#and just anything else they found in the process

[thetadispatcher]

Vincent looked up at him and gave him a small smile, showing he appreciated the gesture. He knew it probably didn't mean that much to other people, but to him it meant a lot.

He liked knowing he had other people outside of those who called him family that cared, and didn't mind showing it to help him understand situations or just feel better about them.

The AP700 rested his head back against the other android, deciding he'd completely ignore Dan and Rook to focus on what Bishop was doing.

Nines gave him a calculating look, he had experience with people who would use anything to try to upset him. His human partner did it almost constantly to him, so he could easily recognize when someone else was attempting to do the same.

The only thing he needed any time to figure out was why, it seemed like everyone always had a different reason for why they were trying to get a reaction out of him. Gavin's was just because he liked to be an annoyance, and the fact he couldn't get Nines to react upset him.

Not that he cared, as he enjoyed watching the detective flush with anger whenever Nines didn't give him the reaction he was looking for. Not that he would show the human that he found his small shows of anger endearing.

"I am not that rebellious, no more then Connor is." He wouldn't call Sixty rebellious as the RK800 seemed to be down to do just about anything, he was more of an accidental troublemaker.

"And it's not like the military could do anything about it now if they did find out." Androids had rights now, and they couldn't do anything about the military androids Cyberlife failed to destroy as they were considered people. Also it would likely cause a lot of issues that wouldn't be worth the time and money to deal with.

John didn't see them doing anything about it ever, the androids didn't know anything he would consider damaging if it were to get out. And he never saw service, so he never learned any truly damaging information that the military would be concerned about.

"He might be, considering the fact he was already deviant when he was deactivated as we didn't have to convert him." Dan wasn't sure what to make of that possibility, but Kelvin was the oldest recorded deviant they knew of so far.

He just wasn't about to share that information as he felt the last thing androids needed was to know their god might be real, some might be a little disappointed to find out what he was like.

"I never said he was dumb, he can do some very complicated tasks quite well. Sure he does have his moments where he does something that one would call dumb, but he can hardly be held accountable for it considering his condition." Kelvin was surprisingly good at things one wouldn't expect someone in his condition to excel at, even if he did have times where he acted more childlike then a normal android.

"We are trying to teach him sign language and how to write, but it's a slow process as he sometimes will need to be retaught things he already learned. But if you think she can talk to him, you're welcome to try. It would be nice to better understand Kelvin just in case there is some mental trauma we don't know about. I would hate to learn about it by accidentally upsetting him and still not fully understand the reaction, it would make helping him calm down hard." Even a little more information would be useful, as it might give them a hint on where to look for more.

"Yes, that is correct. He was a gift to the studio that they really didn't care enough to keep, they deposed of him the first chance they got." Brent didn't seem bothered by the studio's blatant disregard for him, in fact he seemed to have expected the treatment and felt nothing about. The JB300 was one of the androids that showed no mental affects from being thrown away, and he even seemed thankful it happened.

"We have a few other ones, ones that you would recognize as a lot of people from your generation are the ones who were ordering these custom units." He could see why someone would want an android of their favorite characters, but he could also understand why they'd be thrown away. They only lasted as long as their novelty or until they needed an expensive repair thanks to being custom.

"Only one other one is present on the property currently, if you'd like I can introduce you to him." Dan knew he would be less bothered by being recognized as a fictional character, Brent just seemed to hate it as he wanted to be his own person and not Data. But the JB300 was okay with it if the person respected the fact he had picked a new name and didn't constantly remind him of his appearance.

The android looked over once again, waiting for Rook to snap back at him. When it was clear she intended to leave him alone he glanced back to Vincent. If his communication skills were poor, he felt he was about to set a new low, but still reached to give his friend a gentle pat in reassurance. Everything was fine, they were just having a feisty mutant over for a bit.

Bishop smirked. That gave him something to work with.

"Yes, that is expected behavior from the rebellious youngest brother."

Even the most collected deviant had to deal with their own emotions and while he couldn't say for sure how prominent Nines' ego was, Bishop would still poke at him until he got a reaction.

It was entertaining enough to him, in any case. He had no reason to stop.

"That's typical of private contractors." he mused, "So you were saved entirely by greed alone. I suppose there is some irony in that."

Much like the fact that androids were simply being tossed in a landfill instead of being recycled. It seemed Cyberlife's entire existence was simply tainted by incompetence.

Rook watched the way Dan's skin regenerated, glad to see no damage was done. The last thing she wanted was to be accused of having hurt the most important guy in the house, especially when she had done nothing but ask questions.

"Who knows, maybe he's patient zero." She shrugged, "Maybe he's like Sixty and likes the way he is. It's never good to assume somebody who's very energetic and content with what they have is dumb. I have a friend who is just as bouncy as Kelvin and she's smarter and wiser than most people."

It didn't look like Kelvin was causing real trouble on purpose. He just moved quietly and that made it easy to forget he was even there doing his own thing.

"So that's why you've got Commander Data running about. Maybe you could ask Willow to talk to Kelvin. He can't talk to you, but she can probably translate for him."

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 10

Added dividers because I felt like the time skip/scene change would become confusing without any indication of it.

I really need an answer on how y'all feel about Immortal x Dupli-kate cuz depending on the popular opinion stuff will change 🤐 I'm willing to split a lot of people up for the drama and/or miscommunication nonsense

Enjoy!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 10 >>next(TBC)

Some place where the supernatural meets the normal, a little place called The Oblivion Bar, John Constantine simply sat shocked at the words he managed to hear and process through his mushed brain. Bobo closes his hung jaw, drinks his whiskey, and pats his friend’s shoulder as the man mumbles a sobering spell, cringing at the effects. “I should go. Good luck, John.” And so, the chimpanzee quickly makes his exit, leaving the Laughing Magician and Death of the Endless to their business.

“I need you to walk me through this again, luv- wasn’t quite paying attention.” Constantine shook his head as he fully turned to face the smiling entity. “You and who did what?!” He hissed, voice barely above a whisper as he tried not to bring attention to what they were saying. This was bad. Really bad.

“Lady Gotham and I took a liking to Batman’s youngest daughter and-“ John quickly interrupted her. “And gave her magical powers beyond my comprehension and immortality- yes, I heard that, did you?!” The man rubbed his face, the thought was making him want to get drunk until he dropped. ”Have you gone mad? Giving a mortal immortality is more of Dream’s style you should know better-“

Death only smiled at him, amusement filling her eyes as she gently laid a hand on his shoulder making him tense up. “She was lonely, she deserves every happiness those powers and eternity are bound to give her. You’ll understand once you see her.” And boy, did John laugh his gut out at that as he shook his finger. “No- no, no, no- there’s no way I insert myself into that mess- Bat’s family is already a mess and reeks of you without magic- No- There’s no way- that’s bonkers-“

Death gets up with a bright smile. “Thank you, John.” Her words make him stutter almost choking on his breath at the audacity. “Don’t thank me ya loon! I’m not going to help her, I’m not even going to see the moppet!” He can only yell and cuss as she leaves.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

 “Alright, Cecil-“ The old man immediately interrupted you, the little communication device in your ear buzzing with life as he told you to not use names. “… Dude… I’m miles in the air, first of all! Second, that was like a really common name once. it’ll take a while to find you specifically, and I doubt anyone could anyway- you seem like the type that would erase himself from the gov’s documents.”

“Anyway-“ You didn’t give him time to say anything else. “What house am I supposed to go to again? And why?”

The old man sighs at your antics, rubbing the side of his forehead as he feels the headache coming while he gives the address once more. “Your brother’s teacher, Mr. Hiles, has been the mall bomber. It took us a while, he was smart about it, kept his search into biological bomb-making off the internet but he wasn’t that thorough about his paper trail.”

“Be prepared for anything and a confrontation.” The older man cleared his throat. You always made him nervous; you were an unexpected equation in everything, something he couldn’t control without risking Earth. Donald and everyone else just took his weariness and suspicion as him being overly cautious, but Cecil could tell something was clinging to you that just gave him nightmares.

“And thank you- usually I would have sent someone from the Teen Team but…uh-“ His eyes followed the action on another screen. “They’re busy. Your brother and father are helping them.”

“You’re nervous. Yapping again. Chill, I’ll take care of it. Just because I don’t want to be your little puppet doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep people safe.” You found the man irritating, but for now, he was being sane, actually doing his job, so you couldn’t complain. “Getting closer to the target. Going dark.”  Was the only warning the man got before the com was powered off.

Finally ready to land you politely greeted the man, walking through the training both Cecil and Nolan provided at the start of your vigilantism. “I didn’t expect to get caught quite this early, and I certainly expected… more conventional authorities when the time did come.” Professor Hiles just sighs and welcomes you in by your birth name. “How did you-“

“Are you kidding me? Mark is unable to shut up about you. And you forget to wear your hood more times than you do wear it.” The man said as he took off his sweater. “Follow me, I’ll show you to the fourth missing student. I assure you, I have no intention of resisting.” Well… This was easier than expected.

As he started to confess about how he started doing this, he led you to his basement. “Mr. Hiles, while I understand the loss of a child to suicide, a divorce, and the loss of a job ruined you until you hit rock bottom, avenging your son like this-“

“I’m not avenging the death of my son. That would be far too cliché.” Your eyes landed on the teen strapped to the table once he turned on the light, breath hitching as you saw the skin of his arms merging sloppily with the metallic torso the professor modified. “It’s the destruction of my life that has me seeking revenge.”

“The domino effect of pain and sorrow that these monsters create. Children who spend too much time at the mall, attend parties, consume alcohol, and play sports when they should be studying and doing homework.”

“I understand your ire, I’m not one for parties or drunks, but not all kids who do that stuff go to extremes, that’s a flawed logic- it does not give you the right to play god and do-“ You tried to placate him, keeping your tone soft and even, to try and make him see reason. “What I did to all of them, turning them into living bombs, an instrument with which to exact my revenge… my crusade to end the pain and sorrow by these- ‘popular’ kids… I feel no guilt for.”

“I can’t think of a more appropriate end to my crusade-” Mr. Hiles ripped open the shirt he was wearing, revealing the same mechanism the unconscious teen had. “-than the death of a superhero!” You quickly acted, not letting him talk more beyond that as the timer set to 50 seconds started trickling down while you grabbed him, breaking through his ceilings and roof and flying high in the air.

“Is this really how you want to die? Suicide bomb? You still can make this right- you don’t have to die like this just tell me how to deactivate it!“ Your eyes remained on the clock. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen. The man just chuckled a dry, humorless laugh. “Do it. There is nothing for me anymore.” Five, four, three.

