and scarring I like to think he got the tattoo after the burn, in some ways distracting it from the scarring.

Did you Save Scum? Don't Lie to Me! Yes and I'm not sorry about it. If you wanna invite me to a D&D table I'll follow the rules and how the dice lands but there's a lot more wiggle room there than in a game where there's finite dialogue options. I was also not going to sit there and let my companions turn against me just because the game fancied throwing continual Nat 1s or low rolls at me, nor would I let Omeluum die in the Iron Throne, or end up leaving the Mirror of Loss empty handed. I bought the game so if I wanna carve this experience this way I shall carve it this way, I get some people see the Morally Good path as boring for this kind of gaming but I like to be good, it feels good, and I want good things to happen for my allies, even if it means having to undo most of their religious indoctrination. But, it did take a while for me to start save scumming, really it was freeing Halsin that started it but it didn't become regular until Auntie Ethel. I only really did it for dialogue/lore expansion (or when there were two dialogue options I was between which I hoped would be interpreted how I expect it to) and for necessary buff rolls like the Mirror of Loss, but sometimes I did it to keep some key NPCs alive like Jaheira, who died at Moonrise the first time.

Who did you usually team up with? Kinda a harem squad since I had Lae'zel, Shadowheart and Karlach. I was very combat-oriented; Lae'zel adding support to Karlach's melee or Dec's ranged combat while Shadowheart made up for most of the magic with heals, summons and like 100 scrolls in her bag (Dec horded about 100 different arrows and poisons too, sometimes pays off). I respec'd her to Light Domain after the Nightsong stuff to fit her character and hair change - though I must admit I preferred the black hair - and gave her my Adamantine Splint Armour for defences plus the ring and Balduran's Helm for +5 healing each turn. Lae'zel was a Battle Master, clad in the Helldusk set, though I didn't use much of her Superiority dice moves; the enemies often made saves against it even with 18 strength (20 after the mirror of loss, and higher at endgame thanks to an Elixir of Cloud Giant Strength), I relied more on her brute force, plus reaction skills like Executioner and Sentinel, plus the Silver Sword of the Astral Plane. Karlach was a 9/3 Bear Heart Barbarian and Champion Fighter, I did respec her for the Feats but the Bone armour, Balduran's Greatsword and Brutal Jump also helped at times, plus the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength and the Amulet of Greater Health made her a high damage, near-200 Health-on-Rage machine (over 200 thanks to the +30 extra health at the final battle). I tended not to swap around a lot, I couldn't abandon my healer, loved Karlach's personality and I had sentiment for Lae'zel being the first person I encountered, she has the sad eyes too, but I did do some rare switching for personal quests. Initially I started with Astarion, but that's because of a misunderstanding of who Karlach was - more on that later - and it turned out that I wasn't doing much for stealth, I brought him for Cazador though, much like I brought Wyll for Ansur and Gale for the Book of Karsus. Later in Act 3 I played around with dyes and equipped everyone, out of fear that I may be sprung unprepared like with Orin - Halsin only had a torch - by all campmates joining the fight, it didn't happen but everyone at least looks stylish.

I go between whether I like Wyll's colours though, on one hand he looks like a Templar and the white would stand out in Avernus, other times he looks like a cosplayer XD Minsc and Jaheira needed no dyes the colours already suited well, but I do love the colours I chose for Astarion, Halsin and Karlach.

Who did you fuck? (romance) Probably would've been asked sooner but sadly Dec became an unintended bachelor, at least outside of the headcanon. He did share a night of passion with Lae'zel after freeing the Emerald Grove but it wasn't something he wanted to pursue further, our dynamic was more befitting of two soldiers, or at least a dynamic where we think we're the General and the other the Advisor. Had Shadowheart took 'later' for her drink offer as 'I want to see all the dialogues other characters have first' rather than a refusal there might have been a romance there, instead I feel we fell into a more sibling bond, she can be a bit too sassy at times in passing dialogue - I had hoped to see more development with her and Lae'zel eventually being friends. Wyll did his best to throw sad puppy eyes at me when I refused to dance with him but it just made things more awkward, Gale meanwhile probably was gonna make moves when teaching me the Weave but he was very hung up on Mystra for me to entertain it, I sat with him when he felt the mortal coil though. Astarion I think made a passing suggestion but nothing of substance, Halsin left it late after he got kidnapped by Orin - I didn't realise he had to physically join the party to be a part of the group until Act 3 - coming onto me right before I confronted the Brain which was quickly turned down. I believe Minsc and Jaheira are unable to be romanced atm, and I did not fuck the Emperor; it weirded me out that he just was there shirtless chilling next to my unconscious dream state. We killed Minthara, didn't know you could recruit or romance her in a Morally Good path. Which left Karlach, fuck did I want to romance Karlach, not for lack of trying either; but because when I met Wyll he was talking about killing her I immediately assumed 'oh Karlach must be that woman on the cover with him' (aka 'the bitch who could've been cool if she wasn't such a bitch' Mizora, who I also wouldn't have romanced given the option) and stuck a pin in it, I was also unaware that most Act 1 romance stuff would come to a head at the end of the Emerald Grove quest which I prioritized so I only encountered Karlach after I saved Halsin and the Grove, meaning I couldn't reach Dammon until Act 2. By then Karlach seemed to be locked out of romance, perhaps for another misunderstanding on my part too since I did upgrade her engine twice at Lost Light very swiftly, but it still was a knife to the heart after all that and the date at the circus that she called us 'just mates' to Fytz. All this and then they give us a better kissing patch ¬_¬

Yes so sad, anyway what about ~Astarion~? Astarion is popular, and I know why he's popular, and the scene of him killing Cazador was very well done...but Astarion for me though was just fine; I mean you guys see Karlach right? Part of the reason she stays my group was that I can't bear to part from her. A lot of the times my Morally Good options didn't align with Astarion's brand of pessimistic chaos, so he spent a lot of time in camp as I mispronounced his name until I heard it be properly said, which probably hampered his story a bit more, but we had a close enough friendship that he heeded my advice with the Ascension and the spawn, wish he reacted to me getting a painting of him since he can't see his reflection though, felt like something could've been done there. Jaheira was a fun personality too, angry old lady who says it like it is, kinda wish we had more to her quest, seeing her home and her interacting with her wards/children was interesting, Minsc was charming too in his simple way, would've been cool if he had more of a presence as well, like we could hear about Minsc and the Stone Lord in separate lights earlier in the game to build up to him. On that topic, I was surprised to find that there wasn't a companion for each role, I suppose there were constraints but Aylin and Zevlor both worked as Paladins, Alfira a Bard (though I don't think anyone would dare put her in the line of fire), I suppose there's little need for a Sorcerer when you had a Wizard or a Monk when you had a Fighter and Barbarian but it was strange, you get 2 Druids and your Ranger is built more like a Fighter or Barbarian (the latter I added to Minsc). I'd later learn that there was cut content for a halfling companion who was a werewolf, but I can see why that one was cut, with Chetney and all, but yeah not any halflings, Barcus could've been a companion even without the Artificer class, or a Dragonborn.

So how did your story go? Being the Morally Good Guy I was I went through most of the best options I could, but I also tried to avoid combat earlier on when I was struggling to work with it. I was friendly with the Goblin Camp for starters, since they thought I was with the Absolute and Dec is willing to put shit on his face to avoid conflict, it all went tits up after freeing Halsin and having to kill everyone but it may've had some benefit to how I could walk freely through Moonrise. Ironically it was the same with the Githyanki, friendly up until they wanted me to hand over the prism, though the Creche was a lost cause anyway, they're lucky I didn't ransack the place, could've gotten a lot of xp and loot there. I let Viconia live, so she can dwell on that burn Shadowheart gave her but oftentimes I was not so merciful, do wish I didn't kill that one Sharran with the letter of hating being there though, why'd you fight me girl? Same with the Bhaalist with the parents at Elfsong, and the goblin children, I was using nonlethal but arrows don't count as I'd soon learn. Allies were mostly good-to-neutral creatures like the Tieflings (though I wish I saved more, nobody told me about the harpies and I thought convincing Rolan to stay would mean the Grove not the Shadow Cursed Lands - also why send refugees who struggle with goblins through the SHADOW CURSED LANDS?) and 90% of the Ironhand Gnomes because fuck Wulbren - I didn't like Barcus too much at first, thought him rude, but when Wulbren didn't even show gratitude for his attempts I softened to him. Kindness made me quite the enemy to others however; the infernal naturally did not appreciate my deeds of pact breaking but saving the Duke anyway and pilfering the House of Hope, but to be fair Raphael (and his clear portrait of himself I clocked onto immediately when he was in his human guise to know he was untrustworthy) never repaid me in-game for 'killing' Yurgir, and Mizora would've squirmed a lot more in her Ilithid pod had it been a table interaction - though, the latter two were more than willing to help me with the Absolute, 'cept Raphael because he's dead - but in my defence I loved outwitting and being a sassy little shit to demons. Slaying the Chosen was a given, as a very Pro-Karlach guy I was never letting Gortash live, got the Father/Grandfather-Daughter set with Bhaal too. Killing the former Balduran was disappointing; as much as he was on my side he always felt like he had his own ulterior motives, he also had a superiority complex to him with his constant urging of being half-Ilithid; thinks it's not important that he's Balduran either, dismissing Ansur's legend until confronted by Ansur's spirit. Stealing the Orphic Hammer was an insurance policy at first, I could understand Voss' disdain for us using Githyanki Jesus in a box like a forcefield, but it's a shame that the guy who was all about trust decided not to trust me in releasing Orpheus; we could've stopped the brain together! Omeluum would've heard me out. I mean Orpheus was a bit salty but he at least was willing to negotiate and not immediately side back with the brain like a petty bitch. I'd say the gods have mixed feelings with me; friendly with Selune and Lathander at least, and whatever Withers is - though the guy roasted me about my love life. The rest either neutral or anti; Shar and Vlaakith (if you can call her a god) definitely hate me, because they're sore losers, think Myrkul and Bhaal likely hate me, Bane however seemed to respect game not sure how I feel about that. I don't quite like Mystra, think she's a bit extreme with her treatment of Gale, but I understand her role, valid god but shitty person. On the other hand I probably have Cyric's favour for helping the Strange Ox, which might be bad...but Milil was happy to be recognized.

In the end, most of the allies got to live somewhat happily; Gale got the orb out of him and became a professor, Lae'zel - having dealt the final blow to the brain - leads the charge against Vlaakith after Orpheus became a Mind Flayer and was mercy killed, Shadowheart has her family (Shar would've always been with her regardless of her choice), a bunch of pets and can maybe reminisce with Nocturne again one day, Jaheira and Minsc - once he survives Zhentharim execution, didn't realise I needed to have him talk to Nine Fingers - also can rest with her wards and probably share drinks with Nine Fingers until the next fight, Astarion sadly has no cure for vampirism but he is owning it and killing the right people (I like to think he'll get to see the sun again, maybe Omeluum and the Mycolids help), plus Halsin has a bunch of kids in Moonrise to look after, plus Thaniel, Oliver and a new Owlbear who I'd rather had left with Dammon given the option. Isobel and Aylin can settle down, Rolan runs the Sundries, Hope is free, Alfira and Lakrissa got their bard's school, Florrick and Ravengard resume leadership to rebuild, Dammon has his forge, Scratch found a new home in this Mindy (but I remain best master), Mol I'm sure will be running the Guildhall in a few years, Thrumbo has a shelter for his brothers, Mayrina will raise her son without the threat of a hag, Vanra won't become a hag (but does need therapy), and Arabella will probably be the next Withers after reading some more rocks. Yenna didn't seem to have an ending so I'll assume that she found a loving home too, maybe with Halsin or as one of Jaheira's wards, or maybe Gale wants a Sous Chef since she did bring her own carving knife if you didn't know. I wish Alfira got invited to the epilogue, god of song is fine but not the familiar face and it would've been cool for them to meet, nice to get a letter at least, and we'll have to visit Art's grave sometime. Surprised we got no word about Mizora, I didn't get a letter from Geraldus even though he survived, Naaber apparently had more in him after wanting to be a dog, sad not to get anything from Rolan, Devella (I know Valeria mentioned her but c'mon), the Gondians, Mol, Omeluum, or Aylin and Isobel from the epilogue, did we really need the ramblings of Ettvard? Plus the papers must've glitched they said Stelmane's killer was still at large? Post-credits scene felt a bit weak mind you, but guessing Withers is that old God of Death Jerghal? Least he's not a surprise villain to fight. As for me, well, I was never one to give up on people and neither is Dec, and thus Dec and Karlach brave Avernus to seek a fix for her infernal engine, punch a few demons and whatnot, Wyll is there too as the Blade of Avernus, a role he embraced twice after barely contributing to killing Ansur but that's more proximity. We'll chill in the House of Hope especially after her letter, but soon enough we'll all return to Faerun on a more permanent basis.

So you enjoyed it? Yes, very much. I did of course make a lot of mistakes though; kept forgetting about Dread Ambusher for one, my earlier failures at romance still stung, I think the game wasn't as welcoming to those unfamiliar to it. The dice did not like me many times, I once got a Nat 1 in a 2 DC with +2 bonus, I also have had several instances of back-to-back Nat 1s, even had 6 in two different streams. Combat was an adjustment period, I missed a lot of the time which was frustrating, or the enemy would make saving throws on my gambits, Karlach even got pushed into the abyss at the Temple of Bhaal, I was livid. I think I probably would've experienced more if the game established better that you can long rest as much as you like without turning into a Mind Flayer, because much of Act 1 was me reluctant to Long Rest because they say you can change 'within 2-3 days', as a result that affected some romance options too, nobody to spend the night with if there's no night, as well as other in-camp interactions - Astarion never tried to bite me for instance, and I'm sure Raphael would've arrived to reward me for killing Yurgir had we not dealt with a backlog of interactions. I remained quite the hesitant player too, I ignored Gale stuck in a portal for a while fearing some magical backlash was gonna vaporize me, oftentimes I expected worse than what actually happened. Graphically there were a few characters whose cheeks were being pulled to the far left side of the map which was weird, and some battles would have enemies who would just do nothing for their turns, and some areas didn't render quick enough to not be noticed, but it was small stuff in comparison, I didn't do much for camp clothes or dyes until late on but probably for the better since style should be for the final act. I also keep seeing stuff that I somehow missed in my playthrough; like there's an angry squirrel near the grove? A frog in Ethel's house? A bird who wanted help with the giant eagles? What? Where?

What was the most difficult part? Act 3 had a lot of tough shit going down, though one of my most memorable struggles was against Auntie Ethel in Act 1. Already deep in her domain at lv4 it was a rough run to start with, continually hit by Hold Person by her projections, only when I learned they were one-hits did it become a little easier, but without Extra Attack it was still difficult. After that combat was here and there, sometimes it was just the environment like being jammed in a pipe when fighting Minsc; Lorroakan was annoying, Grym I had to be tactical with the hammer, the Assassin at the Facemaker was quite difficult too because he'd Haste himself and hide. The Death Shepherds in the Mountain Pass were surprisingly difficult without the Blood of Lathander, much easier with its Sunbeam. The companion quest final battles of Cazador, Ansur and Viconia were each difficult in their own way; the former was most annoying because my party would be downed but the thrown healing potions weren't working (plus those downed members were the ones with Radiant damage and holy water), wasn't even Bone Chilled like with Viconia, Ansur was difficult because of his burst attack. Raphael hits fucking hard, but once I realised that Hope kept dying because she was getting backlash from dealing Radiant Damage it was just attrition and lots of potion throwing. Combat-wise I think the toughest battle was Cazador due to the glitch of thrown potions not healing, otherwise the toughest boss was Ansur. Overall the most difficult experience I found was the timed operations of the Iron Throne.

Will you play again? Most likely, which is something I don't tend to say so Larian did do their job well. Though I might wait a bit to play other games first and give Larian time to add more content and finer polishing, I think I'd have a better time with it the second time around, would definitely try to resolve previous wrongs or missed opportunities, though I doubt I'd look forward to everything there; killing the Goblin Camp was still difficult work, same with the Steel Watch and all the turn limit stuff, I'll at least wait until I have Extra Attack before dealing with Ethel in Act 1 and take more Long Rests, maybe rotate the party a bit more and try out some other classes - but you will pry Speak with Animals out of my cold dead hands! Learning later about there being a bunch of cut content would entice me to play a third time if they reach a stage where all the intended content has been added in, but there's not exactly a time frame for that or a clear show of intent so far, so we'll see in that one, for all that is cut it seems like the end product is the tip of the iceberg. Enjoyed the play, played for a long time, would play again: money well spent.

[name-s-are-not-important]

Headcanon: Autistic Horace

In this essay I will...

(And I wrote the essay this time)

If someone has already written about this I apologise, I hadn't noticed, Kudos to you and I'm happy to add to the talks about it

Actually, we've already established that Halt is autistic. Right. It's Horace now.

I've already written a bit about him in terms of this headcanon and the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. So yes. Horace is autistic. (He's also dyslexic but there's no evidence for that in the canon any more, I see him that way).

We know he thinks very straightforwardly, which is what the canon makes fun of. He doesn't understand what the Lone Raven is about, he annoys Halt with his lack of understanding of dramatic symbols.

Horace sometimes doesn't understand that he's being made fun of. Canon juxtaposes him as this dumber warrior with these super-smart Rangers. But, Horace thinks strategically and is great at it. When he's the one planning the action, he figures things out faster than Halt. Replacing the king in the 8th book and making Halt's disguise, including make-up a'la goatee?

Horace doesn't understand why Rangers think so much instead of taking action on personal issues. But at the same time, he has low self-esteem himself and quite seriously assumes that he was sent abroad because he doesn't deserve to love Cassandra.

And now him and Halt. Like... think about it. The whole 'what? what?' conversation in the 3rd book is just two autistics who have passed each other by in terms of interpreting the code of conversation that has been in imposed and both as long as the other person in the conversation ko impose it. The combination of Halt and Horace, on the other hand, is at times a series of misunderstandings and at other times excellent communication, because few people understand them as well as they can understand each other. Teaching facial expressions in 8th book by Halt I've Got One Face And It's Not A Smile? Please....