You couldn’t tell if what you felt was sorrow or shame, but you knew you were defeated. The man was going to get one final death, but it won’t be yours. As your flight came to a stop well above the clouds, you threw the man higher in front of you as the clock struck one second, and as it hit zero, the bomb detonated, the range and heat of the explosion destroying any remains while pushing you back a bit.

Your eyes remained on the cloud of smoke it created. If the cops found him before you did, the bomb would have wiped out the neighbors, too. That’s what hero life was, what it is. Sacrifices left and right that only made you feel more at odds with this job than before.

As you went back to the house, you activated the com, putting it back into your ear. Cecil immediately informs you that the police are en route as well as his clean-up team. “Get an explosive ordnance disposal technician, too. There is a teen in the basement, the bomb doesn’t seem active yet, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’ll send a report of what happened soon.” You stayed until Cecil’s people showed up, just to be sure the boy was still breathing and that the bomb wouldn’t activate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Helping Brit and the other heroes clean up the rubble from the alien attack helped keep your mind off things. The Brit enjoyed talking about his kid and wife, yapping until he needed to take a breath and then starting again keeping a smile on your face.

You enjoyed helping clean up, especially when there were no casualties, today wasn't that type of day. But it had become the easy, relaxing part of the job, pick big rubble up, place it into the waste trucks, pick another piece up, make sure to not hit the man in the trench coat, put it in the waste- wait…

Your head snaps back to the man, squinting as your eyes meet. You each take a second to take each other in before your eyes widen in surprise. “Hello, luv. I’m-“ You couldn’t help your excitement as recognition finally settled into your brain. “I know you-“ Your words made John cringe and tense up. When others said that it never ended well for him. “You’re Johnny Con-Job, the lead singer for Mucous Membrane, dude, your band got me into the punk culture.”

That… wasn’t what he expected. He wasn’t sure if he should be proud of that or fight back the mental breakdown that was creeping up his spine. “You’re a bit young for that slop, no?” You just shrug. “Your songs got me to finally put myself first, to get the courage to sneak out, see other stuff beyond the walls of my first house, help others, and leave my neglectful family before they could seriously hurt me.” Her words worried him. John never took Bruce as the “lock his kids up” type, but the man was as paranoid as they came, he wouldn’t put that above him.

“It may be slop and shitty vocals, but it’s what I needed to hear.” You teased him while putting the rubble in the waste collector. He watched as you approached him with a soft smile and sparkling eyes. He could see what Death meant. “I need to talk to you. I’m not quite sure about what luv, but I think it’s about Batman-“ He didn’t get to finish, as soon as the name left his mouth, he was grabbed by the throat and lifted well above the clouds, way too close to the ozone layer. “Did he send you?” you hissed, giving his neck a warning squeeze.

Yup. He definitely saw what Death meant as your eyes glowed a Lazarus green. “Nno-“ He choked out. “Did Bruce Wayne send you?” her question was met with the same answer. Your grip softened, grabbing him by his coat instead of his neck as you brought him closer. “Then why are you here?”

“We need to talk in private…” He whispered as he realized the situation.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

This was a whole mess that John Constantine knew he should have stayed out of- he knew! From Bruce to the whole family basically ignoring the kid, not even telling her about the vigilantism, to the rogues taking her in and doing a better job of raising her to her running away and getting adopted by another hero- a hero that John knew wanted to conquer the world, the whole fucking race wanted to, the fucking demons had a problem with that and wouldn’t stop complaining to him like he can fix it- he takes a deep breath in. “Why are you telling me all of this?” He whined, rubbing his face as he sat on the edge of some skyscraper with you.

“I’m not hiding my past, I’ll happily snitch and tell a reporter that Bruce Wayne is a shit father, they all just assume I’m Nolan’s actual kid that was in the hospital for a deadly something or whatever.” You shrug. “Please don’t- not because I care about the bellend- I just don’t want to deal with… Huh. Now that I’m thinking about it, that may be great blackmail.” His words only made you snicker.

He didn’t know where to begin. Did she know about the Viltrumite? Was she in cahoots with him? Should he tell her any of that? Would she even believe his ass? Maybe he should get the JL involved...

The scruffy man shook his head. “Not why I’m here. You said your hero name is Sorceress? Great, so you know you have magic powers, that makes it easy-“ John took in your shocked expression. Of course, it wasn’t that easy, it never could be. “If this was another world, I’d call you crazy.” You told him simply. “But Midnight City is cursed, and I guess that makes sense… Is that why I can hear the shadows speak?”

John nodded before doing a double take, asking you to elaborate on the shadows speaking part.  “They just speak, whisper, giggle the whole thing. They can also emit what they feel. They’ve always been present, they’re not as strong here, but I think that’s because they’re more tied to Gotham and Midnight City… or just- where there is more darkness.”

“Well, you’re not far off there, love.” The man nodded in agreement as his eyes drifted to the dark dome around the cursed city. He knew where to start. “This is going to be a long explanation, you better strap in, hen, and let me finish before you ask questions.”

“You remember the painting and murals you made of gods and other entities, demons, angels, the whole sort, in Gotham and here? Yeah, they brought the attention to you from the entities you drew. Some of the moppets took them as a higher form of offering than others, a few of them decided to stick around you.”

“Those have also decided to- ‘bless’ you with a few gifts, I’m not sure of all of them, but I know specifically that Lady Gotham offered the shadows as a companion and protector, and I know that Death of the Endless has blessed you with… well, immortality.” There was no way of walking around that fact. “I don’t remember if any of these two also gave you your powers, I was quite sloshed, but someone did.” John looked at the kit, taking in her shocked expression before he nudged you a bit. “Come on, kid, say something. You got me all worried here.”

“It’s all just- a bit much.” You mumble. “Yeah, I get it. A lot for you to shoulder, but I’m sure you’ll power through- oh, thanks love… Wha- How-“ John’s eyes moved from the beer in his hands to the energy can you were looking at. You just shrug. "I wanted to know if I could, thought…” You narrow your eyes at the can in your hands. “I’m not sure if this is made out of thin air or just- teleported or something.”

Constantine just slowly looks back at his beer mug… She was taking this better than most. He hoped it was because the shock hadn’t worn off yet. Well, he’s had worse things in his mouth, he's sure, so with a shrug, he takes a sip, humming with delight at the taste, muttering something about this being real beer. “You’re here to help me, right? Like- with my powers… I- I think I need help with this whole worshipping gods and demons- entities- thing, too.”

He knew the easy way out would be to say no, to just leave, she had done just fine without him… But that isn’t what came out of his mouth. “Sure, poppet. Just keep on giving me this fine beer.” Given his track record with people and magic, he shouldn’t feel this accomplished at your happiness, but he was always quite selfish, so he returned your hug, even if he was a bit stiff.

“Now- usually the normal thing is to go from small stuff to big, teach the basics, but I’m not one for rules. Have you ever wanted to teleport via portals?” The big mischievous smile you gave him was all the answer he needed.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You came home at the same time as Nolan and Mark, everyone’s first stop after greeting Debbie was their bedrooms to refresh themselves before going back to the dining area. “I’m going to be honest, Nolan, the longer hair and full beard fit you better than the silly mustache. Right, mom?” You couldn’t help the teasing as the whole family ate. Debbie looked at Nolan with a scrutinizing eye, before sighing and giving an amused smile. “I’ll definitely miss the beard.”

Mark snorted at the teasing as Nolan pouted, brows furrowing. “It’s not silly- it’s a rite of passage into manhood by the Viltrumite culture-“ you couldn’t help but interrupt. “It’s still a silly-looking mustache. What does the Viltrumite rite of passage for women look like?”

Nolan’s momentary displeasure at the mustache comment was overlooked as the inquiry about the Viltrumite women was brought forth. “Huh… I’m not sure, I never really paid attention to that. I think some cut their hair.” A puff of air escaped you in amusement before deciding to tease him some more. “Well, you clearly weren’t planning for a daughter that’s sure.”

Debbie just took in the chatter. She enjoyed the easy atmosphere, the laughter of her kids. “So, how was everyone’s day?” She asks once the chatter stops. “Oh, I met the Teen Team and helped them with the Flaxan attack, dad got kidnapped by them while I was trying to gather up survivors, made friends with Atom Eve, and met an alien called Allen who apparently got the wrong planet.” Mark shrugged.

“I spent the last eight months enslaved by an army from an alternative dimension, although it seems much less time has passed here. About a week ago, I led a revolt against my captors and regained control of my powers. Today, a team of scientists from the rebellion found a way to get me home.” Nolan lied as easily as he breathed.

“One of Mark’s teachers was turning his classmates into organic bombs in order to take revenge on kids he felt were like the ones who led his son to commit suicide. He turned himself into a bomb also and tried to take me out with him but clearly, it didn’t work in his favor. Helped clean up after the Flaxan mess, and met the lead singer of Mucous Membrane who apparently is a mage. He was here on behalf of Death herself to help me and tell me that my powers aren’t because I’m a meta, they’re magic. Oh, and also, I’m allegedly immortal.” You took a sip of water. “Lex also wants to know if anyone would be interested in attending one of his rich folk parties.”

At the quietness of the room, you lifted your eyes from your plate to look at everyone’s shocked glance. “What?” you ask with a mouth full of food.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

That night, the teens wanted to sleep with their parents, both needing reassurance. Debbie and Mark were already gone, sleeping deep and peacefully. “Dad… You awake?” your question was whispered as your head lay on Deborah's shoulder. He answered with a warm hand squeezing your shoulder and a quiet hum. “...How do you move past people you can’t save or the people we have to sacrifice?”

Nolan wasn’t sure how to answer that, he’d never felt anything for the people he couldn’t save. He knew that if he had to save earth’s people or his kids and wife… Well… Earth can be populated again. “You look at the people who you did save. We can’t always save everyone, that’s the sad reality. It’s… painful. But it’s a truth all heroes have to come to terms with. Even I can’t save everyone.” Nolan wrapped his arms around his girls and son tighter, pulling everyone closer. “If all you could save was a person, you still did everything you could. If you couldn’t save anyone, you just have to keep your head high and try again.”

You snuggled closer into your mom, feeling her arm instinctively wrap around you as you draped yours over her and Nolan’s stomach, your fingers laying on Mark’s wrist. The sad reality of being a hero...