Horace simplifies a lot of things, so that some he understands faster than others (like Wilyss being a thing) and some he doesn't. Because in his reasoning the cloak makes him invisible, so they shouldn't see him and that's it. Because Halt can't die since he's been through so much. And Will loves Alyss, and Alyss loves Will so what the hell to talk about, why the waiting here.

Horace has a fencing talent and doesn't follow orders mindlessly, when he's allowed to rely on intuition and his own reason, he goes awesome early on in his training. (Well, and he kills Morgarath with a technique he learned as a fun fact).

He doesn't immediately understand some of the jokes or subtext, but eventually he understood what the 'couriers' were about and had a contrived retort about thinking that he wanted to use at the right moment.

He interjects somewhat socially awkward remarks on the fly, which he interprets as offensive or rude after the fact and apologises for them. But at the same time, he then simply tells the truth. Ferris was a weak king, but they had no other.

And Halt must have taken notice of Will earlier, since he watched him while he was stealing the pies. Will didn't jump to that conclusion, having heard the explanation. Horace did, though he turned it into a joke. Equally, Horace notices the similarities, patterns and associations. People may recognise Halt as Ferris when they ride through Clonmel.

He has a strong sense of justice. How can you kill someone with poison instead of in an even fight? How can the king's seals be forged? You can't break out of a duel when you can't see anything if you've already stood up to fight. And one cannot fail to risk one's own life to defend friends or someone one has promised to help. Since there's bullying of junior cadets at the Batttleschool, Sir Rodney must know about it, it's probably the rules and that's it. And since Halt is moving to find Will, it's only right to go with him.

In conclusion: one of us. Neurodivergent Horace Altman.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.

(So far I can't think of any more examples from canon. But there probably are some and I'm still going to fight for this theory.)

[kimyoonmiauthor]

A few gender things...

In light of people being A-holes over the Olympics and particularly mixing transphobia, racism (mostly anti-Black, but also anti-Asian), sexism, I thought I would do a list of a few things to ponder while people are being a-holes about it.

When I was in Middle school, we had intramural sports—soccer, baseball, dodgeball.

Some of the girls were legit much better than the boys.

That author who shall not be named has an intramural sport called quidditch. (which, BTW, is pretty much stolen from 2 games, both of which originated in China... which is kinda mind numbing considering that character...)

If she believed that boys were stronger than girls, then why, why is Quidditch intramural all the way up through adulthood? The positions also are interchangeable between the sexes. It's also a contact sport.

Back when I thought I was cis and dating a cis guy ('cause queer denial and not enough information on the internet)

He insisted, since he's the guy that he would build the bookshelf for me, which I didn't really need him to do, but he was one of those "guy role" assholes or whatever. And he really, really struggled with building the bookshelf. It was one of those kits you buy. Like Ikea, Sauder, etc. (but not from scratch). He could not figure it out.

I looked at it, being a child of an engineer and figured it out without swearing pretty quickly.

Likewise when he needed help refinishing a table, I knew how to do it and he didn't.

Why? I had the life experience by that point and had tinkered with wood quite a few times. I'd made a doll out of wood (to be fair, a pillar), I'd made a birdhouse from a kit. My Dad had shown me how to use a saw. My uncle let me use his tools in his garage.

But this ex was so held up with the idea of "weak women don't build things" that he thought I couldn't do it. But he insisted and I wasn't going to argue with him because he was kinda an asshole.

Gender ideology is kinda dumb when you're that strict.

This ex also believed in pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen, which he knew pissed me off.

Also told me that I wasn't skinny enough at 135 lbs and 5' 6". So yeah, asshole.

Let's play a round of what gender are these people from personality descriptions.

Person A

Likes Science. Is really good at math. Good at chemistry equations. Like salmon pink because they like eating salmon. Doesn't really understand emotions that well.

Person B

Like the color black and pink—those are their favorite colors. Loves nature and nature walks. Wanted to be a Park ranger. Dislikes going out too much.

Person C

Favorite color is Green. Likes drawing. Not good at cooking. Spends 2 hours preening in the mirror. Loves Shopping. Cares a lot about what other people think about them.

Person D

Tends to sleep a lot. Isn't that scared of heights. Has bungee jumped a number of times and to the point that to gain extra points in games will bungee jump more times. Has unbelievably good luck.

Person E

Scared and anxious about heights all of the time. Like even 8 feet off the ground gets to them. Nervous about everything. Has a wicked sense of humor. Wears glasses. Loves Ramyeon and will preach about the correct way to make it. A decent cook. Reports that their home chores are to wash dishes for their spouse.

I bet you guessed wrong. These things are gendered. But you can't know for sure.

As I pointed out life experience, and so on shape what they can and can't do which doesn't necessarily correspond to gender.

Olympics

The racism in the Olympics are already that Black women are "manly" and don't act "feminine" enough because literally a connection to slavery and the whole "Black people feel less pain" stereotype. https://www.aamc.org/news/how-we-fail-black-patients-pain

'cause if you're going to literally enslave a whole population of people, you need to dehumanize them by saying things like they feel less pain, all of the women are actually men (to justify that you know, white men didn't r*pe black women, though they absolutely did) and so on.

Literally trying to make them into Morlocks.

With Asians, it's the reverse. Asians were made out to be "hyper feminine" on the heels of—yes, you guessed it, institutionalized rape via treaties forced on India, China, Most of Southeast Asia, Korea and Japan. They aren't *that* kind of workforce. So you have to reframe the population psychologically in two ways: the men aren't manly enough and the Asian women are hyper white women. The white women who suddenly in the 1900's learned to fight for rights—like "how dare they" type of psychology. In doing it this way, you can argue the women that these men basically r*ped "wanted it" so they feel better about themselves.

Thus an Asian woman not acting hyper feminine is to these people "must be a man" and you know, Asian men are seen as "weak" and undesirable after years of fighting and reframing Asian men so Asian women wouldn't want them. This makes the Asian woman "less desirable" because they are "really a man."

And a quick reminder here for the white trans people who sometimes get amnesia, that author who shall not be named literally started with Black trans women. Which you keep glossing over every. single. time. Like, be intersectional and talk the racism too and invite black trans women in. I've been seeing an uptick of people who are "shocked at that author's racism from white trans faction and like—did you get amnesia, she literally started her path to hating trans people from hating PoCs and specifically Black trans women during Pride.

She was doing poorly on PoCs long before she was slipping terribly on the whole "But Dumbledore was Gay" I'm saying this: Get with it.

Anyway, the research has solidly shown that there are two factors to physical strength: socialization. If you constantly tell women what they do is weak and not worth anything, of course they aren't going to be physically strong. "Be a princess."

And the other factor is training.

Every terf out there when you point out that through training women can be stronger than men, go onto something like, "What are you talking about? We are talking about the average."

So you are saying that women can be stronger than men and can train and beat a boy at sports based on their interests...

and then watch them backpedal hard.

If you show them the stats for women who are better at marathoning than men. (Haha, apparently applies to sex too... but ace spec thoughts, I suppose on the weirdness of sex. Allos for some reason flip out when I point out how weird sex can be? And not weird in sex shaming way, but like the whole thing? Human sex in particular.) they start to flip out.

But sports in every freakin' ad says it's not just physical fitness, but mental fitness too. And then the people who want everyone to stick to white gender roles invented after the 1950's, because WTF is with some of their disciplining, somehow often think white mental acuity is higher than everyone else (you can test some white terfs on this by tip toeing towards it.) You can test them to see if they've ever left their country of origin too, because that often challenges your idea of what gender is and isn't.

Anyway, the point is, it's an intersection of these things, and often people are so entrenched into white gender ideals, they don't like being challenged.

I met someone online who was (not naming the ethnicity, not white) who blocked me because I pulled up folktales from their culture with cross dressing and trans people which were extolled in their culture as one of the top 4 folktales of all time and pointed out the shift from more fluid ideology of gender to a colonizer one and they couldn't handle it.

Similarly, I did this with someone who claimed to be from Nigeria (you can't trace this one easily). And so I pulled Nigerian tribe groups with the third gender category and asked them why are they working for the colonizers and from the name of the groups, you could tell it was native to Nigeria.

Terfs 100% work on a colonizer agenda. Don't tolerate it. And don't freakin' forget that the author hated on Black trans women to slip down the anti-trans train. Keep shouting it. Especially as a white trans person. Keep pointing out the racism. You have to recognize it's on the heels or colonializing racism a lot of these anti-trans people are working on.

Also, gender doesn't dictate much of shit besides what's "acceptable to wear" out in society which is ever shifting. I know a boy that liked purple pink and orange. Are you telling me that those colors are gendered, thus men can't eat carrots or salmon? I think people need to get off of it. Gender is the least stable bit about culture, at least to me. I mean 10 years ago, the gender thoughts of flexibility for men were different.

[racfoam]

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

Thank you for tagging me @loneamaryllis!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 12 works on AO3!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

435,768 words. Woah.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Only Harry Potter.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

not you, not now - Female Harry, Snake Face Voldemort Soulmate Soul Marks AU

be proud - not you, not now AU Voldemort captures Harry in the graveyard

Harry Quits - A One Shot fic where Harry has had enough and leaves the wizarding world.

the v-neck - Harry notices the change in Voldemort’s robe and grieves over the loss of Voldemort’s v-neck. 😭😭 I'm happy to find this got a lot of kudos!

The Capybara Pond of Harrymort & Tomarry Snippets - A work where I put fic ideas and AUs.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why? Why not?

I always try to respond to comments. I love talking with my readers! 

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

be proud, maybe. I say it's got the angstiest ending because Harry remains trapped with Voldemort.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Harry Quits. Harry finally has had enough during the Atrium fight and he announces he is leaving. He ends up opening a flower shop in New York and Voldemort is a frequent visitor and they marry at the end! Just a very happy, short fic!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I recently got a hate comment on not you, not now that ended up failing in its task and made me laugh instead. 😂Otherwise, not at all.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do write smut, but I haven’t officially published any yet. I write dark smut, non-con, dub-con, tender soft smut. I like writing everything.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I wrote a crossover with Naruto and Harry Potter where Naruto and the other teens end up in Hogwarts but never published it. This was when I was 17 or sth so take it with a grain of salt.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge. Don’t steal writer's fics, or else… 🔪

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not yet,  but a reader asked my permission to translate not you, not now in Chinese if I remember correctly? Anyway, I hope they tag me so I can see it!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I did with an online friend but we haven’t published it.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Harrymort. I prefer Snake Face Voldemort with Harry, but Tomarry & Tomarrymort also shares first place. 

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Maybe be proud… mostly cus of all the smut scenes I need to write. It's planned for 10 chapters max yet I can't seem to get to writing them... 😔

16. What are your writing strengths?

Descriptions and emotions.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Dialogue! Curse you, dialogue!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

It's cool, especially if you do a pop-up translation.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Officially, Harry Potter.

20. Favourite fics you’ve written?

It has to be not you, not now. I am so proud of the graveyard and everything else. I put my all into this fic, it's the best of my writing and keeps pulling out the best stuff from me. It was my first ever fic and I am so happy so many people like it. I made so many friends with this fic and I am so happy I published it and I love writing it.

I also love be proud because it explores what would have happened had Voldemort managed to capture Harry on the graveyard.

Tagging @limonium-anemos @cindle-writes @mayfriend @isalisewrites @mosiva @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger @mishqua @shouldertallabyss @maidenwychelm @purplewitch156 @ginnruin @skaelds @latteloves @duplicitywrites @mrmxlemons @itsevanffs @cannibalinc @monsieurclavier @liquidluckandstuff @aglassroseneverfades @cordeliawrites @pinktom and whoever wants to join!

[the-world-annealing]

Heroes, Hamlets, Hazards

Assume we're talking about the basic sort of setting D&D implies. There's exceptional people with exceptional powers, large and prosperous kingdoms bordered by swathes of monster-infested territory, and remote hamlets whose inhabitants somehow have a +1 Flaming Sword lying around for anyone willing to brave the conveniently nearby loot-filled dungeon.

This isn't what real-life history looked like. But the inaccuracies cancel out, and a remarkably coherent picture results.

Start with the heroes (a term used without moral valence). They swoop in, save the day, rescue the kidnapped children, slay the troll, and get rich doing it. I don't need to explain this bit to you, it's the literal foundational premise of the game.

But heroes don't always succeed. For every village saved from a rampaging giant or a covetous dragon, another wasn't. There's probably a lot of dispossessed peasants around, because that's an inevitable consequence of a setting where monsters exist and regularly threaten small villages.

But then the heroes enter the picture again, now rich, tired, and eager for retirement. For some, that retirement involves getting away from larger society: they seek solitude, to revisit a place of great beauty or mystery, or maybe simply because this hero has made some powerful enemies.

Except such a hero doesn't just want to buzz off to the middle of nowhere: he might be a swordmaster or an archmage, but can he darn socks? Can he make cheese? Can he even build himself a house? No, those are jobs for the peasantry. Of which there are quite a few around, as we've previously established.

So the hero liquidates a few assets, sets up an expedition, recruits some vagrants, and establishes a manorial settlement wherever they feel like it, clearing out weak foes when necessary.

(and more often than not, this village is established near a dungeon or magical locale the hero previously explored, either to allow the hero access to some local resource or for simple familiarity's sake)

For a time, there's peace. The peasants are still peasants, but their heroic overlord is powerful and invested in their survival, so all things considered they do pretty well. But as you might conclude from the continuous existence of quote unquote wilderness, this state is not stable.

The hero dies, and suddenly their peasants are dealing with all the security issues that their isolation brings. The farmers have found themselves in an adventure-friendly environment. Even so, most are loath to leave and return to the landless underclass; for most families, being part of it lies within living memory, and even subsistence farming compares favorably still.

But the hero's death has also brought a windfall of magic items; enchanted blades, potions, wands. Untrained laborers will have little success using them... but the sort of mercenary who could solve your problem is always looking for better magic loot. This is typically the step where your average adventuring party comes in.

This situation rarely ends well. The stopgap measures fail, the reserve of magic items dries up, population shrinks to zero as villagers die or flee, the cycle begins anew. All that remains is a ghost town with a run-down wizard's tower looking out over it: on the whole, it mostly served to redistribute items from established to aspiring heroes.

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

If you subscribe to this model, think about the following questions when worldbuilding a Threatened Remote Village! -Who used to protect this town from the sort of thing currently endangering it? -Did that protector fill any roles beyond killing monsters? Did a retired cleric act as healer, a ranger as bowyer? Who filled the resulting voids? -What magic items did the protector leave? What broader legacy can be seen? -The settlement is presumably quite recent; who or what did it replace? -Why would a hero choose to settle here, of all places? Are there magical or mundane locations of great importance or beauty close by? Does some supernatural being dwell near?

[datastate]

to clarify: rio is not a weak character, necessarily. unless he is considered on his own. typically he exists in contrast to other characters: gashu, michiru, or kai (with honorable mention of maple/obstructors). he is much more of a plot device than he is a character, which is why he fits within the main yttd plot quite well. we see him balance out the antagonism expected of asunaro and makes michiru seem more sympathetic in turn. his death displays how cold and meticulous asunaro's researchers are when it comes to experiments such as these. his very existence in the wake of kai's death/banishment from the organization is meant to uphold this shadow of kai alone.

however, with the addition of sei... rio is easily overshadowed by the two of them. sei's existence does add a bit more meaning to the experiment mentioned with rio, as ranger is directly based upon him, but ultimately not enough that couldn't previously have been extrapolated with the implication rio was meant to be a successor/a son. if gashu did not already have kai, then sei's addition would be perfect because it allows us confirmation to fully realize where gashu felt he went wrong in training sei up.

but... kai does exist. and he was the only one that we really needed to get across gashu's sentimentality & connection to his family / desire to have a child who would not fail asunaro - as the punishment for failure is execution, which he himself carries out.

additionally, although we are given proof that kai abhors the idea of killing others (unable to deal the killing blow on sei despite it being second nature drilled into him, disbelief toward the other children killing one another with the hope that this couldn't truly be them, etc.), i do worry if it comes across to others as if the only thing withholding kai was sei's death and the admission of how terrifying death feels when you finally experience it. there is much more resolve kai has before this to not kill, but simply incapacitate, which i wish we could've seen explored how his mindset works here despite being told he is meant to be a tool for killing while being raised in asunaro. was it gashu who unintentionally influenced him? was it a trainer? sei hasn't been here long enough to truly affect kai, so why did he stop himself from killing sei then when given full opportunity to uphold the role he's been born for? it has to have been something beforehand, as strict as gashu tries to be.

inevitably, gashu identifies compassion as the problem and proceeds from there to see if in any scenario his apprentice/s would've succeeded. both the compassion found in himself, though he evidently struggled to refrain from offering brief moments of affection, and in his child - whether they reflected it from his moments of weakness and desire for normalcy or learned from another.

sei's existence in this regard feels redundant. which really hurts me to say, because i do know exactly what nankidai was going for. but rio exists in relation to other characters by virtue of being incomplete, and is now split between kai and sei in this shared relation to gashu. i feel similarly about rio now as i do with mishima being brought back three more times simply to die, if you understand... it's a little overdone than what it had to be with the story already given.

[caxycreations]

Happy Tuesday Ask-A-Thon! Thank you for following us (@ask-a-thon) from the previous blog. -- You don't have anon on, which is why you're getting an ask from Aster, the person who runs the blog because it's easier for me that way-- Now, on to your questions! [What are some of your favorite themes to write? Is this different from what you read? What about tropes?]

I'd say my favorite themes to write are actually the simple things in life. Slice of life, behind the scenes stuff that show it's not always progress and action and noteworthy events, scenes that are just breakfast, or falling asleep, grocery shopping, etc.

The twist being, I love writing those scenes for characters that just...don't seem like they WOULD be slice of life characters. I think that's partly why my world, Relan, is populated with powerful individuals. Ryder is strong enough to bench press a car, and durable enough to walk away after getting hit head-on by one with little more than a few bruises and maybe a hairline fracture in a rib, if even that, and yet...

He's just a guy. He's not some superhero, or powerful warrior, he's just...Ryder. The guy that DJs on weekends. And then there's Trace, an aerokinetic speed demon with a major habit of abusing his powers, but...he uses them for dumb stuff. Stirring his coffee, knife tricks, getting up after a fall, leaning on solid air pressure just because he can. He's just a guy, going through life one day at a time, complete with all that entails.

Meanwhile, when it comes to reading, I enjoy reading almost the exact opposite. Normal, mundane, "weak" characters finding or showing an unmatched inner strength by facing, and even succeeding, against gargantuan odds. Molly Weasley, not a particularly powerful witch, maybe even below average, single-handedly taking down countless Death Eaters and even Bellatrix in a duel to the death simply because her family is on the line.

Or Karen Murphy, from the Dresden Files, regularly facing down supernatural threats that tear through humans like tissue paper, with nothing but her sidearm and the guts to try it.

I adore reading about characters who are considered average, or even below average, taking on genuinely impossible odds. "Underdog", sure, but I enjoy reading scenes about characters facing odds they outright can not beat, and trying anyways. Even if they fail, nothing gets my blood pumping more than a character fighting with everything they have, even if they know they won't win. It's the motivation, the drive, the inner power that pushes them to do it that I love so much.

As for tropes, I suppose my favorite trope would be "Brought Down to Normal". When a highly powerful or even all-powerful being, who is accustomed to their power, suddenly loses it all and has to deal with being weak, or average. You can see it in Spider-Man 2, in Immortal Demon Slayer, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie, and more. It's such a fun trope because the reactions range anywhere from "Well I used to be like this, I can do it again" all the way to full-blown panic, fear, anger, because their powers were so important to them or to what they needed to do.

Thank you so much for this ask ^-^ I loved answering it <3

[cake-apostate]

Four Akiras in a Trenchcoat AU: Envy and Violet

[The premise of this AU is that Akira Kurusu of Persona 5 is his timeline’s version of Akira from SMT4. Before the start of the game, Big Bad had Black Mask kill “that stupid kid” out of sheer pettiness, leaving Akira an empty shell. To salvage their Wild Card, the Velvet Room drags in four parallel versions of him: Blasted Akira, Infernal Akira, the late King Akira, and Anarchy Nanashi. The four of them possess Joker’s empty shell.]

Given that the Four are the same person who made different decisions, I wonder if they’d relate to Violet? I can see how they could envy one another, especially since they could have been one another. 

Infernal Akira envies their character. He could have been clever like King Aquila, decisive and unrelenting like Nanashi, but most of all, he could have been charismatic and levelheaded like Blasted. He knows that he’s cowardly, weak, that he backs down and makes other people do the work for him. “Why couldn’t I be strong like them?”

Blasted Akira envies their circumstances. The other Tokyos had most of their resources unspoiled, and Mikado is a prosperous country. He envies Infernal Akira most of all, because there’s so much untapped potential with a completely unnuked Tokyo and Demonoids abound. Meanwhile, he’s stuck in a radioactive desert where God wants everyone dead. “Why couldn’t I be lucky like them?”

Nanashi envies their charisma. He knows full well how fickle public adoration can be, but there’s something about how the Samurai of Mikado were reluctant to break King Aquila’s code, how he was so beloved that the angels tried to erase his legacy. He’s jealous of how everyone looks up to Blasted, how no Demonoid wants to usurp Infernal because he’s doing such a good job as king. Nanashi sacrificed his bonds for the greater good, not because they were worthless. “Why am I alone at the end of my road?”

King Aquila, most of all, envies their potential. He’s long dead, and he saw how he failed. His legacy was misread, the kingdom he built waged war on his homeland, and right when he thought everything would turn out fine, some idiot monk starts wreaking havoc to the point where Nanashi murdering literally everyone in his kingdom is considered a mercy kill. “Why can they still change the world?”

Spoilers for the third semester

Since they all could have been one another, the Four understand how Sumire feels inferior to her own twin sister. After her cooldown, they wind up going to dinner and swapping stories about how they felt like they each got the short end of the stick. Also Akechi is along for the ride. 

Also, the new reality. I was thinking that the Four woke up during the third semester not because they had no desires, but because the new reality wasn’t built to handle their situation.

I was thinking that there’s got to be someone out there with a seriously outlandish wish, like, “I want to be a space ranger,” or, “I want to be a wizard.” I think the system usually deals with those by separating their perception from everyone else’s; for example, if Mr. Akiyama the salaryman wants to be a fantasy hero, he’ll see a mall as a goblin cave, while the shoppers see a small cute child waving around a toy sword.

King Aquila sees Tokyo as Mikado because his wish is the chance to fix Mikado, but the other three see Tokyo as Tokyo. Once they realize that he’s not seeing the same things as them, they argue over who’s hallucinating.

The next crack is Nanashi’s desire to be loved. Whether he wants to be worshiped or simply liked, he’s still a god and lots of people declaring their undying love for him qualifies as worship. Suddenly he gains the power to perform divine miracles, which is a huge crack in their ‘normal’ world. I’m not entirely sure if this is in character, but I do think that it would be hilarious.

Also, Nanashi finds the whole reality to be fake not because it’s poorly constructed, but because there’s a huge disconnect between his idea of normal and the current Tokyo. 

Blasted and Infernal’s wishes don’t really conflict with the reality; Blasted wants prosperity and glory, while Infernal wants to be strong, brave, and just. They break out anyways because when they all start arguing over what’s real and what’s not, they end up punching holes in each other’s ideal worlds to the point where the whole illusion shatters.

[eyebagsanonymous]

So I was playing D&D

and I had a sudden epiphany about my character, Calypso.

I started thinking about why she was even still here in the first place. Her mental health is basically as bad as mine, she's just not adhd. Then I realized she's here because she thinks she owes a debt to the world.

Some slight backstory: Early on in our campaign, we had to kill some baby black dragons, right? We got most of them, and as the last dragon was severely injured, Calypso fired her shot and missed. By one point. The dragon was at 1 hp. I (as a player) felt so bad. The dragon escaped, and our DM decided it would now be the bbeg (big bad evil guy) of the campaign.

Now we are almost to our fight with the dragon, trying to end the last obstacle in our way to his lair. We're about to enter combat with an Archmage who has a staff our wizard wants.

So the archmage is trying to convince us to leave, and he asks Calypso "Why are you even here". I shrug in response. I honestly don't have an answer, so I begin to think (Im incapacitated by the Symbol hopelessness effect, so it's fine).

I eventually come to the conclusion about the debt thing. She's a very LN (Lawful Neutral) character. her goal was never some glorious purpose or saving innocents like the rest of the party. She's here because she has a job to do. To have her conscience free of whatever she owes the world for failing to kill the dragon right then and there.

Knowing this helps me roleplay and choose her decisions much better. She's either going to end this dragon and be free, or die trying. If she could, she'd leave right now and let the problem to someone else, but she knows this is how the world works. She's paying her dues for her past mistakes.

So, for your character, ask why they are even with the party? Why stay there through all the troubles? It helped me with my weak little ranger, so maybe it can help you

[anti-katsuki-lounge]

What do you think is the most fundamentally wrong thing about Bakugo? Because from I see, it's not his character design that is the issue, as it fits the MHA world, is attractive to fans, and explosions are cool(let's be real, we all have seen the shows with explosions in the background as we grew up like in Power Rangers). It's how he gets too much Author's love that gives him back motivation onto why he hates Deku and too much Plot Armor that it poisons everyone, including Bakugo himself.

His backstory of hating Deku for giving out a hand after falling down a creek does not make sense. I rather make him a spoiled prodigy who never received any failure nor genuine help prior to UA. IRL, many prodigies fail in their later years as they were never given the help they've needed as kids nor given the rest and break from what they're doing, that they see getting any sort of help as a weakness. Here, that hatred makes more sense as BK feels that he shouldn't receive help from the weakest kid in the class, who just wants him to rest from everyone else's expectations, given that their school environment is very toxic.

Removing his god tier Plot Armor would flat out improve his character as his antagonizing of Izuku would decrease, he gets more failures in the plot lines that he is forced to be in, namely tying in the finals of the Sports Festival, letting Izuku getting better grades than him in the finals and failing the physical final, etc.

I think fundamentally, I think its the Author's Love from the early fanbase that compounded his problems and wrote him into the future plots which gave him greater Plot Armor than most characters of any series.

You’ve pretty much explained why I hate Katsuki. Katsuki’s problems are a result of him having shitty motives for what he does and him being coddled by Hori. Katsuki’s character is your basic outline of a Shonan Rival, so it shouldn’t be hard to write/develop him, but Hori somehow messes that up.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

Pythia - A Supernatural Rewrite. Wendigo, p2.

read it on ao3. masterlist.

words: 18,647 (i do NOT know how to be brief rip)

notes: this part absolutely flew out of my mind, and a bit out of my control, but i hope you enjoy regardless! two parts in one week!! ik, i'm crazy. to be fair, all together wendigo is 30k words, bc i love the woods and i love creepy woods even more. also, i'm aware wendigo is sometimes considered a weak ep and i couldn't be caught slacking this early on ;) Grammarly, don't fail me now! have a happy saturday and stay safe out there <3 next part: dead in the water, p.1

BLACKWATER RIDGE, NOV. 11th, morning.

You woke up the next day curiously calm, watching the road fly under the Impala with the even temperament of an undisturbed lake. Concern still swam somewhere underneath the surface, but for now, you could assume the water was too deep to see through. The hunt was on.

The ranger station you’d first seen was only the opening to the powers of the Ridge. With each mile the Impala overcame, the breath in your chest grew thicker, the air heavier, like an unseen pressure was out there and sensitive to your presence. There wasn’t anyone point that you felt like you crossed into the boundary of the forest. One moment you’d been fine, and the next you were curled into yourself on instinct, the hair on your neck standing on end. You unwound your arms from around yourself and resisted the itch telling you to replace them. To close in. To curl up. To hide.

Sam, under the same strange spell, stressed to the road ahead of you: “We can’t let Haley go out there. Maybe if we tell her…” Sam suggested, but he seemed to decide the genius of that idea the moment it left his mouth.

“...That she can't go into the woods because of a big scary monster?” Dean finished, wry. His eyes lazed on the road ahead, amber and bright with the light kind of natural mastery he carried into every hunt. “Her brother's missing, Sam. She's not gonna just sit this out.”

You hadn’t met Haley yet, but the brief flash of her dark eyes and pale, dirt-smeared cheek in your vision stirred empathy in you. Her present self was no less waif-like. You followed her figure with your eyes as the Impala glided into the mouth of the trail, she, a blot of darkness under the bowing tree canopy. Half of her body was weighed down by a tactical backpack, her shorts came down beyond her knees—you had to wonder what kind of love she was powered by. You’d been in her place before, overpowered by something indescribable and too weak to match it; but she was still here, doing everything to look for her brother. You had to admire Haley, and hope you weren’t underestimating her. Many had underestimated you for fewer reasons.

She, her other brother, and another cliff-faced man stalled on at the top of the hill when the Impala growled over. Dean parked her, and in tandem the three of you spilled out. Haley was shaking her head in utter disbelief.

Gleaming with his usual languid charm, Dean gestured with both arms to the woods, spreading the wings of his leather jacket. “Hey, you guys got room for three more?”

Dean sauntered over and argued your case for coming with them. Meanwhile, you hauled the heavy duffle out of the backseat, wincing at the obvious clatter of salt tins, silver bullet cases, and wooden stakes. The mere thought of having to drag this around all day made you long for a good chiropractor. Then, something genius occurred to you. There were two minions at your disposal.

You thunked the bag down in front of Sam. He groaned, hissing under his breath “No way. I was the pack-mule last time. Why do I have to hold it?”

“Why else?” You smirked. Snorting to yourself at his foolishness, you sweetly pat Sam on the cheek and gazed into his face, a princess with her simple-minded servant. “Girls don’t carry things, silly.”

Sam rolled his eyes and rolled the duffle over his shoulder, smiling almost into his dimples. They’d become your measure for his mood, lately, and today’s comma shape told you that he was… getting somewhere. Along with Sam’s soft joking reply of, “Oh, how could I forget? Would you like me to mow the lawn, too? Grill you something?”

You let yourself grin, despite the circumstances. Sam needed to see it. “Th’atta boy.”

Over your shoulder, Dean’s conversation wasn’t going so well.

“What, you think this is funny? It's dangerous backcountry out there. Her brother might be hurt.”

You turned at the snapping voice. Sam narrowed his eyes, and together you found yourself drifting behind Dean, fortifying his back against the new stranger. You tilted your head at him. He was the guide Haley had hired, who was hunter-like in his grizzled coarseness of age, but already you could sense the naivety in him that would grate on you for the rest of the hunt. Maybe it was better to put your best foot forward here. (AKA: probably not Dean’s).

“Which is exactly why we’re here, sir,” you clarified, and stuck out your hand, “I’m Ranger Liu, and these are Rangers Barrymore and Diaz. But you can call us ____, Dean and Sam.”

Roy didn’t take it. He just stared at you, so Dean brushed your wrist back down to your side and cleanly wedged in, “Believe me, we know how dangerous it can be. We just wanna help them find their brother, that's all.”

Without another passive-aggressive word, you dipped what you hoped was a confident smile in Haley’s direction, and commenced with the boys onto the trail.

_

The vivid, living green of the woods was soon deceiving. Nothing was alive in here. You walked and heard only the chitter of leaves under your own boots or branches in the wind, never birds, never bugs. Just the breeze, which would whistle through the trees like a far-off voice, pitched high in a scream. You quickly decided to listen when Dean listened, since the presence of the forest had ripped the filter off your powers. Everything was consumed by your Gift.

Roy took careful, soft steps across the overgrowth a few paces ahead of you. You’d broken off the path a long time ago, so every step was taken with a level of risk, and your calves were already sensitive from all the ticklish plants. It set you on edge. Everything grated at your senses: the harsh glimpses of blistering white sun through the canopy, the looming darkness of its absence, the crunching of leaves trampled underfoot, the noisy breathing, the—everything. You couldn’t stand still without being overwhelmed by a swathe of tension, like every tree had pinned its eye to the prickling nape of your neck.

With all those eyes on you, it felt impossible to distinguish the passive from the impassive.

Dean figured this out after a few funny glances at you, and drifted closer to you as a result. It was hard to focus on your footing and the… everything… at once, so without realizing you’d fallen into your old rhythm again, with you bumbling on the heels of your Gift and Dean making sure you didn’t walk right off a cliff.

Roy directed all of you over a felled tree, but you only noticed because Dean had stopped you from tripping over it. You disconnected to meet his eye, and sensing how the silence of the walk added to your spiritual overload, Dean’s face warmed with mischief. Hey. Watch me annoy the shit out of this guy.

“Roy, you said you did a little hunting,” Dean needled. You suppressed your smile in your sleeve, taking his forearm to maneuver over the rotting wood. Behind you, in a cascading line, was Haley, her brother Ben, then a watchful Sam.

“Yeah, more than a little,” he said, sweeping the forest from left to right.

“Uh-huh…” Dean drawled. “What kind of furry critters do ya’ hunt?”

Roy didn’t even bother to glance back at him. You appreciated that he was actively trying to find Haley’s brother, but you couldn’t help but curl your lip—civilians doing a hunter’s job was never good. He hefted his rifle on his hip, staring on, “Mostly buck,” (you thought of the taxidermy), “sometimes bear.”

A smile flitted across Dean’s face, full of similar, but unhidden condescension. “Tell me, uh—”

Pain like sharp teeth closed up your leg, snapping up the web of your nerves like a flame chasing a wick. You felt yourself roar in pain. Your voice wasn’t your own—it was Dean’s—

Then you were standing there, panting in the dirt and seething with phantom pain. Dean was staring at you. They were all staring at you.

You had grabbed him so forcefully that the tendons in your hand ached, and reeled him in so close that his elbow was grinding into your ribs. The ringing in your ears descended into a whine until a voice warbled through the water, thinning out until it was clear enough to understand.

“____?” Dean asked, waving a hand in front of your face. The feral force of your grip didn’t even make him blink. “Are you okay?”

To your right, Roy blew a short breath out of his nose. In the bed of leaves Dean had almost dropped his foot into, he thudded down the blunt end of a branch—triggering the moss-layered teeth of a bear trap.

It snapped shut with a metal clang. You blinked away the gory vision of its points shredding into the bone of Dean’s ankle, breathing hard.

Roy rose from his crouch, watching you and Dean curiously. To the latter he punctuated, “You should watch where you're stepping. Ranger.” Then, he said to you, “Good eye.”

“Thank you,” you hoped your smile was airy and casual, despite your racing heart. It felt like you were using too many teeth. “Ranger.”

Dean hovered a moment, letting you feel him and his intact leg through a little contact, and then broke away from you with a low whistle. He stepped generously around the trap, thudding you heartily on the back. “That’s m’ girl,” he coughed, de-bristling. “Real funny… s’ a bear trap…”

The rattled feeling bled out of you after a few beats, but you stood in place to let it fully dissipate, cocking your hip and playing professional when Haley and Ben passed you. The looks they gave were skeptical but impressed, which you would take over worried anyday. Eventually Sam appeared at your shoulder, and you listed into his side when he came close.

“You caught that,” he whispered near your ear, nodding to the trap, “if you can do that, finding this thing will be easy. You’ve got this.”

The encouragement did more for you than you’d expected, and you were reminded of another facet of hunting you’d left behind with Sam: his cool, calculating assurances. Though he didn’t understand your gift 100%, he never boosted you with mindless positivity. He put proof down in front of you and added a touch of his own optimism, letting you figure out the rest for yourself, so your confidence came more from you than it did from him. It felt more meaningful than your average, good work.

You missed hunting with him, and you’d known you would—Sam was the mind and Dean was the heart and you were the subconscious, facets of a greater engine working in harmony. To kill monsters, no less. It was pretty fuckin’ awesome. Without him, there was just something different.