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26 @persephone-kore-law @bluevenus19 @ryuushou

I'M REALLY SORRY IF I FORGOT SOMEBODY- MY DOC SOMETIMES FORGETS TO SAVE AND I HAD TO READD PPL

[supernova2205]

The Silence Of The Mole

Part 2

Summary: The past has a way of catching up, no matter how far you run. Years after leaving the 141 behind, you’ve built a new life one filled with purpose, loyalty, and something close to peace. But when fate forces your paths to cross again, old wounds are ripped open, and buried emotions resurface. Some things were never meant to be forgiven.

The moment you handed Price your transfer papers, you felt something inside you shatter.

You had spent years with the 141, built something you thought was unbreakable, but after everything after the interrogations, the bruises, the betrayal you couldn’t stay. Even if Soap and Gaz had started to mend the wounds they helped create, it wasn’t enough. Not when every time you saw Ghost or Price, all you could hear was their cold accusations, feel the phantom pain of their hands gripping you too tight, their voices laced with distrust.

Price didn’t try to stop you. He read the papers, his jaw tightening, then gave a single nod. “I’ll approve it,” he said gruffly. No apology. No fight. Just acceptance, as if he had already known this was coming.

Ghost hadn’t said a word. He watched you pack your things in silence, his mask betraying nothing, but his body was tense, like he wanted to say something anything. But he didn’t. And that hurt more than anything else.

Soap had been the one to argue, to try and convince you to stay. “We can fix this,” he had pleaded. “We will fix this.”

But some things couldn’t be fixed.

So you left.

The weight of the past was always with you, even when you thought you’d left it behind.

After the betrayal of the 141, you had nowhere else to turn. Los Vaqueros offered you a chance to start anew, and though you hesitated at first, something in you clicked when you met them. They treated you like family, not a tool or a weapon.

Alejandro was the first to speak with you when you arrived. His eyes were kind, though you could sense the professionalism in his demeanor. He didn’t ask too many questions. Instead, he offered you a place on his team, and with it, a new sense of purpose.

Rodolfo was the one who welcomed you with open arms, like a sibling you never had. He taught you the intricacies of their operations and helped you adjust to their way of working. Your Spanish, though solid, became smoother under his guidance. You felt a pride in being able to converse with ease now, the words rolling off your tongue without hesitation.

In the months that followed, you found comfort in the family dynamic of Los Vaqueros. They cared for each other in a way that made you feel safe, valued. For the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could be happy again.

But when the mission came when you found out you’d be working with 141 again it felt like the universe had decided to toy with you.

The first time you saw Ghost and Price again, you felt your heart stop. They were standing in the same room, their presence so heavy that it felt like the air was suffocating.

“You,” Ghost whispered, his eyes not meeting yours as though he couldn’t quite process seeing you again.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice even. “Me.”

Price was quieter than usual, his gaze flicking between you and the rest of Los Vaqueros. He nodded but said nothing, his face hardened.

“Are we working with them?” Soap asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as he glanced at you.

“Sí,” Alejandro replied. “We need all the help we can get for this mission.”

It was the first time you had heard your old team’s voices in years, and despite your resolve, your emotions churned beneath the surface. You thought you had moved on, that you had buried the past but seeing them here, now, stirred up memories you weren’t ready to face.

You barely spared them a glance as you moved to your new team’s side, but Soap’s eyes lingered on you. You could see the pain there, the regret that was still fresh in his expression. You wanted to ignore it. You wanted to walk away from the past entirely but you couldn’t.

The mission was a blur of violence and strategy. You worked seamlessly with Los Vaqueros, and the team’s camaraderie was unmatched. But every moment with the 141 was a struggle.

Soap tried his hardest to bridge the gap, even joking with you in the same way he used to, but it fell flat. The wounds ran too deep. You could feel him watching you when you weren’t looking, as though waiting for a sign that you would return to the old dynamic.

Gaz was softer in his approach, but there was still a distance, an invisible wall between you and the rest of them. You felt it every time they looked at you, as though they were unsure whether you were still the person they once knew.

But it was Ghost who caused the most turmoil.

His eyes never left you, not for a moment. Even when you were deep in the mission, you could feel the weight of his stare. It wasn’t just the old tension between you two. No, it was something else guilt, regret, fear.

One night, after the mission had wrapped for the day, he approached you.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked, his voice low and rough, the words hanging in the air between you.

You glanced at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “What?”

“The past,” he said, his eyes flicking to the ground. “Do you ever think about what happened?”

“I think about it every day,” you said, your tone steady, but the weight of your words hung heavily between you. “But that doesn’t mean I can forget it.”

You watched him swallow, his hands clenched at his sides as if he were fighting some internal battle. “I never meant to hurt you,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you turned away and walked off, leaving him standing there, a shadow of the man you once knew.

The mission progressed, and tensions mounted. Days passed with little change. But then, during a particularly dangerous operation, everything went wrong.

Soap got separated.

You didn’t know how it happened one minute, you were all moving together, and the next, Soap was gone, lost in the chaos of the battlefield.

Rodolfo immediately took charge, his voice commanding as he directed the team to search for him. You didn’t wait for orders. You moved, your mind on nothing but Soap’s safety.

You found him a few hours later, battered and broken, his breathing shallow but steady. His eyes flickered open when he heard you approach.

“You came,” he whispered, his voice weak but relieved.

“I always will,” you replied, your hand gently touching his shoulder.

You worked quickly to patch him up, your hands steady despite the pounding in your chest. The mission had already been a nightmare, but losing Soap after everything was too much.

He winced as you worked, but he didn’t complain. “I’m sorry,” he muttered again, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity you hadn’t seen in years. “For everything.”

You didn’t know what to say. Instead, you just nodded, wrapping the bandages tight to stop the bleeding.

Rudy stayed close by, his presence a comforting constant as you worked. He’d been by your side this whole time, a steady hand when you needed it most. He wasn’t like the 141. He didn’t judge you or question your worth. He just supported you.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said to him quietly, your voice hoarse.

“Siempre,” he replied, his hand resting on your shoulder.

After the mission, you couldn’t shake the feeling that things had changed irreparably. Soap had apologized, but there was still a distance between you, one that couldn’t be crossed so easily. Ghost had said his piece, but his actions spoke louder than any apology.

Price? He stayed quiet, as always, but his eyes were full of things left unsaid.

But you were no longer the same person.

And neither were they.

After all that chaos you guys were supposed to meet with Graves. The mission had started well, or so you thought. You had tracked your targets to a small compound nestled deep in the mountains. Alejandro led the way, as always, with his calm and steady presence. You had become accustomed to the rhythm of the team the way everyone knew their place, the way Los Vaqueros operated like a well-oiled machine.

But then, as with most missions, things went wrong.

You had been in the middle of clearing a room when the explosion rocked the building. Dust and debris filled the air as the ground beneath your feet gave way. The next thing you knew, you were thrown to the ground, your ears ringing, your vision spinning.

By the time you regained your senses, Alejandro was gone.

The panic in Rudy’s voice was unmistakable as he called out for Alejandro, but there was no answer. The silence that followed was even worse than the explosion itself.

Then came the realization: Alejandro had been taken.

And you…

You’d been captured too.

They didn’t waste time.

You were dragged through dark, damp corridors, your hands bound tightly behind you. You had no idea where they were taking you, but you knew it wasn’t going to end well.

“You worked with them,” one of the captors hissed. “You were with 141.”

The words stung more than they should have. The weight of the accusation the way they spat it at you felt like a blow to the chest. You were no longer just a soldier. You were the traitor who had betrayed them.

They made sure to remind you of that with every strike, every torture, every demand for information.

At first, you held your tongue. You knew better than to give them anything, but the pain was unbearable. They knew what to target, what to make you remember. And every time they dug deeper, every time they tore at your flesh, your mind flashed back to the 141 back to the accusations, the interrogations, the betrayal.

They knew about your past with them. They used it against you.

It felt like days weeks even before you heard any familiar voices. You barely recognized them through the haze of blood and pain, but when Rudy’s voice broke through the darkness, you almost couldn’t believe it.

“Hold on, we’re getting you out,” he said, his voice full of concern.

The next few hours were a blur of gunfire, explosions, and chaos. Rudy’s steady hands helped free you from your restraints, but the pain was still fresh. The wounds were deep, but they didn’t matter as much as what had been taken from you.

By the time Alejandro was found, it was clear that something inside you had broken. You had always been the medic, the one who healed others but you had nothing left to give.

Back at the safe house, the mission debrief felt like a slow-motion nightmare.

You sat in the corner, barely able to look at the 141, who had just joined the operation. The tension was palpable like a wall that had been built between you and the rest of the team. You could barely meet their eyes without feeling the weight of everything that had happened.

But it wasn’t the 141 that you were most concerned about.

It was Alejandro.

He had seen the toll that the torture had taken on you, and while he didn’t say much, his eyes betrayed the concern he felt. He pulled you aside after the meeting, his gaze soft but unwavering.

“Are you alright?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“No,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m not.”

Days passed, and the pain of the mission lingered in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t shake the memories of the torture, the feel of their hands on your skin, the words they had used to break you.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

The decision came as a shock to the team.

You told Rudy you couldn’t do it anymore and talked to Alejandro, unable to find the right words to explain why you were leaving.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said quietly. “I’m not the person I was before.”

Alejandro didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, his brow furrowing as if trying to understand, trying to find a way to fix this.

“I’m sorry,” you added, your voice cracking. “I know you were counting on me. But I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay. I’m not.”

Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with regret. “You’ve done enough, hermana,” he said softly. “No one can ask you to carry this burden forever.”

It was the hardest decision you had ever made. Leaving Los Vaqueros was like tearing a part of yourself away. You had built something with them, something real. But you couldn’t stay in a world that had broken you, couldn’t continue fighting when everything inside you felt like it was already shattered.

The 141 they had taken that from you. You had been so loyal, so willing to fight for them, but now all that was left was a hollow shell.

So, you walked away.

The days following your departure were lonely. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak to anyone, not even Rudy, not even Alejandro. It felt like they had all moved on without you.

But one night, as you sat in a dimly lit bar in a quiet corner of the world, you heard a familiar voice.

“Not the kind of place I expected to find you.”

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Soap’s accent was unmistakable, even in the quiet hum of the bar.

When you did look up, he was standing there, his face tense but soft with emotion. His eyes searched yours for something anything.

“I’m not here to fight,” he said quietly. “I just… I need to see you.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know how to.

But in that moment, you realized that you were done with them. But you weren’t ready to forgive either.