“See, Sammy?” You leaned in and teased, “it’s okay to be scared. I’ll always protect you two from big scary monsters.”

The flat line of his mouth quirked up at one end. “My hero.”

You joined at the shoulder as a dual caboose. Ahead of you, Roy and Ben were forging on, and something had changed in Haley. One of her tiny hands had whipped Dean around by the arm, and by the point to her shoulders you figured she was sneering at him. She waited until her brother had passed ahead to speak.

“You didn't pack any provisions. You guys are carrying a duffel bag. You're not rangers.” She fumed. “So who the hell are you?”

Dean pressed his lips together. Haley tensed, and without turning around she must’ve felt you and Sam behind her, a pair of watching shadows. A furious shiver wracked up Haley’s back. Worry and grief and anxiety seemed to steam off her. Haley’s face must’ve been just as severe, because Dean waved you two on to speak to her in hushed tones. You’d been figured out. Great, just great.

“...Sam and I are brothers,” Dean said, his voice softening with frankness, “and that’s our best friend. We're looking for our father. He might be here, we don't know…”

Their voices faded with distance, which was impressive, since your felt like you could hear a twig snap a football field away. You tried to think about something else as you felt around the woods. If you were looking at the bigger picture of this hunt (and if things went well), this was a good place to start in terms of recalibrating the three of you as a team. Dean might make a joke about office hiking trips, but all three of you knew that hunting with others had cons as well as pros. You distracted each other, and rarely approached things the same way.

But a tracking hunt in the woods would fuse together the boys’ skills with yours. After all, your mother hadn’t taught you to track—John Winchester had.

Most of your childhood had been spent crouched behind the front display cases at the antique store, witnessing. Sometimes normal people would walk in and chatter about the pretty lampshades you had. Other times, big men and women in bigger trucks would come in wiping their sweaty palms on their jeans. Those your mother would draw into the back parlor with welcome and sparkling eyes. (You loved the flash of disbelief, or rather, belief in their faces, when she knew their troubles without having ever met them before). But there were times when a different kind of stranger apparated inside your family’s store, and without a single word your mother would open the curtain to the parlor for them. John Winchester was one of those strangers.

With age, you came to understand why John consulted your mother so often. Most hunters were salt ‘n burners. Often, the sweaty-palm kind, who visited your family’s parlor out of desperation. Vampire hunters tended to group like their prey did, but every once in a while a “dentist” would come to get a lead on a nest from your mom. Werewolf hunters could operate in a similar way. But John wasn’t hunting the kind of creature you could wound with salt and silver, or even the kind of creature you could kill. All of your mother’s devoted regulars were "big game" hunters like that.

John was a damn good one, too, but he also had a habit for using people—his sons, your mother, and even you. It was unfortunately part of what made him such a good hunter, which you’d come to understand was the reason why your mother dealt with and befriended him. She wanted these evil things dead and gone as much as John did, and if he demanded readings in the middle of the night, haggard her, pestered her, and beleaguered her for anything her Gift could give, then at least they were closer to killing it. The white whale. After a while, she’d decided something needed to be exchanged. And so, she gave him access to her Gift if John gave you access to hunting.

But please, go easy on her, your Mom had requested.

Only a sliver of light had reached John’s eyes, who’d stood like any other shadow in your dark kitchen. He’d leaned down to be level with you, your hands trembling behind your back. Is that what you want?

You’d made the terrible mistake of saying, No.

Before, you used to wonder why someone as rebellious as Dean would go as still as inch-thick glass when John ordered him to. Then the drills had started. You’d wake up to a faceful of ice-cold water and be chased out of bed with Sam and Dean, you’d run laps before dawn, you’d run laps again for sleeping in, for complaining about the rain, for not finishing your breakfast, for tripping. You’d run until your nose bled. Sometimes you’d fake visions just to get out of it. Until John had found out, and you’d learned to dread even normal predictions in case he didn’t believe you. You’d learned why Dean said yes sir and why Sam shielded his face when woken up.

Your eleven-year-old self had run woods just like these before. Sometimes hefting a too-big rifle over her shoulder, sometimes in winter, always alone. Once, John had walked you three miles into the forest, weaponless, lightless, and told you to find your way back through the snow on your own. You’d crawled out half-alive four hours later. Your joints had stopped working and it was too cold for your wounds to bleed, and all you’d earned from Winchester was a flat, Dean did it in two.

(Sam had been waiting with a blanket. Dean had squished you against him for warmth and whispered, Two hours and fifty minutes, actually. He’s rounding down.)

Those weekends with John were smudged ink on the timeline of your memory. Not one word had been spoken about the hypothermia or the dislocated ankle, but, like everything else, your mom had her way of already knowing. She would’ve worried more, but... After every weekend and every hunt, you reappeared like the sun emerging from an eclipse, golden and beaming.

John put you through hell. Looking back, you knew now that a good chunk of it was certified physical torture, and the only thing keeping you from breaking down about some of those memories was time. But somewhere along the way to forcing you into the mold of a proper hunter, something else had happened. You’d grown to love it. Or rather, you learned to love what always came after. Bruising your face on the kickback of a pistol, slaving away under the sun to dig up six feet of dirt by yourself… sewing a gaping wound in your stomach shut with floss and brandy, or sparring until your knuckles were slick with blood… Grueling, soul-breaking acts like those were always followed by Sam and Dean.

John never praised. He was either pissed as hell or neutral, so you learned quickly to look for approval beyond his shoulder, when John turned his back and Dean was safe to beam at you. It became easier to run. You’d come out of the woods shaking and ravenous, only to spend the ride home snuggled against Sam’s side, sharing cookies under a blanket. The dark was comfortable now. You’d pour over articles and witness statements to make a case, and it would be Dean’s hands dropping on your shoulders and melting the disappointment right out of them. John never praised, but his boys celebrated you. Rewarded you. It became easier and easier to run.

At age fourteen, John had walked you three miles out into the forest again. But this time, there was another handicap on your ability to get back to the truck: you’d be lightless, weaponless, and you wouldn’t be alone. Sam and Dean would be in the woods too, hunting you. The two greatest pack animals you’d ever met; two boys who’d trained harder than you, longer than you, and done it without anyone to lean on or rub their shoulders. They’d made the run on their own. It’d been a test of your endurance, your will, your strength, your courage.

You walked out of the forest an hour later, completely unmawled. You hadn’t glimpsed either of them once the whole way.

Dean and Sam had crawled out sometime after, leaves in their hair, caked in cold mud, and had found in the woods the boldness to challenge John’s scolding. She chased me, fuckin’ stalked me—I tried to catch her, but I just couldn’t! Dean had raved. Next to him, Sam was soaked in freezing river water and lying like a pro. She pushed me in the creek! I-I was looking for her, and she dropped out of a tree right on top of me!

John had turned to you, an eyebrow raised and mouth pressed firm with a scowl. You did this?

You’d studied the boys: Dean, who’d lost a fight to a swamp, and Sam, who’d literally thrown himself into a river for this lie. For you.

I did. You’d said, and poured every ounce of your soul into a good, strong lie. I realized I wouldn’t stand a chance against them going after me… So I went after them first.

The subtle commendations you’d received from John had meant little to you. As soon as he had turned his back, you’d hooked both boys around the waist and brought them close to you, smile aching your cheeks. Sam had been trembling with cold and Dean was filthy with dirt, but it hadn’t mattered. Dean had hissed, You owe us big time. You’d said: Gladly. Kissing the sides of their faces, you endured Dean wiggling for escape and Sam’s red-faced laughing, the two of them alive and real beside you. Just once, you wanted them to be celebrated too.

It became easier to run, because you were running to Sam and Dean.

_

Unlike the strange divide between town and the mystique of the forest, you knew instantly when you crossed over into the Ridge.

It wasn’t like passing through a portal or a doorway. Instead, you felt that you’d stepped on a trip wire and noticed a second too late. There was the heavy, prolonged silence of your dawning horror as you waited for the explosion to trigger all around you. The entire forest sat on the hinge of a string. John must’ve felt it too, because you’d found yourself at his exact coordinates. 35-111.

When you arrived at the Ridge, Roy broke off from your group to search. He’d said something snide when Sam had shown some concern for him, so you shadowed Roy with growing annoyance, mercifully allowing him to think he wasn’t being babysat. Idiot was going to get himself killed. The six of you weren’t trying very hard to be quiet either—you could hear Sam, Ben, Haley and Dean scuffling around a rock formation a good distance away. Then again, it was possible that it didn't make a difference to this creature. Every loud stick underfoot still made you wince. So when Roy yells from a little ahead of you, you startle.

“Haley! Over here!”

You were the second to arrive on the scene, sliding out of the shadow of a tree just a few paces behind Roy. In a square breakage of light in the canopy was Tommy’s camp. The white tents were massacred, everything smeared with blood and dirt. Supplies and clothes were abandoned in the soil below you. The others stampeded in, but all you could feel was Haley… Her mounting grief… The catching hitch of her breath as she sucked in full gasps that wouldn’t come, the new gravity weighing down on her. At the same time, you saw what she’d imagined: her brother and his friends playing cards around a fire, meditating in the heart-balming serenity of the woods and the sun. They’d been trying to connect with nature on cursed ground.

Her voice broke. “Oh my God.”

Somehow it wasn’t the blood that perturbed you most, but the claw-marks puncturing the nylon tents. If you stared long enough you could plot through them a real-life horror story. When you put your finger through a cleaner circle the creature had made with its claw, you could easily fit three. Three of your fingers were the size of just one of this thing’s claw. Jesus.

You hovered over the campsite, closing your eyes. The others milled around you, staring at the destruction. Roy said something helpful about a grizzly. Ben had his hands closed against his mouth. Dean and Sam were statuesque, balanced on their forefoots and bent at the knees, holding their breaths in their steady chests—but you looked beyond them, beyond Roy, Ben, and Haley, sorting through the fizzing hive of thoughts and feelings bursting from this clearing.

A prickle danced up the back of your neck. You felt something.

Every following noise seemed to boom with twice as much echo. Haley’s backpack thudded into the dirt, and she charged between the tents, calling out to the woods beyond with the force of a jet engine. “Tommy? …Tommy!”

You were on your feet and racing to her before you could think. “Hal—Haley, shh!”

“Tommy!” She wailed again, and this time Sam was there, too, shushing her also.

You reeled her back by the arm. Haley whipped out of your grip, expecting someone else, but cooled by a decimal at the severity on your face. “Why?”

“We’re—” you started, but Sam spoke over you, doing a better job of sounding more cautious than grave. He hushed, “Something might still be out there.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Dean wave a ringed hand for you and Sam. He was crouched at the crown of a ditch, brow pressed and lips parted like they always were when he was putting something together—this time, an idea he didn’t like. Sam stalked over without hesitation. And yet you lingered, hand hovering over Haley’s shuddering arm.

“Everything’s gonna be alright, honey,” you bolstered your voice with conviction, “Your brother’s alive, and we’re gonna find him.”

Haley’s head rose with a glare, but you didn't fracture under it. You understood. You didn’t need sympathy from strangers either, but this was more than sympathy; this was empathy. How many times had you been in her exact position, bleeding out of your pores worrying about Sam and Dean? That anxiety had been forced on you so many times that a river had been born down the middle of you, and slowly but surely it was weathering you into a canyon. The first glimpse of that water taking its first bite had changed you forever. You watched that transformation occur in Haley’s face now.

“I’m not just saying that. We do find him,” you promised.

The honesty in your voice reminded you uncomfortably of the portraits of your female ancestors back home, with their mouths pressed shut on all sorts of similar promises. You knew it was true. But it still felt like you were betraying yourself, spitting out the future, even if Haley needed to hear it. This Gift didn’t belong to you anyway. It belonged to little broken families like hers, needing an answer.

Haley swallowed harshly, and there was a peculiar look on her face. No one ever believed you. Why you bothered to try and comfort her this way, you didn’t know, but maybe… maybe she realized you weren’t just making things up. She shuddered out, “Okay.”

Heart pumping, you awkwardly shuffled away from her and stole another glimpse out at the woods. Not even crickets. Everything being so quiet should’ve made it easier to hear this thing, and yet…

You walked backwards to Sam and Dean’s ditch, scouring the treeline for movement. The pines hung in position as if preserved in green amber, too close together to give the wind any room, and layering awkwardly in the distance to create humanoid shapes. You squinted. Something was out there. You backed up until you were hovering in between Dean and Sam, who were crouched at the edge of the campsite. “Boys,” you whispered.

Dean was shaking his head, voice more bass-y than usual. “...bodies were dragged from the campsite. But here, the tracks just vanish. That's weird.”

They rose from their crouches, popping up on either side of you. You couldn’t peel your eyes away from the woods enough to look at them. You worried what would happen if you did.

“I'll tell you what, that's no skinwalker or black dog.” Dean bet. He had the deciding, factual air of a mechanic announcing what was wrong with your car, which eased you a little bit. This was any other hunt. The woods—and this damn creature—were getting to you.

“You’re right,” you frowned, and both boys' heads swung to look at you, “it’s a—

A hoarse, climbing wail tore through the silence from the depths of the woods. The klaxon frosted over your blood.

“Help! Help me!”

Not a millisecond had passed before everyone was skidding across the dirt. Roy was already spurring into the thicket with his rifle raised above him—Dean charging only a step behind him, the loud click of his M1911 lashing out sideways with his arm when he ran—and Sam sprinting after them both, clearing four feet, five feet, with every step. Instinct sputtered you into a run as well. Had you kept it, instead of freezing with realization, you would’ve easily held pace with them.

“Fuck,” you cursed. Giving the campsite a final look, you shucked your dagger from its sheath and tore after them. It was a toothpick to this thing, but you’d rather have a toothpick than empty hands.

Not a moment later you found them panting at the cusp of a hill, eyeing the perimeter of the woods for the source of the call. Haley was clutching her brother’s arm, watching a distant point in the mirage of shapes making up the deeper trees. She wouldn’t find the source of the yell. None of them would.

Haley spoke up, “I-it seemed like it was coming from around here, didn't it?”

Sam stared deeply into the trees. It felt impossible to tell much of anything apart, since everything was so different and similar at the same time out here. You watched in real-time as it dawned on him; slowly, he found your eyes in the group. Normally the, you were right look from a Winchester was golden, but being in the middle of live hunting grounds for a thing like this took the fun out of it. You reached out and grabbed the re-sewn shoulder of Dean’s jacket and then Sam’s sleeve to remind yourself that they were alive, and that this forest was messing with you. This thing was messing with you.

Winter Hunger, you mouthed the spirit's name to them, more pointedly than they deserved.

“Shit,” Dean cursed beneath his breath, and Sam covered it with a wary, “...Everybody back to camp. Now.”

Sam led a hurried charge back to where Tommy’s camp had been, barely allowing any of you to keep up with his strides. It’d been a long time since you’d hunted one of these spirits, but you’d been trained to forget your own name before you forgot anything about the hunt: they were originally documented in First Nations folklore as cannibalistic spirits, and the nature of their mind-altering presence gave them varying appearances. To First Nations people, they were humanoids with hearts of ice you should never speak the name of; to Americans like you, who grew up watching Dean’s shitty kind of television, they could appear more animalistic and antlered. Either way… you’d prefer a black dog or an evil tree spirit. This was a big hunt—bigger than John would usually trust Dean with.

You pressed your thumb hard into your carnelian ring as you jogged, trying to juice the luck out of it, but the regret stewing in your gut wasn’t unfounded. If the camp had been ransacked before, then it was pillaged now. All of your things were gone: Roy, Haley, and Ben’s backpacks, Roy’s hunting gear, and your hunting gear.

“Our packs!” Haley cried, harmonizing with her brother’s softer swear. She didn’t even scold him.

With a sneer, Roy crouched where his bag had been. “So much for my GPS and my satellite phone.”

Shaking your head, you grumbled to Dean, “And my favorite bat. If we don’t get those back…”

Haley paced between the gnarled tents, pulling at her hair until she saw the panicked stillness in her brother’s frame. At the drop of a hat her expression closed up, and all she managed was, “What the hell is going on here?”

Sam hung over the edge of the camp like he was hanging over a thousand-foot drop, scouring the fall even if he knew what he’d find there. Something about him had shifted. Dean’s life was the hunt; the Dean that let you sneak sips of his beer was the same Dean that could find the carotid artery with only his nails. Usually, Sam was the opposite. He kept a distinct line drawn between Hunting Sam and Normal Sam. But as he sorted the shape of the wood from below his bangs, you realized the transition had already occurred; his grip was weaponless but sturdy, the curve of his back smooth enough to be measured with a level. You’d been studying him this whole time. When had he switched gears?

“It's smart,” Sam observed, squinting at the forest. “It wants to cut us off so we can't call for help.”

Roy made a wuff noise, since it’d apparently dawned on him that he had to deal with crazy people on top of forest bandits. He slapped his hands on his knees and drew to his full height. (As much of it that could compare to Sam’s, anyway). “You mean someone—some nutjob out there just stole all our gear.”

You gave that no comment, and in unison, you, Sam, and Dean shared a silent exchange. By the end of it, you looked more to Haley and Ben than Roy and murmured, “Excuse us for a second.”

Sam led the way to a small copse in the shade, or what was left of it. Night would be hitting you soon, and by the fuzziness of the deeper woods on the horizon, it’d drag some strong fog in right along with it. Everything was in shade, now. The safe square of Tommy’s clearing was darkening steadily too. Instead of letting your gut sink into your toes at the thought of staying overnight, you tilted your head back and took in the softening blue-gray of the evening sky. This far out, the world would be a cloudless dome of twinkling lights at night. That at least was something to look forward to.

“Let me see Dad's journal,” Sam jutted out a hand.

Dean handed it over, and with him you huddled at Sam’s side to watch what he was doing. He skimmed, past newspaper clippings, crude drawings, diagrams, and symbols, while Dean shook his head in disbelief. He whistled. “One of these spirits, this far west… damn. Fucker’s definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

“They're found in the upper Midwest, actually, not Kansas,” Sam corrected, scanning the pages.

“Joke,” Dean huffed, and you had to appreciate Sam’s ability to be a snot-nosed kid brother regardless of the circumstances. The two shuffled further in, but between them you could still keep an eye on Haley, who was consoling Ben. To you, Dean said, “You remember anything off the top of your head from our last one? Where was that?”

“Cheboygan, up in Michigan,” you filled in. At the mention of one of your and Dean’s hunts, you felt Sam’s silence become impatient, snappish even.

Dean pulled a face, “How do you even remember that? We were like nineteen.”

“Cause’,” you snickered, “you couldn't remember the name of the damn town, so you’d just make up a new one every time and I kept having to correct you. I think my personal favorite was It’s-Cha-Boy-Again, the sheriff was so pissed—”

“Real hilarious.” Sam made a face to himself, since he’d been apparently waiting with the page while you and Dean had your moment. He turned it so the two of you could see, punctuating the push with a, “Look. Dad wrote that they have three different weaknesses: silver won’t kill it, but it’ll hurt it. Fire will do the job for sure. In the meantime, we can hold it off with these Anasazi symbols here.”

“Great,” Dean sighed. He hefted his M1911 from his coat, the engraved stainless steel appearing dull in the dimming light, and stared at it with dry displeasure. “Well, this is useless.”

Trying to be helpful, you pat your waistband beneath your jacket. “I still have my dagger.”

“Again: great,” Dean rejoiced, glimmering with sarcasm. “We can poke the thing real hard, if we feel like it. Yeehaw! Man, this just keeps getting better and better.”

You pinched Dean’s arm, just to terrorize him (as was your right), and while Dean squealed you considered Sam. “I can put together a fire—get it big enough, and put some of those symbols down, and we can keep it away long enough to come up with a game plan. Make some kind of trap. Or even just wait it out until morning.”

Sam snapped the book shut, sealing the latch on the cover with far more gentleness. He played with the frayed edges of the paper as he thought, and unprovoked you felt the strange nostalgia in your chest eddy up again; Sam, even if he didn’t agree at first, always considered your ideas to their full depth. It was a stupid thing to be flattered by. Especially at a time like this.

“If worse comes to worst,” Sam decided, “that’s our backup. But I think we should try and get these people out of here… they have no idea what kind of danger they’re in.”

As right as he was… you felt around the forest with your Gift again, where the vast sense of sentience that’d been weighing on you had narrowed down to a single body. You’d felt like it’d been the trees watching you this whole time, but it was their master using them as a conduit, infecting the ground with its walk. The spirits in legend were not to be messed with. In person, they would be a million times worse. Just feeling the ground this thing pissed on was messing with you.

Dean bit his lip, tapping his useless pistol against his thigh. Hopefully, he winced, “Sweetie, are you sure this is the real deal? You’re dead sure?”

Not at all happy about it, you nodded. “Yeah. It sucks, but yeah. Even if I didn’t recognize the feel of it, there’s the claws in the tents, then the way it mimics a human voice…”

Sam furrowed his brow. “And what’s this thing feel like?”

The already hollow bowl of your stomach crumpled like a ball of aluminum foil in your gut, and you forced a slow breath out of your nose to settle it. This wasn’t a stranger. This was Sam. Still, your head defaulted to eye level and you didn’t look at either of them. “Similar to the Cheboygan one, just… older. It’s got this cloud of… unease, n’ scariness floating around it, so it wasn’t clear to me at first. But it’s definitely the Winter Hunger. Sensing it made me feel… hungry.”

Dean took a dramatic step backward. Eyes wide, he coughed, “Cannibalistic kind of hungry? Slice-of-Dean-pie kind of hungry?”

“First off, I would totally eat Sam before I ever ate you—muscle’s supposed to taste better, not candy fat—”

“—who says I don’t have muscle? I have muscle!”

“Yeah, the way a Ken doll has muscle. I’m surprised your pretty hand model fingers can even hold that gun.”

Dean smirked, wiggling his fingers at you. “You think they’re pretty?”

“Pretty full of shit,” you grinned back. Since you’d stolen that line from him in early middle school, Dean took extra insult. You readied yourself for Dean’s inevitable headlock, which reeked of men’s deodorant and always messed up your hair, only to be saved by Sam clearing his throat.

“Both of you, shut up. How on earth do you get anything done?”

“Broken clocks are right twice a day, Sammy.”

_

You found Ben and Haley pressed hip-to-hip on a log, consoling one another as Roy stalked around the camp, circling, foolishly, for something he’d never see coming. For a strange second, you were grateful your roles weren’t reversed. At least you knew what this thing was. Roy thought he was in total control, but he couldn’t be further from the truth—this thing had bullied you into the middle of its playpen, and now it was dinner time. You didn’t pity him… but you did hope that things could be different.

“All right, listen up,” Sam said, and the authority in his voice lifted the heads of the group. “It's time to go. Things have gotten… more complicated.”

Haley rose onto shaking legs. “What?”

Roy didn’t even turn around. “Kid, don't worry. Whatever's out there, I think I can handle it.”

“So you agree.” You stepped into the square of the clearing, surrounded on all sides by bloodied supplies, mud, and the remains of Tommy’s innocent camping trip. Your dying proof. “It’s not a who, it’s a what. You know that. And you know this thing isn’t a grizzly—what kind of grizzly can call for help?”

“I’ll repeat myself, since the princess here doesn’t seem to hear me,” Roy swung his rifle into his other hand and cut across you to bark at Sam, “I have this handled.”

Dean caught your eye with a subtle jerk of his chin; when you were looking at him, he wiggled his fingers against his temple. You got the jist of the gesture. Do your thing. Out of everyone, you should be the last person to get distracted, and the last to take your eyes off the forest. The needled weight of knowing you were the only one that could find this thing dropped on you so hard you went breathless. You bodily turned around and faced the woods, trying to block out the building argument between Roy and Sam.

Calm certainty was looming in Sam’s voice. “If you shoot this thing, you're just gonna make it mad. We have to leave. Now.”

Roy’s casual condescension kicked up a gear. “One,” he said, venomously, “you're talking nonsense. Two, you're in no position to give anybody orders!”

“Relax,” Dean helpfully snapped.

You knew that if Sam wasn’t here, you’d be the one pushing this speech onto Roy; the good cop to Dean’s bad cop. But to your relief, Sam was much better at it than you—if Roy bothered to listen. “We never should have let you come out here in the first place, all right? I'm trying to protect you.”

You heard a twig snap behind you. “You protect me? I was hunting these woods when your mommy was still kissin’ you—!”

Roy was one step, two steps closer to Sam—then you were in between them, and all the dreamy, air-headed fogginess you’d been floating on all day had vaporized. The absolute wrath steaming in your face was so severe that Roy physically stumbled back. You opened your mouth to snarl. The dead silence of the woods was leeching on you from all sides, Sam was mourning, Dean was riddled with anxiety, John was gone, a spirits was actively hunting you, and Roy just wouldn’t ease the fuck up. A man was missing, and his friends may be dead. If Roy could just listen for five damn minutes, just forget about what he thought he knew and looked a foot in front of him—

Roy was saved from attempted first degree by Dean of all people—grabbing you by the elbow and reeling you, and your hands already closed into fists, away from Roy.

“S’ okay, s’ okay, you’re just a little overstrung here,” Dean was saying, but you bowled over him completely when the point of Roy’s rifle subconsciously shifted up from the forest floor.

With a harsh smack, you batted the barrel wide, pointing it away from the group. You knew he’d never even consider shooting, but the silence was ringing in your ears and the spirit was watching and the boys were dying with disappointment over John. For a spiraling moment you felt that there was nothing you could do.

“This thing will gut you,” you hissed, so quietly it was almost a whisper. But the forest in comparison was airless, lifeless, so nothing you said went unheard. The gravity of it turned your words into a prophecy. “It will hunt you, keep pace with you, and when it catches you, there’s no persuading it. The only thing that’s kept you from being torn apart like a fresh deer carcass is the three of us and fuckin’ chance. We’re risking our lives for you. I know you’re scared—”

Roy laughed, and it was the kind of laugh you’d been getting from older men your whole life. “I'm not scared of shit. I have a damn job to do—”

“And so do we.” You spoke, voice dangerous and low, “Take my friendly advice. Don’t get in the way of it.”

Roy let his gun hang at his side, working his jaw like you’d punched him. He shook his head. This time, you were the animal he was watching out for. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

You flashed a row of teeth. “Of course.”

“Thaaat’s enough,” Dean interjected, catching your elbow again, with more success now that Sam was helping him. Roy was still glaring you down.

“This place is getting to you,” Sam murmured soothingly. He was doing a poor job of hiding how charmed he was, though, and it occurred to you then how long it’d been since you’d boiled over at his defense like that. A long, long time. Maybe that was why you’d blown up so dramatically. He was right; this was the woods having an effect on you, the same way Constance’s anger and betrayal had overpowered you before.

Reluctant, you let yourself be dragged into time-out behind Dean. You fisted the back of his jacket, and when there was a safe barrier between the two of you, Roy had the courage to scowl, “Unbelievable… amateurs…”

Dean had already swung around to keep you from launching at him again. A flare of annoyance kicked up in your chest at the interception, but the feeling was short lived.

“Stop. Stop it! Everybody just stop!” Ben said, snagging Roy’s arm. His haunted silence had gone on for so long that everyone whipped around to listen to him; he wouldn’t speak if this wasn’t important. “Look. Tommy might still be alive. Haley and I are not leaving here without him.”

You sunk back onto your heels. By the tone of his voice alone you could tell he’d replayed what you’d said again and again in his mind, It’ll gut you… hunt you… torn apart like a fresh deer carcass… A black thorny feeling passed through all your limbs. Fuck.

“It's getting late,” Dean finally broke the lingering silence. He hung his head, and when it lifted, there was a warning mixed in with the certainty settled there. “This thing is a good hunter in the day, but an unbelievable hunter at night. We'll never beat it, not in the dark. We need to settle in and protect ourselves.”

Haley’s lip was quivering. “How?”

_

With all of your things stolen, you were forced to be grateful for John’s wilderness training. On autopilot, you and Dean gathered wood for the fire, you passing and him assembling, in the open space where Tommy’s group had put theirs. You even hauled over some downed logs for Haley and Ben to sit on, facing away from the massacre just a few steps behind them. This was done while Sam laid down the Anasazi protection sigils, and the tasks passed easily to the smooth cadence of his voice as he explained their significance to Ben.

Roy was helpful here, and even more helpful now that he learned to avoid you—and a little distance made you regret your outburst. Asshole might have deserved a little of it for getting up in Sam’s face, but it was clear to you now that all of them were afraid. That fear and loss and anxiety were innocent space debris to the black hole of your sensitive powers. Though a part of you knew it wasn’t your fault, you decided that Dean could do the yelling just fine next time. Someone less prone to sucking up all the feelings of everyone around them.

Once the fire was lit and the symbols were down, Dean sighed from deep in his belly. He looked wraithlike. The soft nighttime shadows blended out his face, and the breath of forest fog stirred around his boots as he rounded the fire, a hellhound illustration in the old books at home. His hand patted the shoulder of your jacket as he passed, silently passing the role of leader to you while he checked on Sam. (Who’d, naturally, secluded himself to one side of camp). You watched in real-time as Dean shifted from Pillar Of Safety to Concerned Brother. His walk was even different, a slow open approach instead of his usual cowboy saunter.

Dean, you shook your head fondly.

You knew without glancing at them that they were going to confer with each other about John. Sam was losing faith that John was here, and Dean was certain that he’d never been, and even more certain now that John didn’t want to be found. This was the second unfinished job he’d left for you. None of your visions so far had even hinted about John. A part of you wanted to go over there and apologize, to swear to try harder, but all three of you knew John was leading you around for a reason. If you had to guess? It was to keep the boys away from a bigger fish.

You listened to them murmur to each other, but only picked up every other word: Dad, job, family, screwed to hell. A piece of you was grateful that Dean and Sam could tell that John was long gone. While it was easy to tell Haley and Ben that you could sense their brother somewhere out in the Ridge, it would kill you to disappoint the boys.

In the dirt in front of the fire, you crossed your legs and unsheathed your knife, tapping it into the dirt as you focus on feeling the spirit. Before you closed your eyes, you tilted back your head and took in the infinite view of the nighttime sky curving over you and everything you could touch. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered a fifteen-year-old Sam explaining to you how you could tell time with stars. You use the Big Dipper, he’d explained, in one of the thousand pockets of time where it’d been you and him waiting for John. Maybe he remembered how. Maybe he could explain it to you again tonight.

“I like your tattoo.”

You snapped your right hand shut, fingers flat to the eye of your palm.

“Not that one,” Haley said, and made a fantastic impression of a person not at all curious about you. She poked at the fire, eyes a little too honed in on the flames to be accidental. “The one on your shoulder—sorry, I saw it when Dean was patching your scrape.”

“Oh,” your free hand left your knee to touch the spot without thought. Sitting in eerie silence didn’t sound too good to you either, so you offered, “...Thank you. It was my dad’s. I got it in honor of him.” At the interested look on Ben’s face (as opposed to the grave counterpart), you pulled open your jacket and shoved down one sleeve so they could see it, “He was a real funny guy—a biker, actually,” you winked at him, “but the secret softie kind.”

You tapped the ink there, which was a plush heart pierced by an arrow and wrapped, cheesily, in a banner printed with Mom. Haley gave it a little chuckle, which you took as a good sign. She hummed, “My dad was the same way. He had all sorts of tattoos, and this big Harley he’d drive me to school on.”

You snickered, “You’re kidding.”

“I only died of embarrassment a couple times,” Haley shrugged, half-smiling.

The flames made her look ghostly, so you focussed on the sound of her voice instead. Playing with your dagger hilt, you asked, “What model?”

“A… 1950 FL hydra-glide, I think?” Haley guessed, and from over her shoulder you heard Ben mumble, “1955. It was red.”

You whistled. “Damn. Must’ve been beautiful. My dad had an Indian, a 1969,” you nodded behind you, smiling to yourself, “Sam and Dean used to beg him to take them for rides all the time when we were little, too.”

Apparently, you’d reached what Haley wanted to talk about. She stopped poking the fire and drew the stick across her lap. “You grew up with them?”

“Yep,” turning your ankle over, you started picking dirt out of the grooves of your shoe with the point of your knife—because if she could pretend to be distracted, so could you. “Those are my boys.”

Haley watched the firelight glint off the flat of your blade. “You n’ them… you all grew up doing this?”

It was clear she didn’t know what this was, exactly, which was probably what she was aiming for. You hated that you had to lie to her—you could small-talk about your dad and his bike and Sam and Dean, but the hunt had already put a barrier between you. Between you and everyone like her.

“We did,” you swallowed, thickly, “Yeah.”

The tone of your voice must’ve been worse than what you’d planned for, because Haley’s reply was a genuine, “I’m sorry.”

The words needled closer to your nerves than you’d like, but you had your own goal for this conversation. “I’m sorry,” you spoke, watching the smoke purl overhead. “If I scared you earlier, what I said.”

“No, no,” Haley reassured, dismissing the very thought with a shaky hand, “I get it. You were just trying to scare some sense into Roy. He’d been pushing you all day.”

Again, you tilted your head back and laid your hands on your knees. To her, you must’ve looked grand, like some ancient priestess consulting the heavens for guidance. But out here the sky was flat and unyielding, so even if you could, there’d be no advice to receive. You thought about Jessica Moore. On the ceiling, terrified, split open at the womb. To yourself, you thought you looked pathetic.

“We find your brother. He’s still alive. I can feel it,” you promised, and closed your eyes to continue searching for the spirit.

“...I don’t usually listen to people promising things they can’t keep, but…” Haley’s voice was crumpled in on the weight of its own desperate hope, “for some reason, I know you’re telling the truth.”

You wanted her to mean you. The way you spoke, or comforted, or acted should’ve been the thing to give her faith, but already you knew that it was your Gift. Leaching into the minds of those around you and influencing them. As if it was a physical thing, a death shroud, you dragged your Gift closer around you and hoarded it away from everyone else. Luckily, you didn’t have to sit with her groundless faith for long.

“Help me! Please!”

Your blood ran cold. Not, at first, because you knew it was the Winter Hunger.

Because it sounded like Sam.

It lacked the proper inflection. It spoke with more shrill than Sam would, like it was slowly molting the voice of the woman it’d used before to reveal Sam’s skin underneath. You’d seen one of these spirits do this in person before. They didn’t exactly have vocal chords, so the voice just came from them, like the bubble of air around it had spoken instead of the spirit itself. It would’ve been easier if it walked or talked like the human it had once been; but even eight-something years later, the memory of it trying to lure Dean to where it’d trapped you, your voice still wailing from it, stopped you cold.

Sam and Dean were instantly on their feet. You were up beside them without a single thought, and at once, the three of you closed ranks back-to-back-to-back with civilians in the middle, furiously scanning the trees. You felt the cold metal of Dean’s pistol glimpse your hand, watching Sam’s flashlight swing through the canopy. Their breathing was calm. You forced yours to be, too.

“Help!” It wailed. The voice seemed to bounce and circle, radiating from every direction.

Eyes closed, you raised your dagger arm and just felt.

“There,” you said, following where the point had taken you. When you opened your eyes, Dean and Sam had crept in front at your direction, like twin soldiers advancing at the command of an officer.

“What do we do?” Haley cried.

“He's trying to draw us out. Just stay cool, stay put.” Dean placated, and even if you knew it was useless, you were comforted by him turning off his safety.

Roy was far less disturbed. He watched the circle of your camp with a careful eye, but beyond that and his rifle being raised, he could’ve been watching TV. “Inside the magic circle?” He drawled.

“Help!” You gut twisted; it was an accurate wail, one it’d stolen from someone else a long time ago. You told yourself it didn’t sound like Sam. “God, help me!”

The last guttural scream descended into throat-tearing, animalistic growling, and you barely heard Roy when he raised his trembling rifle to the sound. “Okay, that's no grizzly.”

Haley and Ben fell behind you, clutching hands. “It's okay. You'll be alright, I promise, I-I promise—ah!”