The days following your decision to leave were filled with uncertainty, but they were also peaceful. You moved to a small town, far from the chaos of the battlefield and the haunting memories of what you had endured. It wasn’t an easy transition, but you found comfort in the little things things you had once pushed aside in the name of duty.

You took up painting, something you had always loved but never had the time to pursue. The soft brushstrokes on the canvas became your refuge, your way of expressing what words couldn’t. You would spend hours lost in color, in texture, in creating something beautiful from the turmoil that had once consumed you.

You also started gardening, planting flowers in your backyard. The smell of fresh soil and the sight of buds slowly blossoming into life brought you a sense of calm you hadn’t felt in years. It was strange to feel peace again, but it was also liberating.

At night, you would sit on your porch with a cup of tea, staring at the stars, thinking about the life you had left behind. The memories of your time with Los Vaqueros and the 141 faded slowly, like the setting sun. It was as if you were finding yourself all over again, carving out a new identity far from the battlefield.

But no matter how far you went, no matter how much you tried to forget, there was one thing you couldn’t escape your past.

Years had passed since you walked away from the life you knew, and for the most part, you had found a quiet peace. But in the back of your mind, the shadows of your past still lingered, always just beyond reach.

One evening, while you were painting on your porch, you felt a strange sense of being watched. You glanced up, your breath catching in your throat as you spotted him. Simon, standing just at the edge of the trees, his figure cloaked in shadows.

He didn’t move didn’t say anything. He simply watched you, his masked face hiding whatever emotions were behind it. The familiar weight of his presence settled in your chest. Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t run. Instead, you stared back at him, trying to make sense of the moment.

What was he doing here?

Had he been watching you all this time?

Years of pain and uncertainty bubbled up inside you, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Finally, Simon took a slow step forward, but stopped at the edge of your yard. He stood there for a long while, silent, his gaze never leaving you.

It wasn’t until you put down your paintbrush that he spoke. His voice was low and steady, as if nothing had changed. “You’ve been busy, huh?”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t the words that mattered it was the presence. The weight of everything that had come before this moment. Moments passed with just the two of you standing in silence.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Simon continued. His words were raw, more vulnerable than you had ever heard them. “But I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

You stood still, letting the silence stretch between you, letting the weight of his apology settle in. It was enough for now. The years of hurt, of betrayal, of everything that had gone wrong, were too much to unpack in a single moment. But what you felt wasn’t anger anymore. It wasn’t rage. It was… sadness. A sadness that you had lost something you would never get back.

Finally, you broke the silence. “I’m okay now, Simon. I’ve found peace. I don’t need anything from you.” Your voice was soft but firm, as if you were reassuring yourself more than him.

His eyes softened his blond short hair slightly moving with the wind, It was calming in a sense staring at the face you once loved and would give your life for. And for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of regret. But he said nothing. He simply nodded and turned, walking away into the night.

Months went by, and life returned to its quiet rhythm. You still painted, still gardened, still lived a life you could be proud of. You didn’t think about Simon every day, but there were moments like when the breeze would rustle the trees or when the stars hung low in the sky that you couldn’t help but wonder if he was out there, somewhere, still watching over you from a distance.

But you didn’t need him anymore. You had moved on, built a life for yourself, and in the end, that was all you could ask for. The weight of the past had finally begun to lift, and though there were days when you still felt the sting of what had been lost, you were stronger now. You had learned to live again.

And as you sat on your porch one evening, painting beneath the stars, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace. You had come a long way farther than you had ever thought possible and for the first time in years, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Even if Simon still watched from afar, you knew that you were finally free.

This is where your journey truly began. The story of pain, loss, and healing had come full circle. It was no longer about the past, or the choices you made, but about the future you were building on your own terms.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I really hope you enjoy this chapter! I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to keep going with it because the last chapter felt like it could stand on its own, but all the love and encouragement from my last post inspired me to continue. I truly appreciate your support! Please let me know what you think and what else you’d love to see in the future. Your feedback means a lot to me!🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Teacher's Pet Baby

Shopping Trip

Cg!Professor!Wanda Maximoff x little!student!reader

Summary: Wanda offers to take you out on a shopping trip

Word count: 1.5K

Warnings: Age regression, mild anxiety, emotional vulnerability, fluff and comfort

Authors notes: Thank you my little ghost for sending in this request here~

Also, to all the littles, seeing this, please tred lightly on this blog! This is my big 18+ blog, but I do have some little!reader fics. Everything is marked accordingly!

You're nervous when Wanda suggests it after asking she'd only known about you being little for a week when she asked,

"Do you have any gear?" It was an innocent enough question she asked in the empty room of her class while she graded papers and you did some homework.

"Gear?" Your head tilted slightly, not looking up from your own book and notebook. 

"Little gear. I know you have your crayons and coloring book and your favorite stuffie you showed me pictures of, but is there anything else?" 

"Oh...um no...I left most things back at home." You absentmindedly tugged at your sleeve, pulling it over your hand to put it in your mouth slightly. It was a bad habit you’d long since tried to get rid of.

"Well how about this Saturday we go get some things?" She offers casually like it was something the two of you had done before. Like it was something so simple.

"I can't keep them at my dorm...my roommates will say something..." you felt your chest tighten. You knew if any of them found out about it they’d probably kick you out of the dorm. Probably call the dean on you or something, but just as your thoughts started to spiral, Wanda spoke up again.

"It can stay at my place and you can come and go as you please baby for whatever you want or need." Now there's a knot in your stomach. 

“Y-your place?” You hadn't been over to her place. The only place you two had spent time together was here in this classroom. 

“Do you not want that? I understand if you'd rather keep it here between us.” 

You knew being with a professor at all would be frowned upon even if it was something like this…for some reason in your brain this felt even worse than if you were having sex with her. You shook your head to get rid of the thoughts. sure you were big right now, but it's only been a week and you two haven't discussed anything beyond her being Mama.

Wanda let you sit with the idea, her eyes flicking between your face and the paper she was grading, letting you process in your own time. You weren’t sure what made your stomach twist more—her casual offer or the realization that you wanted to say yes.

“I…” You hesitated, gripping your pen a little too tightly. “I don’t know.”

Wanda hummed softly, setting her pen down. “That’s okay, baby. You don’t have to decide right now.” Her voice was gentle, patient, like she had all the time in the world for you. “I just want to make sure you have what you need. Somewhere safe for your things and a space where you can just be.”

A part of you wanted that so badly. The idea of a place where you didn’t have to hide, where you didn’t have to worry about judgment, where your things wouldn’t have to stay tucked away in the back of your closet or hidden under your bed—it was tempting. But this was still so new.

Your hands fidgeted with the corner of your notebook. “I just… I don’t want to be a burden,” you admitted quietly, barely above a whisper.

Wanda leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she looked at you. “Oh, Malyshka,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You could never be a burden to me. This isn’t about me doing you a favor—it’s about giving you what you need. Making sure you’re cared for. That’s what being your Mama means.”

Your heart clenched at that, the sincerity in her voice making it hard to breathe for a moment. You’d never had a caregiver before, you didn’t know everything. You knew what you saw on the internet; all those posts of imagines with a caregiver that made you feel something was now here in front of you. You swallowed thickly, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you whispered, finally glancing up at her.

Wanda’s smile was soft and full of warmth, like she was proud of you for even considering it. “Okay,” she echoed, reaching across the desk to gently squeeze your hand. “We’ll take it slow, baby. Just one step at a time.”

You nodded again, still nervous, still unsure—but with Wanda, you felt safe enough to try.

It was about an hour later when you spoke a simple, "Yes." Aloud that Wanda smiled. 

"Okay well how about we meet up here and we'll take a drive out so we're far away from others? Does that sound good?" She asks, finally looking at you. You felt her sea glass green eyes on you. You looked up to meet her eyes, suddenly feeling small. 

"Yes Mama, that sounds good.”

Wanda’s smile softened, her eyes full of warmth as she heard you call her Mama again. She reached over, brushing a strand of hair from your face with gentle fingers. “Good girl,” she praised softly. The simple words made your chest feel warm, a little fluttery even, but you still shifted in your seat, feeling shy.

She chuckled, recognizing the way you squirmed under her gaze. “We don’t have to rush, Malyshka. Just a nice, quiet drive. A little shopping. No pressure, okay?”

You nodded, chewing your lip. “Okay.”

Wanda leaned back in her chair, a satisfied look on her face as she picked up her grading again. But every so often, you caught her glancing at you, like she was just making sure you were okay. It made something in you settle, knowing that even when she wasn’t speaking, she was still paying attention.

You went back to your own work, but your mind kept drifting to Saturday—what it would be like, how it would feel to have things again, to pick them out with someone who actually understood. The idea was nerve-wracking but also… really exciting.

✎✐ ✎ ✐ ✎ ✐

The drive was peaceful, just you and Wanda, the hum of the road beneath the tires filling the silence between songs playing softly on the radio. Wanda let you control the music, occasionally glancing over at you with a smile as you mouthed the lyrics or tapped your fingers against your thigh. It made her heart swell knowing you felt comfortable enough to just be with her.

When she finally pulled into the parking lot, you felt your stomach twist with nervous energy. This wasn’t just any store—it was a town far enough away that no one from campus would see you, giving you the freedom to pick out what you needed without fear of judgment.

Wanda grabbed a cart, and the two of you walked in together. At first, everything felt normal as you strolled through the grocery aisles. Wanda picked up some snacks, her fingers grazing over brands you had mentioned growing up with. “How about these, Malyshka?” she asked, holding up a box of animal crackers.

You felt a small grin tug at your lips as you nodded. “Yeah, those are good.”

From there, she guided you toward the baby and toddler section. The moment you stepped into the aisle, your heart started beating faster. Your fingers twitched as you looked over the selection—things you hadn’t let yourself have in years.

Wanda was patient, watching as you hesitated before slowly reaching out to touch a pack of toddler fruit pouches. “These are good,” she encouraged. “Easy to have when you don’t want to use a spoon.”

You swallowed hard and placed them in the cart. One by one, Wanda helped you pick out what you needed—plates and bowls with cute designs, a sippy cup that felt just right in your hands, even a bath toy set shaped like little sea animals.

When you reached the bedding aisle, she let you run your fingers over the different sets, waiting patiently for you to make your choice. Your heart ached a little as you settled on one with soft pastel stars and moons. It felt safe.

Finally, she led you to the toy section. “Alright, Malyshka,” she said softly. “You’ve been so good and so brave today. Pick out a toy, anything you want.”