Just beyond the shadows of the brush, something long-limbed and mossy white swept in a grand arch around your camp. Without the noise it could’ve been nothing more than a powerful breeze fluttering the skirt of the undergrowth, but the spirit bayed and snarled, leading you, urging you.

“It’s here!” Sam barked.

Roy popped off a shot, then three. The spirit squealed like a pig, then a horse with all four ankles snapped at once; they blended together into a terrible sludge of pitiful sound, as the spirit sheared all the worst physical pain it’d heard into one noise.

“I hit it!” He declared, and charged into the woods.

You only had a breath to consider. The idiot had no idea what he was chasing, no idea what he’d hit—you skittered out of formation and sailed after him, dagger first.

Dean roared, “Roy, no! Roy!” Dean tried to grab the edge of your coat, but you were too fast. “____! Fuck—” He whipped around, gesturing with a wide hand at the group, “Don't move. Don’t!”

It led you away. You felt like you’d been running for ages, but the ground flew by under your feet, twigs snapping, soil sloping, trying to trip you up. Leaves slapped you in the face. The moon was your only light, confusing silhouettes in your peripherals. Blindly, you slashed—ripping through the foliage Roy’s race was ricochetting back at you—

Roy’s voice cracked through the air. “It's over here! It's in the tree!”

“No!” You howled, and for an instant his vest was fisted in your hand and you’d shoved him out of the way like you’d needed to—but then he was hauled up—you missed—you landed, palms first, dirt splattering up into your face—

Skittering onto your back, you kicked backwards. And stilled.

The spirit stared at you from eyeless sockets. Its head was a buck’s sun-bleached skull. Its bone was so white, but moss and sticks and mud had been packed onto its body until it was hard to distinguish in the dark. A good fifteen feet up into the tree, it sat, poised between branches. Once, it’d been a man—and if you stared at it long enough you could almost see how. But it’d eaten its human flesh a long time ago, so the majority of its body was long, withered bone and wood petrified into a mossy spine. There were antlers on its head and antlers on its hands—but no, those were claws—and Roy’s head was twisted sideways in between them, the rest of his body blowing in the breeze below him. A hanged man. It had snapped his neck.

“No,” you breathed.

It warbled your name in Sam’s voice.

You choked. Then, you turned your dagger over in your hand, heaved it over your head and chucked it hard—the spirit launched at you—Roy’s body snapped out sideways—rough arms barrelled into you and a massive weight hauled you out of the way—your throw struck something, because the spirit shrieked in it’s real voice. There was a scratching, tearing sound as it clawed up the side of a tree. More trees, snapping in the distance. A silence.

It disappeared, taking Roy’s corpse with it.

You laid there for a minute more, Dean limp over you, both of you holding your breath and going still and praying the thing wouldn’t circle back—or worse, notice you were playing dead.

The silence clung.

“____! Dean!” Sam’s voice boomed through the woods.

You flinched. Dean covered your mouth. You grabbed his shirt and held onto it for dear life. His weight was crushing you and the shove had bruised you and Roy was dead, and all of it had happened in just minutes. Seconds.

Then Sam, the real Sam, came tearing through the foliage, and at the same time you and Dean let out the breath you were holding. Dean rolled off of you. Sam was asking what happened, but Dean just shook his head, again and again, sitting there and smearing the dirt off your face with his sleeve. You pulled his hand away and squeezed it, blinking dimly up at him; he’d saved your life. That thing had been launching for you next.

“Roy’s dead,” you said, numbly, and Sam quickly scooped you up under the shoulders and heaved you onto your feet. Dean was walking ahead of you and Sam was kissing your hair and telling you that you were okay—but you knew that, because Roy had died. God, you’d been such an asshole.

“I heard it scream,” Sam said.

Dean just kept walking, walking. “She hit it. But she didn’t kill it.”

_

The next day came on muddy legs. Since you’d entered the hunt with the most sleep, you took first lookout, Dean curled up comfortably in a ditch fire-side and Sam on the ground, his back pressed against your thigh for warmth. Haley and Ben took the two sleeping bags that survived Tommy’s camp. She seemed perturbed at how familiar the three of you were sleeping on rocks, but she was too rattled to press you for more of your life story.

You divided yourself between watching Sam for nightmares, feeling around the woods for the spirit, keeping the fire alive and ripping visions out of your Gift. All you could come up with was a lousy prediction for rain, so you woke Sam up and disappeared into the trees for a while. You never went too far—not without Dean’s knife—but far enough to have some breathing room. The fog was sweet-tasting, and if you stood in it long enough you could pretend you were camping with the boys. Maybe tomorrow you’d go swimming in the creek behind Bobby’s house, taking turns jumping off the old tire-swing that Sam always found frogs in. In a haze you thought about summer 99’, hacking at the skinnier trees with Dean’s bowie knife. (You used to drop the frogs down the front of his shirt when he napped in the shade, and he’d wake up hollerin’ and chase you into the creak…).

The sun hadn’t risen, it was going to rain, Roy was dead, and the spiritwas waiting. But if you thought hard enough it was the summer of 99’, and you were making a treehouse in the woods with Sam and Dean.

The group woke up hours later, close enough to the now-sheltered fire to be warm and half-dry. You’d rigged up some sticks and Tommy’s old tent over the fire to shield it from the rain, then fell asleep against Sam’s knee, disappointed that the cloud cover had ruined your chance to ask him about the star thing. Disappointed that everything had happened the way it had. You were supposed to be a hunter—you were supposed to protect people. If you’d given up being an oracle for this and you weren’t even protecting people properly, what was the point of selfishly hiding from your Gift? What was the point of anything?

Dean woke up, rubbed the morning dew off his lashes, and sighed. “We have to find its den… n’ kill this damn thing.”

Sleep had numbed more than just you to the experience, then, because Haley and her brother gathered any surviving supplies and resolved to follow. The rain had died to a light sprinkle by then. You felt it tapping on your hair as you sought the spirit again, Ben’s eyes glued to your back. He might’ve asked Dean what you were doing, but before he could answer you’d found a direction to set off for, which came slower than usual. The place where Roy had died was like a sinkhole dragging all your senses to that course, and you had to plant your feet and haul your Gift away from the death and sorrow hanging there.

You lifted Dean’s bowie knife so its point touched where the sun was slicing open the horizon. Using it like a dowsing rod, you let it drift in the direction that scared you most. “...This way,” you opened your eyes, “South-East.”

Dean led, his pistol in one hand and a molotov cocktail swinging in the other. You’d chosen correctly, because soon you could make out the spirit's bloody claw marks in the bark. Keeping Ben and Haley safely in the middle of your forest march, you fell into step with Sam, waiting for one of the Collinses to start asking questions. As cold as things were with the rain, it made the forest seem less like the funeral of an ancient spirit. The soft periodic noise was much easier on the nerves.

Haley cleared her throat, wincing at the loud snap of a twig under her boot. “How do we know this… thing is not out there watching us?”

Dean swung a narrow glance over his shoulder, with that stern, action-hero type look on his face. “We’d know. We’re pretty good at what we do,” he said, because that was easier than explaining how you were a psychic who sensed those quirky types of things. “And ___ clipped it—there’s a good chance it’s licking its wounds back home.’

Haley and Ben were silent for another long lapse. Each, if you had to guess, itching with more and more questions. Again, Haley built up the courage first. “If all that’s true… what you said about these things always being hungry, and eating people… how can Tommy still be alive?”

Dean faced forward. He kept walking. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“I’d rather know,” Haley swallowed. “Tell me.”

“They’re like bears. They hibernate,” Dean explained. “And how do bears eat when they’re getting ready to take their deluxe nap?”

Even when you were only able to see his back, you could tell Ben paled. “...By gorging on all the meat they can?”

Dean stumbled over a dense thicket of leaves, coughing. “Uh, no, kid,” he cleared his throat. “Sorry. Bad metaphor. Apparently I don’t know anything about bears. They, uh—”

“Spirit store their victims,” Sam spoke, gently, and in the tone of his voice you sensed a hint of practice. Like he’d studied this kind of stuff on color-coded notecards. “They feed whenever they want, but the important part is that they keep their victims alive.” Sam glanced at you, rain slipping off his nose, and added to them, “Tommy’s okay.”

“...Does it sleep in an actual den?” Haley asked. “That’s what we’re looking for, right?”

The questions seemed to be helping them at least a little, so when Dean clamped up Sam filled in for him: “Yes. They live in cold, dark places, as close to caves as they can get.”

Another long pause droned on. You stared at Sam’s shoulders as he walked, since he’d decided to shield you as best he could by keeping just a step in front of you. The rain speckled the top of his sweatshirt’s hood and shoulders with pretty black droplets, and with his head flicking around so fast, Sam was a sparrow. His brow was furrowed in thought.

“So, uh…” Ben said, “...Do these things piss? Do they... do that kind of stuff?”

You couldn't help it. You pressed your lips together, but the attempt was in vain. You snickered at the question, which turned into an inappropriate chuckle, but Dean’s shoulders were shaking too and Sam was wiping the smile off his lip with the back of his hand. Haley gave her brother a playful shove.

“That one’s all yours, Sammy,” Dean shook his head.

“I answered the last ones,” Sam said, claiming his role as the snot-nosed brother yet again. At least the guy was consistent. He jabbed you with his elbow, “It’s ____’s turn.”

After years of being the girl, and being teased for shrinking away from beatles, spiders, and whatever else Dean or Sam decided to chase you around the store with, you’d been trained for this moment. “Actually—”

You stopped so harshly your teeth snapped together. The laugh in your voice died.

Something sharp bounced off your shoulder. Then another, and another, in little shards. Hail?

“Haley!”

But by the time it was out of your mouth, you’d already snagged the collar of her shirt and tore her out of the way—she slipped on the mud—you both scuttled back, and right where she’d been standing some kind of heavy branch with limbs and a head smashed like a mannequin into the foliage—

You knew by the turn of his neck alone that it was Roy.

Haley had screamed. She was clawing the front of your jacket, scrambling to get away from the body, and you let her fly behind you as Dean came sailing passed, pistol high and eyes burning. A wind roared through the forest behind you, whipping rain into your faces. Branches snapped clear off their trunks. A comet trail of wood chips and torn leaves shredded after this thing, following it in a confusing arch around you. It was so hungry and cold, and so you were hungry and cold, hungry enough to clamp your teeth into your own arm. The spirit growled and snarled, and all at once you knew why Sam had kept looking up—the claw marks were too distinct—

You’d been led into a trap, with Roy’s body as the distraction.

Dean was immediately over him, gun-hand scrambling across Roy’s throat for a pulse. Instead, there was the mangled mess of his spine stabbing up into his jugular like a rod through a pitched tent. Dean cursed. “His neck’s broke! Go—go, go, now!”

The spirit roared around you. Overhead, you heard the harsh scraping of the bone of its claws stabbing into tree bark, felt the splinters hit your hair, and without looking you pushed Haley ahead of you, and Sam grabbed Ben, and Dean’s yell unfroze your blood and pushed you to fucking run. Branches speared into the ground at your feet. Hail pierced the back of your jacket like shotgun spray. Time slowed, and you knew there was no outrunning this thing. But you comforted yourself with the idea that it would go for you first, since you’d drawn blood from it—maybe Sam and Dean would have time to get Haley and Ben away.

You kept Haley and Dean in front of you, Haley bracing her face against the onslaught of branches, and Dean movie-perfect, dodging debris with his pistol across his chest, nimble and fast. The hail never let up—the spirit was streaking after you, freezing the air as it went.

Someone hit the dirt behind you. Praying it wasn’t Sam, you jolted to a stop, almost dislocating your shoulder on a tree, and peeled around to rip Ben off the dirt. You did the math, planning for if he was injured, if you had to carry him—but Sam was on his other side. Come on, I gotcha, I gotcha, he said. Together, you hauled him up by the arms and kept going. Sam could’ve caught up to Dean easily, but you purposefully put him in front of you and he refused to leave you in the back alone.

The hail became rain again. Was it giving in? Had you really outrun it?

But you could still hear it, thudding into the dirt like a thousand feet on a tin roof, just ahead of you—fuck, the fucker had lapped you—closer to Dean, but Dean had his gun—

You felt withered bone ensnare you by the knee, tearing your legs out from underneath you and smashing you skull-first in the dirt. Everything rang. Everything went black.

But you were still running, and the spirit was ahead of you, and you’d been separated.

Haley screamed.

All at once everything was over. You skidded to a stop in the clearing where the sound had come from, and all was silent and eerily serene. The hail was gone. Even the echo of Haley’s scream had faded, drowned by the rain. The air was warm with heavy fog. You fell to your knees on momentum alone, gasping hard enough to pierce your lungs, spitting hail and wood shrapnel out of your mouth, your hair flattened to your skin.

“Haley?” Ben wailed.

Your vision was doubling. You pressed your forehead into the dirt, both hands clutching your aching head. “Dean,” you panted, “oh god, Dean.”

Sam leant down beside you. Something tinkled in the grass, and he picked it up, burning your nose with the close scent of alcohol. Somehow, you heaved your body upright. Sam was dead silent, swinging in every direction, looking for a trail, but there was none—only the shattered molotov Dean had left behind.

“It knocked him out,” you murmured, rubbing the spot on your skull. “Haley too.”

Sam ignored you. Molotov in hand, he paced in a circle, sneering at the horizon. From every angle you were cornered by trees, their eyes watchful knots. Sam’s chest heaved, his whole body a shuddering, steaming engine. He stopped. His bangs were flattened to his forehead, shielding his eyes from you.

He whipped the intact halve of the molotov into the closest trunk, pulverizing it.

“Dean!”

Sam continued to yell. It made you feel twelve again, during one of the few times you’d been there for one of the Winchester family arguments. You’d be cleaning your Glock 26 by lamplight, and in the other room it’d go from a snappish comment to full-blown roaring, and with each word’s building anger the heat in your blood would amp and amp. You’d sit there staring at nothing with your shoulders up to your ears, flinching at the bark in John’s voice or the brutal honesty in Sam’s. It always ended with a slammed door.

“Dean!” Sam bellowed.

You flinched. Quietly, you murmured, “Sam.”

He didn’t listen. Ben was staring helpless at the treetops, arms wrapped around himself.

You pressed your palms flat to the dirt. The alcohol from the molotov was there mixing with the mud, and you thought of Dean’s flask and Dean’s jacket and Dean, feeling. Searching. For a stranger it might have taken you days, maybe weeks to find them with your Gift—but this was him. You barely had to think about it.

Pushing yourself to your feet and flicking the mud off your hands, you started walking.

“This way, boys.” You smiled, all wrathful teeth. “We've been invited to a slumber party, and I’ve just found the address.”

_

The walk to the spirit's  den was less of a walk and more of a chase. Sam and Ben labored to keep pace with you, hopping logs, tripping over vines, and dodging mud patches in your wake. You stopped for them when they were too far behind for your comfort, but beyond that you thought of nothing else and cleared your mind of the forest’s influence. It’d been an iron weight chained to your foot for the last days. Now that you had Dean to follow, you had an island to swim toward instead of treading helplessly in the open ocean.

A few paces behind you, Ben was anxiously rubbing his hands together. “If it keeps its victims alive… why did it kill Roy?”

Sam had moved his hood off his head, since the rain was starting to pitter off. “Honestly? I think because Roy shot at it, pissed it off.”

Ben was one of those kids—well, teens—that had eyes like a spotlight. You felt it sizzle across your back and then dart away just as fast, like just looking at you would summon the spirit again. He was a smart kid. He could probably figure out that you’d wounded the thing, too, so it’d be hunting around for you next. Ben was the only one who hadn’t seen the Winter Hunger yet; you wondered what it would look like for him.

These spirits weren’t shape-shifters. They had a kind of “true form,” probably something that looked more like the men they’d once been. But part of the rot that followed them changed their shape depending on each person, pulling—devouring—the vision from their mind. They only saw what they imagined the spirit to look like. Sam had read the Native American accounts, so he saw something tall and humanoid and clawed. You’d listened to Dean’s old hunting stories a bit too closely as a kid, so your and Dean’s creature was animal, skeletal, and Americanized. All three of you had endured John shushing at you for speaking—or even thinking—the creature's name out loud. Maybe Tommy believed he’d seen a real grizzly. Roy may have seen the same thing.

John had suggested that the first impression of a spirit was powerful—that, because your brain decided what it looked like, you could control your fear of it. He didn’t see a monster or a creature when he looked at the spirit. John saw a man, because men were killable and fallible. John Winchester wasn’t afraid of men.

This spirit had been influencing you for days now. The moment you’d stepped into Grand Junction, it’d had an effect on you. All monsters did. Your family’s power was supposed to be a blessing, a Gift, and yet all it did was make it easier for you to be controlled—by your feelings, by spirits like Constance, and now the spirit. It was why John always hesitated to bring you on hunts. Why he’d never fully trusted you, with the job or with the boys.

Well. You weren’t afraid of men either.

“Are you sure we’re headed in the right direction?” Sam asked. He didn’t sound unconfident, but you had been tirelessly leading them around without explanation.

“I can feel him. He’s okay,” you explained, “We’re close. Keep walking, and stay sharp.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. You felt his eyes on the side of your face now, too, and between watching your footing you met his gaze. A wave of concern cascaded down him, so genuine and sudden that it put into perspective just how messed up you must’ve looked: you were soaking wet, covered in mud, melting hail, and tree bark, with a ferociously blank stare pinned to your face. Ben was keeping his distance for a reason. You looked a little unhinged.

“I can feel you, too,” you said, as a joke or a statement of fact, you weren’t sure. “Anywhere in the world, probably.”

Sam gave you a bracing smile. “Creep.”

“You won’t be saying that when it’s you I’m tracking,” you reminded.

“I like it,” Sam replied instead.

You knew that he was just filling the strange silence of the hunt, and talking so Ben didn’t have to lose his mind thinking alone, but Sam’s comment was so out of nowhere that it made it more real. Again, like it was something he really meant. Hunts often forced you to dissolve completely into the ugly recesses of your powers. For just a moment, you felt like you’d been hauled out of the water and permitted to breathe again. You missed him—Sam, and all his soft-spoken honesties.