You hesitated at first, shifting on your feet as your eyes scanned the shelves. It felt overwhelming—like you shouldn’t be here, like you were doing something wrong. But Wanda was right beside you, her presence grounding you.

After a few moments, your eyes landed on a plush bunny with floppy ears and the softest fur you’d ever seen. You picked it up, hugging it to your chest without thinking.

Wanda smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “That’s a very good choice, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks burned as you nodded, gripping the bunny tightly as she led you to the checkout. Wanda handled everything, paying without a second thought, and once you were back in the car, she handed you the bunny again.

“You did so well today,” she murmured, squeezing your knee affectionately.

You hugged the bunny close and whispered, “Thank you, Mama.”

And in that moment, you knew—you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[lavendernlilac]

Do you have anything for your lavender tea or strawberry lemonade au? I'm a massive fan of them both, though I know you have been working hard on the bodyguard au currently so if you don't want to answer this while you work on something else that's ok

I do actually !!! I was looking through my strawblem folder and found a wip of a fic I was working on :3 I can share a little snippet from it <3

“Wh— Scar, hey!” Grian hastily grabs his laptop and papers to hoist them up as his boyfriend drops his head in his lap. He had seen Scar approaching him, but was unaware of his intention until the man had sat down and moved to lay down. With no regard to his work, Scar drops his head to lay on Grian’s thighs, much to the researcher’s chagrin. “This isn’t very professional, you know!” he huffs out, leaning over the incubus to look at him with a disapproving frown.  “We're the only ones here, G,” Scar points out, looking up at him. His green eyes are bright and cheerful as always, filled with love as their eyes meet.  “Yeah well I’ve got work to do.” Grian frowns back at him. “And this time I’m kind of on the clock, so I can’t afford to be distracted, Scar,” he says sternly. He’s in the process of going over some field notes for an upcoming investigation they’re doing. Martyn, Grian’s research sponsor, was the one to tell him about it. He asked Grian to look into it and who was Grian to say no? “I need to get these observations written and sorted by tomorrow.”  Normally, Grian doesn’t mind Scar’s touchiness. He’s a bit hesitant with it in public, but when it’s just the two of them, Grian soaks up Scar’s touch like a sponge. He likes being close to Scar, sometimes he’ll toss himself into the man’s lap when he wants to. And there’s a few different ways that can go, depending on Scar. Sometimes Scar is content to hold Grian or just sit next to him. Other times they’ll exchange a kiss or two. Or, Scar’s hands will wander and it’ll end with Grian crying his name as his boyfriend takes him apart with both his words and touch. Regardless, moments like this end with some kind of distraction.  This time? It can’t.  Grian gives Scar a firm look, and the incubus quickly nods his head. He nuzzles right against Grian’s stomach, eyes shut as he does so. “No distractions from me, you have my word, G,” he swears, earnestly. “Just… just wanna lay here. Right in your comfy lap.” He shuts his eyes after saying it, and Grian’s shoulders sag slightly. It seems Scar really doesn’t intend on being a handsome distraction.  Breath leaving him in a light exhale, Grian relents, allowing Scar to lay where he is. He has to move his things around a bit, rearranging his laptop and notes. He complains about it of course, because who would he be if he didn’t? Scar hums in response, not making any move to give Grian his lap again. Grian doesn’t really mind it. It gives him a free excuse to run his fingers through Scar’s hair, feel the soft strands of chocolate under his touch. He likes Scar’s hair, how it curls around his fingers, how easy it is to brush through.  His hand naturally starts to do just that, rhythmically carding his fingers through Scar’s hair. He does it without thinking much about it, as he turns back to his work. Scar relaxes under his touch, practically going boneless against him. He all but buries his face into Grian’s stomach, sighing contently.  “You smell nice today,” Scar mumbles, and he sounds drowsy. “Really sweet…”  Grian pauses to look up from his screen, blinking. “Thanks?” He looks down at Scar with furrowed brows, befuddlement inching its way up his chest. He forgets about his work for a moment, choosing instead to observe his boyfriend. Scar’s been acting a little weird recently, clingier than usual. He knows by nature that Scar is pretty affectionate, but this feels different somehow.  Feeling a spike of concern, Grian moves his palm to press against Scar’s forehead. Scar doesn’t feel warm, so probably not a cold.  Pulling back, Grian hums. Scar looks tired, more than anything. Perhaps he should just let him sleep for a bit while Grian finishes up his work. And then he can drag Scar back to his place for some proper rest. With this in mind, Grian returns to brushing Scar’s hair, feeling compelled to work just a little bit quicker. 

[double-u-qed]

10k words of sheer jazzprowl fluff. enjoy! ao3 link here. [which i recommend, seeing as none of my formatting transferred over here and i'm a tiny bit lazy]

Jazz doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous before; his fingers keep tracing over each other, rubbing patterns into the metal. He trails them along the plates, tugs on some of the exposed wiring — a habit his mentor scolded him for often, always redirecting his attention to something else in an effort to make him quit it. But none of his mentors are here right now, haven’t been for a long, long time, so his fingers stay picking and pulling.

He’s never been to Iacon before, despite it being the capital city-state — the head of operations, so to speak. Home of the Primacy and Senate. It’s a hodgepodge of culture, mechs from far and wide settling down, so you’d think a mech like Jazz would have been there before.

But nope — never been.

So why the hell was the Prime himself of all people requesting his presence?

It didn’t make any sense. Well, it did, but — Jazz was just your regular ol’ cultural investigator, nothing special. It was just a fancy, self-given title as well; a way of saying he went to many places and dabbled in the various cultures, researching them (word to be used lightly). He had to make shanix somehow, and the music by itself wasn’t cutting it; it only made sense then to make a career out of what he likes to do best. It paid enough to keep traveling, to keep experiencing a little bit of everything, and that was what mattered to Jazz most.

How Sentinel Prime of all mechs caught wind of him and his work, he hasn’t a clue. If anything, he would’ve assumed the Prime would hear about him from his skirting of the rules before anything related to his work. He hasn’t exactly crossed that line just yet, but he’s not ruling out the possibility, either. Point is, he had trouble believing it when the message found its way into his inbox.

But as much as he tried, he couldn’t find any sign of forgery or tampering with the letter. It definitely looked legit — enough that, well. Here he is: surrounded by a bunch of fancy city mechs not paying him a lick of attention, optics glued to their screens even as the train halts to a strut-breaking stop. All in all, it’s pretty typical, but Jazz can’t help the nervousness he feels all the same.

How was one meant to conduct themselves in front of the fragging Prime? Closest Jazz has ever gotten is a Senator or two, and even then, it was mostly in passing. He hasn’t the faintest clue as to proper Iaconian etiquette. A smooth, charismatic talker he may be, a mistake is a mistake and would still be all too easy to make.

Too bad he doesn’t have more time to agonize over it. The train eventually reaches its station, the doors opening and mechs beginning to shuffle in and out. It’s a hectic mess, really, all kinds of pushing and shoving happening simultaneously. Jazz is just thankful that he manages to make it out in one piece, squeezing between two doorwingers, a litany of apologies on his lips as he wiggles his luggage through the swarm.

After wandering around lost for longer than he’d like to admit, he does eventually find his hotel. It’s not too shabby, but definitely… gaudier than it has any right being. The berth has little hanging crystals attached to it, strips of silver lining the sides. Jazz can’t help wondering if it’s all a show for tourists; give them a little feel of what it’s like to be so close to the Big Building (name pending) where the Prime resides. The streets were lined with his image, after all.

Thankfully, Jazz didn’t bring too many things with him, making the unpacking process easy enough. Unfortunately for him, that also means he has nothing left to occupy himself with; nothing to keep his mind off the fact his presence is expected real soon — less than a joor, his HUD ever so helpfully supplies.

As limited as Jazz’s knowledge of Iacon is, he’s heard plenty of rumors about Sentinel Prime and the company he keeps close to. (All in hushed whispers, of course; it’d be considered heresy to so loudly denounce a mech chosen by Primus Himself).

Sentinel’s… vain. Lazy. The type to shirk his responsibilities onto someone else, most meetings being conducted by his Right Hand more often than not. From what he’s heard, Jazz feels sorry for the poor mech, even if he was constructed during Zeta’s time for the sole purpose of being an attendant. Can’t be easy being stuck to a mech that doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously.

Speaking of which… slag. The Prime’s personal attendant had plenty of rumors surrounding himself too, none of them too kind. He was apparently a real stickler for rules and regulation, no doubt a fault of his pre-programming. He was detail-oriented, a go-getter, the type where nothing escaped his notice. He operates in the limelight and shadows both, the true iron fist of the Primacy.

If the rumors are to be believed—and they often are to be in Jazz’s line of work—then he’ll more than likely be working closely with the Right Hand for… whatever it is they want Jazz doing.

He was seriously screwed, wasn’t he?

“Oookay, Jazz-Meister; you’ve got this. Nothin’ a little sweet-talking can’t get you out of. Hopefully. I’m sure it’s nothing that important. They’d have the dogs on your trail and at your door in seconds flat if it was like that. Probably.” Thinking on it, there was no telling whether or not they weren’t scoping out the area for him already. Unlikely, but Jazz has long since learned to trust his instincts at the first sign of trouble.

It’s just that — they haven’t detected anything. And it’d be rude, maybe even enough for a court-martial, to ignore the summons even more than he already has.

Whining some more to himself, spark set on a path of shaky, nervous revolutions — he sets off for the biggest building of them all.

It’s… no better than his hotel room, adorned in gold and the shiniest of metals, the archways crystalline. Reaches straight out to the sky, proud and — intimidating. Foreboding and imposing, and any other words to say that it was fragging distracting as all get out. Two larger-than-life statues of Sentinel himself sat in the courtyard, of which is fenced off and surrounded by guards no doubt armed to the nines.

Jazz swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, hands fluttering at his sides as he steels his resolve. They haven’t done anything, so surely that’s a good sign, right?

“’Morning,” he greets them, giving a nod. “I have an appointment with the Prime? Or one of his attendants, I’m not too sure, the letter didn’t specify.”

The guards stationed directly in front of the gate don’t move, but their optics do slide over to each other at the same time. Turning back to Jazz as one, they simultaneously ask, “Designation?”

Unnerved, Jazz stumbles over his words. “Uh, Jazz. Jazz of Staniz.”

“Designation acknowledged. Permission granted. An escort will be with you shortly; proceed.”

Thoroughly creeped out now, Jazz just flashes them a smile and pretty much scurries away, glad to be gone from their penetrating gaze.

True to fashion, the escort practically pops up out of nowhere, suddenly at his side and taking him by the elbow, leading him further into the—palace? It was practically a palace, all regal staircases and spacious rooms to host plenty of mechs in power. The front room alone was bigger than any place Jazz had ever stayed in, that was for sure.

“Wait here,” the small, red bot dragging him around says once they enter a conference-esque room. “Sentinel Prime himself will be here in a moment. In the meantime, do help yourself to any of the refreshments provided.” With that, they give a small bow before leaving.

“You call these refreshments?” Jazz asks no one in particular as he takes a seat. The treat in his hand is a spiky little thing, brittle and dusted with something he doesn’t recognize. Whatever it is, it sparkles and emits a soft glow. “How does a treat manage to be so flashy?”

Chucking it back into the bowl, Jazz leans back a bit, eyes roaming over the place. “Better yet, is everything just like that here?”

Somehow the place didn’t feel very lived in. It was personalized all right — you couldn’t take more than a few steps before running into various things with Sentinel’s image memorialized — yet somehow empty and devoid of life. Maybe that was just how rich mechs lived, with their big, fancy places.

Either way, it sure did make Jazz feel sorely out of place, shifting around awkwardly in his seat. Primus, was it ever quiet here. There was too much junk to make the noise echo, but the sound of his fingers tapping out a little diddy against the table still sliced right through the silence. Not in the good way, either, his fingers curling back into his hand after a mere klik or two of making noise. That left bouncing his left up and down and humming to himself, but even that got old soon enough.

The boredom was about to kill him when the door finally opened again, the mech of the hour and another strolling on through. Strange — Jazz would’ve expected more personnel to be by Sentinel’s side.

Ducking his head a bit to avoid Sentinel’s gaze as the larger mech seats himself across from him, Jazz’s attention is captured by the other mech that came in. He’s on the shorter side — still taller than Jazz, though. His posture belies his caste, all elegant and proud. His paints consist of white and black, his face covered by a full battle mask, and his doorwings fanned out behind him.

Now, Jazz may not be able to see much of the mech’s face, but he can make out the way the mech visibly hesitates for a moment when they make eye contact, doorwings going unnaturally still as he looks at Jazz. And he’s — glaring. He’s glaring, not just staring. His optics are furrowed, his hands suddenly being clasped together behind him as he stands by the door, turning his head to the side sharply, practically severing the contact.

Ah. The rumored personal attendant.

His behavior wasn’t too odd, then; Jazz was well aware of how he looked. His paint hadn’t been redone in a few orns, chipped and dulled all over. Public transit had never really been Jazz’s thing, deeming it a waste of good shanix, making both his modes rather susceptible to pieces of small debris scratching the surface.

Strangely though, Sentinel seems bothered by his Second’s hesitation, raising an optic ridge in his direction. He even eyes the mech up and down before rolling his eyes with an exasperated huff of air when his attendant failed to say anything. Huh.

Turning back to Jazz, the Prime is quiet for a moment. A long moment, actually. Too long. Uncomfortably long. Jazz just hopes his face isn’t giving away his building restlessness.

Sentinel places an elbow on the table, hand to his face as he finally says, “I’ll make this quick — I’m a very busy mech, after all. I need your expertise for the gala I’m hosting tonight. We’re attempting to establish better relations with one of our distant colonies; it’s said you know a thing or two about their customs. I’m sure you get where this is going.”

That — wasn’t quite what Jazz envisioned. He blinks. “I- yes? I think so?”

“Great!” The Prime gives the table a bit of a slap—Jazz can’t help his flinch—splaying his hands out as if to say problem solved. “Glad that’s been taken care of, I hate having to give long explanations. Always admirable, a mech that’s quick on the uptake. Now — you’re to remain here for the foreseeable joors until this whole thing is done with. Direct any of your questions to Prowl over there.”

That takes the other mech—Prowl—just as aback as it does Jazz. Only difference is the amount of exasperation the other manages to exude while somehow keeping his tone reasonably respectful. “You won’t be staying, Sir?”

Sentinel snorts. “Primus, no. You’re the one who recommended this mech to help us; you debrief him. I have a whole day spent agonizing over which of which looks better despite them being the exact same. This is why I hate galas so much.”

Unlike the Prime, Prowl doesn’t seem as keen on acting so lax and improper around an outsider. His words are carefully—and rather pointedly—chosen. “I’d hate to waste your time any further, then. Do take care, Sir; I’ll handle things from here.”

The Prime just raises his hand in a rather dismissive way of parting, the mech continuing to grumble to himself as he exits the room.

If Jazz was a lesser mech, he’s sure his jaw would be on the floor. As it stands, he whips his head around to stare at Prowl, disbelieving in what just happened. It- it all happened so fast. Jazz said less than a sentence! Sure, he was told that Prowl would be handling things, but that — that was just inconsiderate!

Undeterred, acting as if such a thing was a regular occurrence, Prowl takes a seat in the now abandoned chair, unsubspacing a datapad. He glances up at Jazz after a moment of simply scrolling, and it’s — tense? No, that’s not quite right. It’s… it couldn’t be. Could it?

Just as quickly, the doorwinged mech looks away, attention resolutely on the screen of his datapad as he begins to fill in Jazz on the full set of details.

“As Sentinel informed you, tonight is a crucial event for the establishment of our ties to other ruling colonies in the area. Any information you can provide would be deeply appreciated, seeing as we have had little contact with those a part of this colony ourselves.”

The cultural investigator tries to listen, giving his input here and there where needed, but his mind keeps wandering. He’d almost believed for a moment that the look from before had been timid, almost shy, but as the more time passed, the more he was certain he must’ve been mistaken. The rumors, as well; Prowl wasn’t nearly as cold as they made him out to be. He was just awkward if anything.

Only…

Prowl takes him all around the building, never once losing his rigid stance, doorwings not even so much as twitching. The most damning thing of all is his outright refusal to look at Jazz head-on. He’ll get close, their optics almost locking, before settling his gaze on something just a little above Jazz’s eyes. It’s puzzling if Jazz has to be honest.

But you didn’t get to be a cultural investigator without accepting the fact some people act in ways you might not initially understand, so he just chalks it up to being how Prowl normally is. Or maybe it’s a custom from wherever he’s from. That would make sense, actually. Ah, wait — did that make Jazz rude for trying to get the other to look at him? It probably did, didn’t it.

Feeling thoroughly chastised even though it’s just himself he’s arguing with, Jazz puts the matter to rest. He’s here on business, after all.

That’s why he is most definitely not staring when the other suddenly pulls up his mask in the middle of talking, revealing icy-blue eyes and a thin, narrow face. It just — surprises Jazz is all, considering he seemed adamant about wearing it the entire time before.

It’d be rude to stare, so he turns away.

Catching his eye, Prowl lowers his gaze, looks up at the lip of the mask still hanging overhead, casting shadows on his face, then stops walking, prompting Jazz to stop as well. “Standard procedure,” he explains, gesturing to his face. “It’s a safety precaution. Forgive me for not taking it off sooner; I have a tendency to get wrapped up in my thoughts to the point of being negligent of my surroundings. I didn’t realize it was still there until my fans pinged a warning about overheating.”

“’S all good,” Jazz is quick to assure, tapping a finger on his visor. “Just didn’t know if it was something cultural or not, didn’t want to assume or cause offense.”

Prowl seems to consider that in that silent way of his Jazz was beginning to pick up on. It wasn’t obvious that he was updating his files, if not for the way his focus seemed to dim, returning with a couple of blinks. Then he’s all nods, and they continue on their way.

The Prime’s attendant is once again in the middle of explaining something when he suddenly goes quiet, words trailing off. A frown mars his face, minuscule as it is. It’s contemplative, a stylus tapping against the screen of his to-do list. He closes his eyes as Jazz twists his body around to step in front of him.

“Something wrong?” asks Jazz when the silence stretches on.

“Not wrong, per se… Just.” Prowl’s face screws up, the most emotion Jazz has seen on it so far. He taps two of his fingers against his lips. “Sentinel decided most events of the banquet would be left to you.” Blunt, precise. “The event planning itself will mostly be done by himself, but matters are to be overlooked by you before being approved. It’s a lot of work.”

Those icy eyes bore into him, his words seemingly ending there.

Jazz stares back into those unblinking eyes, noting the way Prowl’s grip on his datapad has tightened.

Feeling brave and a little risky, Jazz asks, “Sentinel not trust your word on such matters?”

A bit of pride makes his spark spin a little faster when Prowl actually looks relieved, doorwings lowering a bit. “No,” he says, voice still monotone but holding a little mirth. “He doesn’t. Says a mech constructed cold wouldn’t know a thing about foreign matters, least of all me.”

That gets Jazz’s attention. “How so?”

“Lack of experience,” Prowl says, shrugging. “I was made with the purpose of helping out the Primacy shortly after Sentinel was added to their ranks. I’ve never had the time to experience anywhere but Iacon, really.”

“Not even Praxus?”

“Petrex, actually,” Prowl corrects, bobbing his head a bit as if he was used to having to say it. “And no, I’m afraid. So as you might imagine, there is some truth to Sentinel’s words.”

“But you have something to say anyway, I’m guessin’. Well, let’s hear it,” Jazz says, happily relinquishing some of the control and order over to the other. Planning’s never been his thing, and honestly, this entire thing has left him dizzy. It’s just a little too surreal to be real, no matter how often he bumps his leg against a wall. “Not like I have a completely clear idea of what I’m doing.”

He thought that was encouraging, but if anything, Prowl looked slightly distressed and put off by his words. He glances around them, chewing on a lip.

“Sentinel won’t like it,” he weakly tries to argue. “He doesn’t take too well to some of my ideas, despite leaving most of the work to me. I’d hate for you to be blamed if it doesn’t go over well.”

“You don’t stay as acting attendant for so many vorns without knowing a thing or two.” Jazz grins a Cheshire grin, gently tugging one of those white hands free of its death grip. “C’mon, I won’t tell. I’m sure that big brain of yours has already concocted a whole list of ideas on what to do, so tell me. I trust ya. Pretty pleeeease?”

The attendant stares openly at their clasped hands, making Jazz falter a bit in his enthusiasm, dropping it a little awkwardly. It’s — well, it’s not like he could read the other’s field before this, but now he can’t even get a single hint of what’s going on with him. His face is so impassive as he gives a small nod.