Through the trees you thought you saw something red; Sam was already creeping toward it, which turned out to be some kind of corrugated roof that’d collapsed, and past that, the weedy entrance to a mine. It stood out of the cliffside like a gaping wound, smeared with rust and rot, a relic of the apocalypse. The whole thing listed to one side where it protruded from the trees. If Sam gave the wooden framing of the entrance a good kick, he could probably bring the whole thing down.

At first you were blasted with sensation. A constant stream of icy wind gushed from the slats in the entry, which was blocked off by rotted boards and dying moss. Sam approached, silent and crouched, but nothing emerged and no sound was heard. You put Ben behind you as casually as you could, hoping to instill some confidence in him—Haley was just beyond the tunnel. Sam touched one of the beams as he passed, and winced at the cold prickle of frost there.

The red you’d seen was a painted sign on the front of the mine: WARNING! DANGER! DO NOT ENTER EXTREMELY TOXIC MATERIAL.

“We’re going to get your sister and your brother, okay?” You said to Ben. “Are you coming in, or do you want to stay out here?”

Ben stared at the gaping mouth of the mine. He rubbed his hands together again, playing with the lanyard against his chest, a slideshow of indecision playing out behind his eyes. He stared at you and then Sam, face heartful. “If something’s happened… I want to be there for them.”

“You’re a great brother,” you told him, meaning it, “now, stay quiet, and breathe through your nose.”

Sam entered first for Ben’s peace of mind, then you, keeping him in between you. It took a moment for your eyes to settle, but once you were beyond the fog of light ghosting in from the daytime, you began to make out shapes in the dark—long tunnels, scaffolding, and rails aligned with each. The breaks in the rock above that let in sunlight lessened the further in you walked, but that wasn’t the worst part. A stale, earthy, putrid smell was slathered across every wall. You swore the raindrops on your eyelashes were freezing. When it grew cold enough for you to see your breath in the beam of Sam’s flashlight, you were only a couple steps inside. Sam and Ben paused at the long junction of mine shafts spaced evenly along the walls. They were looking at you, so you brought the sleeves of Dean’s hand-me-down jacket against your chest.

Go right, you mouthed.

Sam’s silhouette led the way. He was a pillar of silence, and beside him, skirting as close to Sam as he could, Ben was breathing laboriously through his nose. He kept glancing back at you, probably making sure the soft pad of your boots wasn’t coming from something else. A part of you wanted to hide behind Sam a little too. You couldn’t see a foot in front of you, since Sam’s figure was between you and most of the light, so you calmed yourself by sensing him instead and reminding yourself he was there. For the last two years, this was the part of the hunt where you’d walk alone—but Sam was here now, too.

A low growl bubbled off the damp tunnel walls.

On instinct, Sam grabbed Ben by the shirt and reeled back, scuffling into cover. The flashlight went out. The loss of light and Ben’s panic and Dean’s pain rocked over all your senses at once, delaying you by a single second—then a big, warm hand closed around your wrist and dragged you to safety. Your back thudded silently against the rock, and you pinned yourself there. You could almost hear Ben’s pulse racing. Sam’s grip on your wrist was iron. Somehow, you broke it and flipped it around to squeeze the life out of his hand instead.

You knew you’d hear the spirit's footsteps next—the clicking of its claws on the rock, the drag of them through the water. You should’ve been terrified. But even with Sam gripping your hand and you bracing right back, the spirit just feet from your hiding place, Haley and Tommy and Dean all injured somewhere beyond, you felt calm. Fear flushed out of your system at once, chased away by a warmer feeling.

It’s a man, it’s just a man, you told yourself. And you weren’t afraid of men.

A long shadow fell down the slope of the tunnel, thrown from one of the breaks in the rocks further down the path. You told yourself it didn’t have antlers, or a deer’s skull, or the gnarled bone body you’d seen before. And it didn’t; the spirit's growl rumbled from the long, human silhouette sliding across the tunnel wall.

It passed into view. The spirit's raspy snarl breathed through the cavern louder than a nuclear bomb, roaring through your ears, but this time it came from a mouth that moved. You imagined it was a tall, broad man, without hair on a featureless, haggard, naked body. In the low light you watched spit and blood glitter in its teeth, on its too-long nails. The skin was loose and aged. And embedded hilt-deep in its brow was a shiny, familiar dagger hilt.

It was a man. Just a man, who thought he could tear you apart—hurt your boys. How many times had you finished off something like him before? Dozens? A hundred times?

Ben yelped—Sam clamped a hand over his mouth. You wondered what he saw.

You relaxed your hold on Sam’s hand, but didn’t let it go, and studied the spirit through slow blinks as it turned down a different path. The moment it turned the corner, you and Sam whirled around your cover and stalked down a different tunnel as fast as you could, Ben in tow. You dared to look down at the silt the spirit had crossed through. For a split second you swore it had been dragged through by massive claws, but you shook off the feeling and repeated to yourself: it’s just a man. You’d been mistaken. Just ruddy footprints.

When you glanced ahead, Sam was looking up—at where the spirit he had seen had brushed the tunnel’s ceiling.

They followed you deeper, Ben still shaking from the close call. You stopped suddenly at the arch of a scaffold, and pointed out a makeshift ladder shaft that went straight down into darkness. Ben looked at you like you couldn’t be serious. But Sam sighed, slid into the chute with his flashlight between his teeth, and descended, struggling to maneuver his longer limbs around the square frames of wood. It must’ve been some kind of pulley system, but the frame was strong enough to work as a ladder now. You could spend twenty minutes finding the long way down, or get out there as fast as you could—and personally, the second option sounded better. Besides. Sam, the gentleman, was taking the brunt of spiderwebs by going down first.

Ben went second, wincing and spitting the whole way, and then you followed. The frame creaked dangerously as you descended, using the scaffold like rungs, but Ben kept the flashlight steady for you. Sam itched at every groan of wood, arms jumping up to catch you in case you fell. The last rung left a bit of room between you and the ground. You hesitated, and Sam immediately offered his hands to you, even before you were at risk of a loud drop.

“I got you,” Sam whispered. In the glow of the flashlight, his expression looked focussed and was drawn with concern, so you gave him a little nod. You tilted back.

His broad hands found your hips, and after a quiet count to zero, you dropped down and into Sam’s hold, softening the smack of your boots hitting the stone. Even so, the lightest footfalls seemed to boom through the labyrinth of tunnels. Water droplets made soft, eerie music in the distance that bounced off every surface. The breeze whistled through the tunnels in a low, surging note through a cavernous flute, creating this groaning ambiance you thought only existed in horror movies. Far off, an underground creek was hissing. You held your breath with your back to Sam’s chest, dead still and waiting to be discovered, but no other shadows emerged from the dark. Sam released you.

The bottom of the shaft cut down a jagged slope, opening into a larger cave. Switching from organized, man-made tunnels to something more organic didn’t set you at ease, but at the very least there were more spears of light propping up the ceiling here. Another long gust of air breathed its way through the tunnels, fluttering your hair. When the terrifying sound subsided, you could finally hear yourself think. Bats were chittering. Water was falling. Chains were tinkling, and two people were breathing.

The beam of the flashlight bobbed crazily along the circle of the cavern, then clung to the group of bodies hanging from the ceiling. Sam shuddered out a breath of relief. They were hung over the spirit's plate of gleaned remains—a nest of long-dead bodies ravaged down to skeletons, eaten first at the thighs and calves like pulled pork—but they were alive.

Ben choked on his own gasp. Instantly, he and Sam were scrambling across the rocks to free the captives. You lingered, conquered by real deja vu. Haley was hung from the ceiling by her wrists, her face pressing awkwardly between her arms as Ben murmured her name, Sam blinking against a sharp sunbeam. All of their faces were streaked with mud. You realized now that Sam’s hair was wet, making it shine the way it had in your vision—but it’d neglected to show Dean. Maybe because it knew you’d be driven insane by worry.

Sam grabbed him by the jacket, panting. “Dean.”

“Guh,” Dean squinted, working his jaw. “What th’ fuck?”

Your whole body could’ve collapsed in relief, and you almost did, losing a little strength in your knees. Being so honed-in on his presence for the last hours was easy when Dean was far away. Up close, conquered by your own relief and rage, you were temporarily thrown into sensory overload.

“Take the flashlight,” Sam ordered, half-flinging it at you in his haste, “I’ll get em’ down. Dean, you okay?”

Dean groaned, tilting his head back between his arms. “Ugh,” he spat, “yeah.”

“Thank god,” you swore, and scuttled across the rocks to take the light. Ben was murmuring softly to Haley still and helping her down, so you took point, putting your back to them and aiming Sam’s flashlight at the entrances. The Winter Hunger didn’t feel close.

Sam cut Dean free, who went down like a bag of bricks. His brother heaved him up again, and the two shuffled for the closest wall, Dean gnashing his teeth and Sam bearing most of his weight. Dean thunked down onto the rock not-so-prettily, and laughed murderously through his pain—if you’d been dragged around by a spirit for a couple hours, you’d be pretty pissed too. Ben helped Haley to the empty patch of floor, and you brushed your hand against her shoulder in case she needed more help. Jesus. Some hunters you were.

“Lemme see you, honey,” you said. Sam took the flashlight so you could bend in front of Dean, trying to hide how hard your hands were shaking as you pushed his hair back from his face. No blood. No visible trauma. A damn miracle, considering how hard he’d been knocked out.

Dean coughed. He was working his shoulder and hissing, wrists raw with rope burn. Still, nothing could take away his snark. “Of course, dear. You found me?”

“Easily,” you promised. There was a hand-sized swath of mud on his cheek, parts of it dried and others caking off from the assault of cave water dripping on his face. You hiked up your sleeve and wiped it off his face as best you could, only to be shooed away for mother-henning him.

“Where’s it now?” Dean grimaced.

You glanced at the widest of the entrances to the cave, which came from above and disappeared into absolute darkness. “Far away. For now. We need to get Tommy and get out of here before—”

The rope around Haley’s wrists slapped to the floor. “Tommy?” She choked, “Where?”

You pointed in the shadows behind where they’d been hung, and as one the Collinses leaped up. Hot tears were carving marks down Haley’s face. In a mad dash, she and Ben darted over the rocks and picked through the spirit's bone nest, undeterred by the gore. Their voices overlapped as they cried out his name, trying to snap him awake. Every hitch in breath made you nervous, but Tommy’s waking gasp was music to your ears. Sam was already there to cut him down. The thin, shaking figure dropped straight into Ben and Haley’s hold. The last few days had ravaged him; when they laid him out on the floor, he looked nothing like the fun hippie kid from his videos to Haley.

“Haley,” Tom uttered, smiling between them. His voice was deadly quiet and throaty. “Ben.”

Haley leaned her head against her brother’s, voice stronger and yet softer than you’d ever heard it. “It’s okay. We’re gonna get you home.”

Ben slowly lifted his head to you, brows high. “You… you were right.”

“Hey—check it out!” Dean called, merrily. He’d found where the spirit had stashed your things, among the belongings of dozens of other victims. You saw your modern backpacks, then rugged, old-style hiking equipment, growing greener and greener with time. But among them Dean had found your hunting bag, and—

“Flare guns,” Sam smiled, breathless. “Those’ll work.”

Dean shot you a little grin, popped his heel against his ankle like he was wearing cowboy spurs, and twirled the plastic guns in each hand. The iron core of worry in your gut dissolved with your laugh, and for the millionth time you swore you’d never let him out of your sight again.

“____, catch,” Dean said.

This time, his throw didn’t go wide, and you caught the flare gun in one hand. You turned it over, studying it. These had to be from Roy’s pack. “Sam should…”

“Sam’s rusty,” Dean pointed out, “You’ll be okay.”

“He’s still a better shot than me.” Turning, you opened Sam’s hand and placed the flare gun into it. At his skeptical look, you tried for a humorous smile, “I’ve got my own weapon to get back. And, besides, out of the three of us, who has the best chance of surviving a spar with one of those things?”

Sam tilted his head and shrugged, humoring you. “Fair. Just—” he side-eyed you, a warning in his eyes, “stick close to me.”

You obliged. Haley and Ben supported their brother, who, after hanging the way he was for so many days, could barely limp, never mind walk. You tried not to think how impossible it was going to be to get out of here. You, Dean, and Sam had smuggled a six-pack of Busch Lights out from under Bobby’s nose once. This wasn’t all that different, right? Of course, you’d barely survived that one. You definitely wanted to survive this.

The cresting howl of the breeze through the tunnels droned on, gushing into your faces as you, Dean and Sam lead the Collinses out of the den. Sam’s flashlight startled a knot of bats, sending them spraying ahead. When the squeaking let up, the wind was still howling… then growling, then baying, and you all jolted to a stop at a junction in the tunnels. The spirit.

“Looks like someone’s home for supper,” Dean smiled. It was that terrifying trenches smile he always took with him on hunts, the kind that cooled your nerves.

Haley swallowed, “We’re never gonna outrun it.”

You could hear Dean and Sam thinking hard over your head, their cogs speeding in tandem. Still, you could guess and dread Dean’s plan, because Sam wuffed out a sigh like he knew Dean had decided to do something stupidly self-sacrificing. The Winter Hunger drew closer. You only had so much time to decide.

Dean changed his grip on the flare gun. “You two thinkin’ what I'm thinkin’?”

At the same time, you and Sam frowned, “Yeah.” You worked your mouth, your heart in the pit of your stomach. “Dean, I can—”

“You gotta lead them out of here, and away from that thing,” Dean said, and the order automatically made you plant your feet and straighten your back. His eyes whipped to the end of the tunnel, then to you, trusting and glinting with familiar, easy humor. “You’re the only one who can sense where it is. So sense it. Got that, Mean Swing?”

Despite everything screaming at you to argue, you bit the inside of your cheek, and nodded.

“Atta girl,” he said. Dean turned to face the Collinses, and tried to put some spirit into them with his voice. “All right, listen to me. Sam and ____ are gonna get you out of here, just stay low and quiet.”

Haley paled. “What are you gonna do?”

A clever smile filled Dean’s face. Again, he twirled his gun, revving himself up to be the action hero, gave Haley a wink, and turned. But before he could disappear completely on you, you caught his elbow. Everything around you dissolved. The moment suspended, so all that existed in that blink was the urging hush of your plea and Dean’s steely eyes.

“Remember,” you gushed all the strength and confidence you could into your voice and the touch, “it’s just a man.”

You let him go, and the ambiance of the cave flushed back into your ears. Dean lingered with a peculiar, absorbing look on his face, and uncomfortably you realized that he saw you the way Haley or Ben saw you—as some all-seeing oracle, who had an answer for every big question. It was a weird role reversal. You tried not to think about how that spirit could tear him apart, and followed a rattled Sam down the other tunnel.

When you were a good distance away, Dean’s voice began to boom through the tunnels. The sound spurred you faster, and after checking ahead, you kept going. Every shout of Dean’s made your stomach twist. Sam almost veered off-path in his nervousness, but you drew them back in the right direction, chasing the post-rain sunlight pouring out of the access point. The spirit was skirting toward Dean; you could feel it, like a flame on a wick getting closer to the detonator. The tunnels were whistling with wind and your heart was in your ears and your lungs were burning—but this was the home stretch, and the last time to act chicken.

The spirit was two tunnels, one tunnel away from Dean, stalking fast on clawed feet. You prayed he could confuse it—prayed the echo was enough, prayed that Dean didn’t miss—but fuck, the spirit was smart—

…Smart enough to know he was a diversion.

Through feet of frosted stone and dead moss, you felt the spirit stop. It smelled the air. And then it turned, snaking its way straight to you. For a moment you swore you could hear the long drag of its claws on the rocks, the scrape of its antlers on the mine’s ceiling—could smell the rot of its body even from here. Your breath hitched. It’s just a man. It’s just a man.

“Fuck, it’s circling back,” you hissed. A turn came, and you let the Collinses push past you, all of them trembling and heaving for air. “Go, go—straight ahead.”

A long, long rail line led to the sunlight, which burned your eyes even as a thumb-sized arch in the distance. Opposite it was a mile of plunging darkness where the spirit would emerge from. Haley and her brothers resisted, and from over your shoulder Sam nodded to Tommy, “Get him out of here.”

“Sam, no,” Haley cried, and her wild eyes swung to you, “____…”

“Go!” Sam barked. The spirit's growling grew louder, and louder, boiling over even the howl of the wind. “____, take them!”

Just the suggestion made your chest flare with panic. You grabbed Sam’s sleeve, hearing the two carrying Tommy scramble and limp behind you, racing to the light. If you wanted to, you could be out of the mine in less than a minute. You could get Haley, Ben, and Tom out yourself. You could be free of the forest’s influence and wait for Sam and Dean to finish the job. But nothing in the world could’ve made you make that choice.

“I’m not leaving you,” you grit, over the soft echo of Dean’s far-away yelling. “The spirit—it wants Tommy, it knows the three of them are an easier kill—we’ll lead it away and kill it!”

Sam panted, freezing sweat pouring down his neck. He still had the flare gun raised. “...How?”

“Trust me.” At that, you started walking backwards with him in the tunnel, cupped your hands around your mouth, and barked, “How’s that knife wound, sucker?! I wonder who gave it to you!”

“God,” Sam cursed under his breath. “You m-must be real hungry!”

There was no way you could’ve done this alone. But something about Sam being there cleansed you of any fear—you had to protect him, him and Dean, and that left no room for error. No room for fear or doubt. Haley, Ben and Tommy were almost out. You could feel the spirit closing in. That was an advantage.

It was planning to cut you off, catch you both off guard from one of the many side tunnels, but you knew it was coming. You kept yelling, baiting the thing. The spirit was frothing with rage. Dean was following it. This could work—this could work. On either side of the arch where it would emerge from, you and Sam took cover; him holding the flare gun to his chest, you with fingers itching to move. To your right was the long road to freedom, which suddenly billowed buttery post-storm light along the rusted rails and hard-packed gravel. Haley, Ben, and Tom had crossed the threshold. This could work.