But even as everything seems all fine and business again, Jazz’s hand remains feeling a little cold, his stomach clenched in apprehension.

The gala comes and goes, miraculously being pulled off in the haphazard bit of time they had to spare. It’s not the worst party Jazz has ever been to, either. The foreign guests are a delight, laughing at his jokes and sharing bits of their culture with him that he commits to memory. The band Sentinel hired even lets him play for a bit, even if though it’s a less fancy and richly prestine song than they’re probably used to hearing.

It’s a good time overall, every mech looking happy. Even Prowl.

The battle mask is on once again, obscuring most of his face. But he’s so relaxed as he chats with his company, doorwings moving, even laughing.

He looks so… at home. So peaceful, elegant. Not at all stiff and awkward, adverse to any and all attention.

That is, he’s perfectly at ease until Jazz comes by, wanting to thank the mech for all of his help. Then, he’s a mirror of before; doorwings pulled up high, unmoving, face blank, but eyes furrowed behind the tinted glass of his mask. Jazz would almost think he’s concentrating, if it weren’t for the way his plating is pulled in tighter, tense.

It makes Jazz slow down a bit, his smile slipping. He’s not used to being hated — because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Him being hated. Prowl had no problems looking the other mechs in the optics, didn’t seem to care when one of the governors from the distant colony put a hand on his arm, tugging on in as they told a story. The only explanation then is that Jazz has done something to upset him. But he came over here for a reason, and he intends on seeing it through. It’d be rude of him not to.

“Thanks,” he says, getting closer. “Never did get to ask you why or how you chose me in particular for somethin’ as big as this, but — thanks. It was fun, if a little hectic. Not what I’m used to usually helping out with.” He chuckles a bit, hoping to ease the tension a bit.

The other’s words are much more clipped, precise and to the point. “I was only doing my duty. It pays to know who is skilled in what is required. You were a big help tonight, so it is I, who should be thanking you.”

Despite himself, Jazz can’t help grinning a giddy grin. He attempts to play it off, hiding it behind the rim of his drink, pretending to take a sip from it. He doubts he succeeds. “Skilled, huh. Didn’t think I was skilled enough for the Prime’s Second to know of me.”

It’s minute, barely there, but Jazz swears the mech manages to just — stop altogether, a little hiss of air being pulled in through teeth. No doubt, it only means something bad, Jazz’s posture slipping back into something only half-relaxed, all cheeriness gone.

“Yes, well,” Prowl’s once again not looking Jazz directly in the face, “as I said: it pays to know. As the one who oversees most of Sentinel’s duties, it is my job to keep track of any names that come up often in conversation.” Now he’s staring down at his own drink, scuffing his peds against the ground as his fingers fidgeted against each other. “Senator Shockwave speaks fondly of you,” he mumbles.

That surprises Jazz. “Really? We’ve only spoken a few times, though…” None of those times particularly stood out, either.

Prowl nods a little more eagerly than before. “Fleeting as it was, your interaction left an impression on him. He was quite impressed with your endeavors and accomplishments, awed with the amount of places you’ve been to.”

It looks like he wants to say more, subtly shifting his weight. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything more at all, merely dismissing himself politely with a bob of wings. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice that his doorwings only raise once he’s on the other side of the room, swept up in the crowd of mechs dancing.

And like that, Jazz sees no more of him for the rest of the night.

The next time Jazz met Prowl, it was long after Sentinel Prime’s reign. He’d almost forgotten about the mech entirely, but then, the war happened and things changed. Jazz changed. Mechs kept getting hurt, places kept getting bombed and raided. It hurt, seeing the people and planet he loved be torn apart. It was dying, their planet. Slowly poisoned and unable to sustain itself the way it used to, public transportation lines in ruins and whole cities demolished.

No longer could he safely travel from place to place, playing songs of old and new. There was simply too much death, too much destruction, no matter how much the newly-appointed Prime tried to avoid it.

He was a good spark, Optimus. Enough that Jazz felt sure in his sudden decision to enlist in the faction he had formed. He doubted there was much someone like him could do, but hey; it didn’t hurt to try. If he was truly so knowledgeable of their planet that even Sentinel Prime had paid some notice, he wanted to put those skills to use. People always did say he was a mech of the people, and maybe that was needed right now.

So here Jazz is, lined up and waiting for inspection. His application had already gotten him through the preliminary round, so now it was time for the real test to begin.

As he expected, Prowl himself was the one conducting the inspections, even though it was rather tedious, menial work. Not really something befitting of a mech perfectly constructed for a broad variety of political work. The sight of him and his datapad is enough to make Jazz’s lip quirk in a half-baked smile. Working with the mech even just once had taught him how important control and certainty were to him, down to the very last detail. Though in the case of Sentinel, that was probably more out of a necessity than anything else. Vorns of that kind of work probably left Prowl a little more than distrustful of their new Prime.

All the other mechs in line are nervous, some even mumbling rather profane things about the Second in Command, glancing at him from above cupped hands. Cowards are too afraid to say it any louder than a whisper though. What they didn’t seem to get, however, was just how sensitive a Praxian’s doorwings can be. Careless fraggers didn’t seem to notice the subtle twitches in Prowl’s wings, making Jazz’s smile turn into a smirk he had to hide behind his hand.

Staying in Praxus and other city-states predominately populated by door-winged mechs on more than one occasion had made him rather familiar and acquainted with the various tells of a mech’s doorwings. And boy were Prowl’s wings expressive if you knew what to look for. Jazz was pretty sure he was even cursing behind that stoic demeanor he seemed to be pre-programmed with, attention on his datapad as he cussed them out. Dignity and keeping up appearances were perhaps the only things keeping him from saying such things out loud.

When the Praxian gets closer to where Jazz is, the ex-cultural investigator sees the exact moment the other truly notices he’s there. Disappointingly, not much has changed. Only this time, Prowl doesn’t have a battle mask to properly guard the small changes in his expression.

His optics flickered to where Jazz was, his lips slackening a bit as he blinked. He tilts his head a bit — more when Jazz flashes him a million-watt smile with a coy little way. It’s hard to tell what, but Jazz sees him mouth something to himself before he—rather stiltedly—turns back to the mech he’s meant to be inspecting, blinking a couple times more. Jazz can’t help snickering.

It’s still pretty obvious he’s staring whenever he can, though, as much as he wants to act like he’s fulfilling his job perfectly. Not quite in an apprehensive way, it’s almost — curious? A little wide-eyed and innocent, even if the corners of his mouth are pulled in tight, riddled with stress, straining.

Maybe Jazz hadn’t been mistaken in thinking that night hadn’t been so bad between them, after all.

“Jazz,” Prowl says, bowing his head a little in greeting once he’s standing right in front of him. It’s the very definition of polite, if it weren’t for the datapad he’s ever so intentionally hidden behind, pretending to look busy.

Jazz can’t help the way his spark sinks a little at that. Try as he might, he can’t think of a single thing that would have the Praxian reacting like this in his presence. Sure, he probably wasn’t exactly Prowl’s typical cohort, nor first choice of company, and the mech didn’t seem very social by nature, but…

Whatever. One way or another, Jazz wasn’t going to-

“I see that you expressed an interest in covert operations. Special Ops. May I ask why?” Those icy optics pin him in place, glowing bright as Prowl’s eyes go a little wide, tiny rings of lenses rotating as he studies him.

“That’s not the type of question you’ve been asking the others,” Jazz notes, confused and a little shaken off course, something he isn’t used to. He’s always been known to blurt out rather careless things when nervous, which is exactly why he doesn’t do nervous, not in things like this. “Aren’t you supposed to like, ask about combat training? Background? How serious I am about this? Things like that?”

Oops. Was that insubordination? It sure sounded like it, no matter the fact Jazz wasn’t enlisted yet and this wasn’t his superior. Yet.

Jazz might even be fooling himself, but he swears Prowl’s death grip on his datapad tightens even further. The mech lowers his gaze, raising his datapad a little higher, hiding behind it. Perhaps subconsciously, he puts a bit of distance between them, as if literally trying to un-step over some unseen boundary. “Yes, that is normally the case. My apologies.”

That… that felt wrong. Prowl was in way too high of a position to be apologizing to him so — so submissively. It felt weird, not at all fitting in with the paradigm Jazz had shoved the other mech into. Plus, it’s not like he was offended or anything, he just wasn’t sure what to do with that outlier of a question.

In a rush, he struggles to get the other to stop subtly slipping away, to stop curling away from Jazz. “No, no, it’s- it’s fine… Just a lil’ confused, is all…”

It’s awkward. Primus, take him now, it’s so awkward. Why were things always chock-full of silences and the oddest of surprises when it came to this mech? Jazz never has trouble talking! Socializing is what he’s all about! He loves meeting new people, but this guy — somehow this guy takes everything off-course, which is a rather amazing feat for someone so structured.

Shifting on his peds, Jazz tries to spare the mech who has now begun glaring at some speck over his shoulder, looking… ashamed? Hell, was it ever hard to get a read on this guy. “I guess — I just thought somethin’ like that would be a good fit for me? Dunno if there was really a reason behind it. I know a lot about different frametypes, different people. Figured it’d be helpful in pulling off stealth missions to have a mech onboard that can give a few pointers like that.”

“An acceptable and admirable answer.” The way Prowl says it is careful, as if there were a million things he was trying not to suddenly blurt out. It almost sounds like the words were forcefully pulled out from between clenched teeth. It really didn’t suit him, nor the constructed image of him Jazz had once again formed from the many press conferences shared on the news. He always seemed so regal, so poised in those clipped, reciting lines like a mech made for the job.

From there, the rest of the inspection carries on pretty normal. Jazz even manages to impress the Praxian with his scores on the physical tests, even if he doesn’t say as much. It’s only the barest hint of a swooping motion in his doorwings that gives him away, and that probably only happens at all because Jazz is so far away — most wouldn’t have caught it from this distance.

Really, what does it take to get on this mech’s good side? The other mechs around seemed to be thinking something similar, elbowing Jazz and demanding to know what he’d done to get such a reaction. It’s all light-hearted, but Primus does it make Jazz feel a little miserable. They acted like this measly morsel of attention was the holy grail when, to Jazz, it was hardly anything at all. He’d seen what a relaxed Prowl was like, what he was capable of emoting.

Sitting on the sidelines as the inspections carry on, Jazz observes Prowl. None of the strange behavior is present when he interacts with the other enlisted Autobots, face light while his doorwings say all kinds of things. Some of it manages to get Jazz to smile. It’s a dry kind of humor and wit, the insults he says in everything but words. He’ll tilt his head slightly when someone asks a question he deems dumb; will close his eyes and stand up even straighter when disappointed in someone’s answer to his question.