You held your breath.

The spirit rumbled deep in its throat. A tsunami of unease hung over you, surrounded you, filled the air you breathed as its fog passed through you. For the last time, you reminded yourself that it was just a man.

The man’s nails glimpsed the frame of the mineshaft. You could hear it breathe, could smell the meat hanging off its chin. Something was plunged into its forehead, glinting in the light. It was your favorite dagger. You and Sam shared a sharp look.

Sam swung around and shot. The spirit threw itself out of the way, eyes locked on him—the flare exploded above its head, raining down blood-red sparks—blinding it—you lurched forward—seized the dagger handle—

…And ripped it loose.

The spirit screamed. The genuine, wounded human scream you’d heard before, a man mutilated in a bear trap. Red blood splattered across your face, ice-cold and freezing instantly against your skin. A second too late, and it would’ve had its teeth around Sam’s neck—it still could—you hadn’t killed it, just wounded it—

The spirit clutched its face. Sam was ready to throw the flare gun, barrel chest heaving and his breath fogging. His gaze climbed and climbed, seeing a creature two times as tall, something that had to bend to fit in the tunnels—he stumbled back, weaponless—Dean was right there—you hefted the dagger overhead—

Dean shot.

He didn’t miss. The Winter Hunger was lost in the explosion of color, tilting backward with the impact, sizzling, igniting, and exploding. For Sam it was a melting, faceless monster, folding in on itself like a massive, curling piece of ash. Dean saw the charred skeleton of the deer creature. And for you it was a writhing, bloody man. It wailed. In your voice, Sam’s voice, Dean’s voice, and then its own voice.

In a burst of fire that lit up the entire mine, the spirit was ash.

You stared at it. After all those days of work, of being hunted, stalked, and followed, it was dead. Just like that.

Your exhaustion slammed into you with all the weight of a semi. Your knees felt like jelly, you were caked in cold mud, frost had gathered on your eyelashes, the circles of hail on your jacket had dried into stiff dots, and your shoes were soaked through (and quickly freezing.) You were hungry. You needed a shower. You needed to curl up in a bed and die. You dropped your hands onto your knees, doubled over, and groaned.

But, the hunt was over. You counted your wins: Haley and her brothers were safe. Your dagger was in your hand again. The boys were okay.

Dean blew the smoke out of the end of his flare gun, popped a fist on his hip like a cowboy, and whistled down at the spirit's ashes. “Dang,” he said, “Not bad.”

“You’ve still got it, Winchester,” you laugh-sighed.

“Unlike somebody,” Dean snorted. “You miss that shot on purpose, or…?”

Sam’s lip curled, and he gave Dean a mean side-eye. “Like you said. I’m rusty.”

They propelled into tired half-squabbling, which your mind filtered into background noise. For a long moment, you stared at the black outline the spirit had charred into the floor, soaking in the week’s events. You still had to find John. There was still so much to do, and so much more to stress about.

“Both of you, shut up,” you said, without heat. “I’m tired, I want a nap, and I want to eat. But before we do any of that we’ve got a long ass way to walk. So… I’m cashing in my group hug coupon.”

For reasons unknown to you, Sam ducked his head and grinned. The severe straightness to his shoulders dropped, he settled back into his joints, and if you had to guess, he seemed… grateful. Truly grateful. Not just that the spirit was dead and that you’d made it out alive, but that at the end of the day, after two years without him, the hunt hadn’t mutilated you into someone else. You were still you. Dean was still Dean. Nothing had changed, after all.

Dean twirled his flare gun and dropped it into one of his belt loops, lips parted in disbelief. “No.”

“Yes,” you insisted, barely a second after he’d spoken.

“You’re covered in blood,” Dean protested, flailing his hands. “And there’s a corpse literally right there. This is the worst time for a group hug.”

“What? Scared of a little monster blood?” you replied, sweetly, and dramatically opened your arms.

They were too tired to argue. Sam sighed deep into his chest, clambered around the gross spirit stain and through the pungent cave air, and hugged your first. It took every atom in your body working as one to not collapse on him and succumb to sleep. Sam was pretending to be annoyed, but he still tapped his cheek to your cheek and chuckled, with surprising honesty, “I missed you.”

With Sam’s arm over your shoulder, you both opened up one side for Dean. Dean crossed his arms.

“Thank you for saving our lives, Dean,” he mocked in a squirrely, high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like you or Sam. “I’m sorry you got kidnapped and smacked around, Dean.”

“Sorry,” Sam shrugged one shoulder, amused.

You smiled at him, “and thank you. Y’know, for the saving our lives thing.”

“...Both of you are unbearable,” Dean decided.

Regardless, he gathered himself like moving an inch was the hardest thing he’d ever done, hooked an arm around your middle, and took the first steps into the light. You ended up supporting him more than he was supporting you, but that was okay. Sam, exhausted, dropped his sweaty cheek on your head, and you all propped each other up and trudged out into the sun.

The hunt was over. And sure enough, there were Sam and Dean.

_

GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO. NOV. 12th, night.

Using Roy’s satellite phone, you were able to call for help. By the time the six of you crawled out of the woods alive, a man down, a little traumatized, freezing cold, and varying levels of injured, the sky was dark and alight with ambulance lights. You made sure Tom made it there before anyone else. Ben and Haley covered for you without question, so as they packed up to go with their brother, you hugged them both goodbye. Dean not-so-subtly gave her his number (“in case anything were to happen”), and Haley bowled right past him to kiss Sam’s cheek in gratitude.

The Impala was waiting for you where Dean had left it on the gravel road down to the trail. Seeing it gleam in the moonlight rose some sprint in you that you’d forgotten was there, leaving your sad trudge with the boys behind to throw yourself on top of the hood in triumph. Dean probably could drive with you plastered there, and you would’ve been as still and asleep as a hood ornament.

The statue-silent night of the Ridge was gone, replaced by a bustling orchestra of police cars, EMTs, and crickets. Every inch of the woods seemed to revive, like a second spring had flourished through the entire forest in a single day. There were tiny white dots all over Baby’s metal, so you flipped over onto your back (with impressive effort), only to be received with open arms by a brilliant dome of the clearest stars you’d ever seen. Thousands of them twinkled down at you from a rich purple and black sky.

Dean thunked a medkit onto the hood, wiping his face clean with a pack of wipes. On your other side, Sam joined you, dropping his elbows onto his knees and peering skyward as Dean started to patch him up.

“You know,” Sam said, “You can tell time with stars.”

Before Haley had followed her brothers into the ambulance, she’d looked at Dean and wished, I hope you find your father. John had been missing for a little over a month, now, and all you’d found was his bootprints in the mud and the orders he’d left behind. You knew that this was not going to be over in a few weeks—but it occurred to you, after Haley had mentioned it, that this might be a years-long endeavor. Nothing she’d said exactly had triggered it, but something in your heart was telling you that this was only the beginning. All three of you were on the road to a sprawling, world-changing adventure, beyond John, beyond you, beyond everything. That should’ve terrified you into going back home. But just like the hunt, no matter how scared you were, you could trust that when it was all over, the boys would still be there.

You blinked up at Sam. He was lost in spiraling thought, probably thinking of John, of Jessica. A deep-seated, unshakable sadness hid in his shadow, and every time you caught a glimpse of it you felt teeth sink into your gut. You wanted to praise him for being so level-headed. He deserved to know how strong he was—but at the same time, saying that to him felt like shooting his normal life through the eye.

“...Could you teach me, Sam?” You murmured.

“Of course. It’s a little complicated, but you’ll get it. If you look at the big dipper…”

_

taglist: @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts

NEXT PART: dead in the water, p.1

[fruit-salad-ship]

Assuming it’s even possible, what trips up villain Peach? Is there anything that makes her question her own villainy?

On that same track, is there a timeline where Grey and/or Plum redeem Peach? Or at least she leaves the family, even if she doesn’t become full good Professor Peach

Hm. Originally she was stopped by something very audio based. Young ranger peach was on that track, a somewhat complicit villain up until that point, it was Booker, lil baby teddiursa he was back then, that really got to her, sound of him crying and shouting was too much, something in her snapped because of it. Perhaps something audio-centred would do it again, though what I’m not sure.

I think true villain peach is quite unstoppable, she’s managed to negate the weaknesses she had as a kid, the family has turned her into a heartless, cold, tactical woman who manipulates anything necessary to get where she needs to be, she’s very good at it too. The self doubt and stress canon peach has are long gone in the villain AU, replaced with ego and confidence. Perhaps it’s so much she can’t handle failure as well. Maybe she fails so badly, she quits outright, or falls deeper into the villain hole, not too sure yet. Perhaps self destruct instead of quit.

Genuine human connection may trip her, not that it’d be easy to let that organically grow, but if it did, perhaps she would see that the family she has aren’t there for her, they’re there for the bigger cause. And maybe those who like her, truly like her, are worth changing for. Queue the ‘I’m way too far gone to be redeemed’ subplot, with a side of angst.

Only timeline I can think of right now where plum and/or grey redeem her, or try to, would be if the family get what they want, which is to basically have peach take over, revive an ancient skill-set their ancestors used, and use it to catch something truly terrifying, too powerful for an ordinary human to handle. If they get what they want, winner, all is well, but what if peach fails to manage the ancient abilities, and never catches the ultra powerful Pokemon for them to use? They’d contain her, and work her until she’s able to do it. They’d push her to breaking point to achieve it, she’s just a cog in the whole thing to them, and as it stands she knows she’s “the pride of the family” hence the ego, but not entirely why she’s put up on that pedestal. Chalks it up to being the matriarchs daughter, but it’s more she’s the perfect wielder of their heritage abilities, or so says the history books.

Should she fail, and they continue to push her, she would potentially take help from grey and plum, perhaps they could help get her free of the place, hide away in the wilderness, give her a chance to heal, to change. It is very slow, she will probably never be the professor we know and love, they lived totally different lives, but she may learn to be ok, just ok is enough for her.

I’m trying to mull it over without dropping huge lore bombs that’ll ruin some stuff, hopefully this isn’t too spoiler-y

[sillyguyhotline]

yttd and themes of parental failure; how the adults in our life disappoint us

alternate title: how everyone in your turn to die has mommy issues, daddy issues, or both

I’m not the first person to talk about this, nor will I be the last, but there are a lot of themes sprinkled throughout YTTD’s story and one of the themes that isn’t talked about much is the theme of how parents (or more broadly, adults) tend to fail us. Throughout the game, we see children and adults being placed in the same deadly situation, and are disappointed time and time again as the adults prioritize their lives over those of their children... often perpetuating the cycles of abuse that they themselves have suffered. I don’t think this theme encompasses the whole story by any means, but I do think that, in some parts, YTTD attempts to tell a story of irresponsible adult figures, failing as parents, and the ways cycles of abuse are perpetuated.

I think it’s best to start with Sara, the main character and the most visible victim of the adults’ failings in the death game. Despite being a teenager, she’s elevated to a position of leadership partially by circumstance and partially by the machinations of others. I think it’s pretty clear that her being a leader is more crucial to the story than it initially seems to be, but for now it’s evident that she, as a child, has been deemed stronger than the many adults beside her in the game and has thus been made a leader. It’s acknowledged that she is the person who makes the majority of the crucial decisions, she is the person the others look to in times of turmoil, and she’s tasked with shouldering many of the heavy burdens of the group’s failures. This certainly doesn’t come without consequences; much of Sara’s grief comes not just from Joe’s death, but from regret over the countless people she’s failed to protect and the obligation she feels to prioritize their lives over her own. While many of the adult characters (Q-taro, Keiji, Shin, Alice) have the opportunity to sit back and make more selfish decisions for their own survival, Sara never has that liberty because she’s been thrust into a role where the group’s wellbeing is worth more than hers and every group failure is felt by her more than anyone else. This is most evident in the aftermath of the Kanna/Shin decision, specifically in the Kanna Dies route; Sara is the one who is tortured and meant to feel the most pain for Kanna’s death because she, as the leader, felt obligated to take the decision into her own hands... and nobody stopped her. From Russian Roulette (where Kai, the least underhanded out of all of Sara’s adult protectors, tried to stop her from becoming a leader) to Chapter 2′s Main Game, the effects of Sara’s leadership are heavy. She’s still a child who’s been given power, and the other adults in the game choose to either profit from or resent this power instead of challenging the fact that a child has been entrusted with it.

This is where Kanna comes in, another child who’s been failed by the adults in the game. When she entered, she’d lost her most important mentor figure (her sister) and as a result was left incredibly vulnerable. At first, a few of the characters tried to help her (Nao and Reko), but ultimately she was left vulnerable for too long and Shin used that vulnerability to coerce her into going along with his plans, putting her life in jeopardy by claiming she had the Sage. It’s likely that Shin reminded her of Kugie, which motivated her to stick by his side, but there’s no doubt that his manipulation influenced her to continue supporting him throughout chapter 2. Kanna is another character who felt obligated to provide protection and support for adults who didn’t provide all that much of it, which is made evident as she continues to insist he’s a good person throughout ch2 and, of course, demands that everyone vote for her to die in the main game because she thinks Shin is not only good but much more useful than she is. She, like Sara, continues to prioritize the well-being of the group over her own as a result of the position she was forced into and of the failure of the adults around her to do anything about it.

This aspect of Kanna’s character ties into another point I want to make, about cycles of abuse and protection. I believe that Shin is one of the biggest in-game examples of how abuse victims can be pushed to perpetuate those cycles upon the people they’re supposed to love and care for. Shin definitely cared for Kanna; he wrote the message in the phone to boost her spirits and fought for her to survive even knowing that if she got the Sacrifice she wouldn’t pick him to escape with. However, a lot of his dynamic with her comes as a result of the abuse he suffered under Sou Hiyori, and this abuse is part of why Kanna perceives herself to be worthless. He takes out his own anger at himself and his weakness by constantly belittling Kanna, calling her weak and useless to the group (eventually doing this because he thinks it will help her escape), and the constant reinforcement of this mindset is what leads to her self loathing and, in some cases, eventual self sacrifice. Not only does Shin fail to protect Kanna from death as a parental figure, he fails to prevent his own patterns of abuse from affecting her. This is a classic example of how abuse can become generational.

I want to cycle back to the topic of Sara, now, and bring Keiji into the mix, because I believe that Keiji is one of the biggest and also most fascinating examples of the failures of adults- primarily because he is simultaneously the child being failed and the adult who is failing. Keiji started out as an idealistic child with high hopes for his own future and strong beliefs in the police force, but he ended up killing his mentor and destroying his own faith in the goodness of the police. I also find it intriguing that the person he kills is one of the most solid parental figures in the game; Mr. Policeman cares for his child a lot and shows great care for children who aren’t even biologically related to him (such as Keiji). He likely left the police force for the sake of his child as well as to escape corruption. When Keiji kills him, he is not only killing the idealistic dream that his child self once harbored, but he is killing the biggest human embodiment of that dream in his life. Fittingly, then, Keiji goes on to turn into the opposite of what his younger self would have wanted to be. He wanted to be a protector, but in the Death Game we see him flirting with the child he’s protecting, consistently lying to and deceiving her for his own gain, pushing her into being a leader because it benefits him, and going behind her back to help himself survive (such as performing the card trade with Q-taro when it’s clear that Sara had the Sacrifice and likely would have died because of it). At the surface, Keiji is a betrayal of the mentor Sara needed in her life, but when you look beyond that, he’s a betrayal of the adult figure who guided him and the adult figure his child self wanted to be. 

There’s also Q-taro, one of the more blatant examples of an adult who valued his own survival over those of the children in the game. His selfishness, however, wasn’t concealed with concern for the children, like Shin’s and Keiji’s were. He indirectly participated in thrusting Sara into a leadership position, and time and time again attempted to get the children (specifically Gin) killed because he thought it would benefit either him or the group. His selfishness is not as much of a betrayal as it is a sad reinforcement of the idea that adults in this game can’t be trusted to protect the children. Even as he campaigns for Gin and Kanna’s deaths, even as he waits until the last minute to press the button, he still looks to Sara for guidance and trusts her as a leader. To make things even worse, the child whom he’s targeting has already been disillusioned to how pathetic adults can be; Gin’s father abuses alcohol, and as Gin establishes from the beginning, he’s already lost his trust in the reliability of adults. And, in a sad way, Gin ends up being proven right; his first father figure in the game dies immediately, and his second either dies or is quickly revealed to have been tasked with killing him. Unreliable adults in awful circumstances. 

Then you have Gashu, one of the only actual parents in this game, whose failures are felt in not one, but two children. As I stated before, while talking about Sara, Kai was one of the only people who made a move to stop Sara from being established as the group’s leader in Russian Roulette. While I believe that this is mostly because he knew of the Hades Incident and wanted to stop it from being replicated, I also have to wonder if it was because he knew what it was like, as a child, to be forced into a terrible position (as Gashu had high expectations of him as an assassin) and didn’t want the child he’d grown affectionate towards to be forced to undergo the same thing. Whatever his motives were, Kai was an example of the pain neglectful parents can bring, and he provides a stark contrast to Ranger, who wasn’t yet aware of Gashu’s cruelty when we met him. We watched in real time as Ranger realized that he wasn’t actually all that loved or valued; he was just created to serve a purpose, and when he stepped out of line he quickly lost his value. Just like how Kai served the purpose of being an assassin, and, potentially, how Sara serves the purpose of being the leader. Gashu isn’t just a neglectful parent, he’s outright malicious. 

I’d like to speculate, then, about how the story is going to take the path of neglectful adults as it goes forward. I already think that we can see where it’s going to go with Sara, as 3-1a has clearly showcased the effects of her guilt and, depending on which route you take, has either established that she’s grown comfortable with her position as leader or is crumbling under the pressure of her grief. However, going back to the theme of parents... it must be noted that almost none of the characters have been confirmed to have 2 biological parents. They either come from an orphanage or are missing a parent... and the parent they’re missing is typically the father. I have to wonder if this consistent theme of failed parenting is going to tie into Gashu’s reminder to “question your upbringing,” and if the shitty adults are going to make a more literal appearance.