A few times the Praxian glances Jazz’s way, unmoving as Jazz flashes him a smile just for the sake of being a little annoying. It’s there that Jazz decides he wants to understand this mech a little bit better, wants to make him shed that standoffish nature that seemed to have only gotten worse in the tides of war. He’s just so fascinating, not at all like any other Praxian Jazz has met before.

Inspecting his newly added badge in a mirror, he supposes he’ll have plenty of chances and many things to try.

More vorns go by, and Jazz’s progress is… well. It exists if you know how to look at it.

Prowl has clear, practically visible boundaries with the way he declines offers and separates himself in his office, and the last thing Jazz ever wants to do is cross those in his attempts to befriend the mech. So he starts slow, merely leaving cubes of energon on the other’s desk, nothing more. It’s a bit of a peace offering too, giving Prowl the chance to decline it and make it clear he has no intentions of becoming Jazz’s friend. If so, the saboteur will gladly back off. He might not be used to being hated, but he knows you can’t force these things.

Surprisingly, Prowl always takes him up on the offer, not quite smiling but tilting his head downward in gratitude, not really lifting it all the way back up until Jazz is gone.

His relations with the other Autobots weren’t terrible, but Prowl still didn’t seem particularly close to anyone. Solitude was what he preferred, though the line between voluntary solitude and pure negligence was a thin one. Mech tuned out the entire world when he became focused on something, snapping at anyone who dared pull him away. Not in an overtly aggressive way, mind you, but sometimes if someone pushed a little too far it got to that point. He was always like that when it came to solving any sort of puzzle or fully understanding something that caught his attention, and it didn’t matter if you were friend or foe.

It was rather odd; then again, maybe friendship was just defined differently in Prowl’s book as a whole. It was clear Ratchet, Optimus, and Red Alert all adored him in their own ways, and Prowl both respected and appreciated them in turn.

Ratchet would gently prod and nag at him, but treated him with kindness all the same, never raising his voice. He seemed to get that Prowl didn’t do well with loud noises, easily overwhelmed when there was too much stimuli to keep track of. It’s what made the medbay so hard for him, with its extra bright lights and thrumming machinery. Plenty of medics would try to get Prowl to come in for maintenance, but so far, only Ratchet had a record of succeeding.

Red Alert and him were cut from a similar cloth, meticulous and a little overbearing when it came to their work and protecting everyone. They understood each other without having to say anything, making each other’s jobs easier in a way that even Jazz struggled with.

As for Optimus… Optimus loved everyone, accepting their flaws and all. But he truly valued Prowl in a way that Sentinel didn’t never had, Prowl practically beaming in that subtle way of his whenever Optimus looked to him for input.

Why Jazz seemed to be an outlier remained unclear. And it continued to be murky, until the whole Earth thing.

Everyone got closer to each other the second they came back online and understood their situation, homesick and so small in numbers. They were all they had left of home. They were busier too, trying to maintain their fickle relationship with the humans in power at amicable status. Prowl in particular became swamped with work, prompting Jazz to increase his efforts to get the mech to just relax.

Thus lay the issue — mech didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word, continually rigid, words dismissive and solely professional when it came to Jazz.

“Is it just a Praxian thing? Or does the guy really hate me that much?” Jazz asks, voice pitching up into a whine as he drapes himself over Smokescreen’s desk, giving a big, feline-like stretch. “He hates meeeee… Wants me deeeeeaaaad.”

Looking up from his online game (which was a total violation of on-duty protocol), Smokescreen gives him a confused look of pinched face plates. “Who? Prowl?”

“Yesssss.” Jazz sinks further into the desk, becoming one with it. His words come out muffled, face pressed into the surface. “Talk about mixed signals. One moment I think he might like me decently enough, the next I’m certain he wants me dead where I stand. Is it me? Am I the issue?”

Smokey’s silent — too quiet. It makes Jazz roll over a bit, raising an optic ridge (not that Smokescreen can see it). That was a perfect opening for his friend to say, ‘always, Jazz. You’re the biggest nuisance I know.’ Smokescreen wasn’t one to pass on such openings, either, hence the confusion.

Smokescreen looks… full of mirth? His gaze is up to the ceiling, a hand covering his mouth, shoulders shaking a bit.

“Have you, I don’t know, tried asking him directly?”

Okay, that definitely sounded like stifled laughter in the other’s voice. Like the tone of a mech that knows more than he’s letting on.

Still, Jazz is feeling miserable, so he’ll gladly bite if it means getting the chance to vent a bit. “No,” he says glumly, kicking a ped against the desk for the added effect. “I thought about it, but it didn’t seem right. We’re Prime’s Third and Second, y’know? It’d be awkward, laying it all out. Can’t risk damaging morale if it ends up ugly. And he really does dislike me.”

No, Jazz wasn’t imagining it; Smokescreen snorted, pressing the hand a little tighter against his mouth.

“You’re… really not used to that, are you?”

And, well. That was a problem Jazz was trying not to address. Having it said so bluntly makes him pout a bit. “Maybe not before, but now it’s a little more common.”

Smokescreen sobers up a bit, field twinged with sympathy. “Oookay, that’s an issue you and I are gonna have to sort through at a later time. But what I want to know is, why do you care? What makes Prowl such an outlier you feel the need to sit here and whine to me about it instead of taking action?”

“I don’t know!” Jazz exclaims, plopping himself back down, raising his arms up to Primus Himself. “Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t try to hide it?”

“Hide what?”

Jazz scowls. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeup,” Smokescreen says, leaning back and grinning. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? Me making you admit that you’ve got a problem you don’t know how to fix.”

“I hate you.”

“Then get out of my office.”

“No,” Jazz says, all the world’s petulance in his tone as he settles back down on Smokescreen’s desk. “Your desk is a lot comfier than mine. And you’ve got games. Lots of them.”

“Am I at least an added bonus?”

“Not when you’re yapping and pullin’ my leg so much, no. Not even a little.”

“You wound me, Jazz,” Smokescreen dryly retorts, turning his gaze back to his handheld. When there’s the telltale death jingle, he merely sighs, putting it aside as he studies Jazz a bit. It makes the saboteur squirm, that level of scrutiny. More so when Smokescreen’s got that psychiatrist look to his eyes.

Giving up the charade, Smokescreen smirks, leaning in close enough to poke Jazz in the nose. “Oh, you cannot be serious. Who knew you of all people could be so dense.”

Jazz frowns. “What do you mean?”

But the junior tactician wasn’t listening, muttering under his breath, “Hate you?” He shook his head a bit, chuckling. “Jazz — the mech practically trips over his own peds whenever you enter the room. He’s a real bumbling idiot when someone so much as says your name, suddenly all eyes and ears like some kind of organic pet being brought food.”

The saboteur sits up straight, not caring at all that he manages to knock a pad clean off the desk. He ignores Smokescreen’s indignant little ‘hey!’ when it clatters to the floor. “No, that- that can’t be right. Prowl doesn’t—”

“Do romance?” His friend finishes, raising an optic ridge. His grin was still there, but it seemed slightly forced now. It’s that look he gets sometimes whenever he’s stepping on rough terrain, knowing a little too much about the bots on base. “Listen, Jazz — I know that you’ve technically known Prowl longer than I have, but you don’t work directly under the mech. And apparently, you’re fragging oblivious to what’s been obvious to us all.” When that only gets him a blank stare, he shakes out his hands for emphasis. “The wings, Jazz, the wings!”

“W-“

Jazz doesn’t get to finish, the door suddenly opening, stealing both of their attention. And low and behold, there was Prowl, nose stuck in reports as he swiftly made his way through, none the wiser.

“Smokescreen, have you looked over the governor of Oregon’s request yet? I-“

He pauses once he notices said person is in the middle of something. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice the way his gaze flicks to him, the way he’s seated, before going back to Smokescreen. It could be an illusion, but Jazz swears the mech takes a small shuffle backward, trying to shield himself partially with the report in his hand. His faceplates looked slightly darker too, optics giving a small flicker, in, out.

“Is… this a bad time?” He’s addressing Smokescreen when he asks, making a point of avoiding looking at Jazz. But his wings — those fucking wings!

Jazz’s jaw could hit the floor. It’s — it’s barely there, barely anything at all, but when you’re actively looking it for, it’s rather obvious; Prowl’s doorwings droop a bit as he says the words, his left foot pulled back as if to pivot on out. His helm is lowered and — yep; he’s sneaking glances at Jazz out of the corner of his eye, nervously tapping his fingers against the side of his datapad.

Oh, Primus — it really was rather obvious, wasn’t it? Like, really, really obvious. The mech was shy. Ridiculously shy. Prowl! That had to be wrong, right? Prowl didn’t- oh. Oh. He didn’t do romance because Jazz was there and not romancing with him. Prowl was rather old-fashioned in everything, so why not this as well?

Snickering quietly, Smokescreen gives him a hard clap on the back that makes him stumble and almost fall off the edge of his desk. He ignores the glare Jazz sends his way, his tongue sticking out. Turning to Prowl, he’s all smiles and politeness, cheeky fragger.

“Nope, not at all, no worries. Jazz and I were just discussing some business, nothing important. And as for your earlier question — yep! Looked it over and ran the numbers myself. Should be all good to go.”

“That’s…” Prowl purses his lips a bit, face pinched and crinkled in thought. It looked… pained. Like he didn’t really want to say the words coming out of his mouth. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“I- uh.” Jazz points towards the door, because it’s clear Smokescreen has no intention of helping him out. “Go.”

That same, little droop. “If it’s because of me-“

“Nah,” Jazz says, cutting him off. And it isn’t. Not completely. Just — not for the reasons Prowl might be thinking. “Like Smokey said: it wasn’t that important. Just a little banter. Your report, on the other hand…”

The tactician looks down at said report, almost as if he had forgotten why he came into the room at all. Again, his face screws up into something rather odd. Indecisive. “It-“

-can wait. But Prowler’s always been a logical, by-the-books kind of mech, never selfish. The words die there, his lips pursed as he stops himself, blinking harshly as he lowers his gaze.

It almost gets Jazz to stay. Almost. His head’s a little too full of discoveries for that, needing some space to simply breathe. Primus. How long had everyone on base known? And why didn’t they tell Jazz? It’s not like he was some serial dater or anything! He wouldn’t react badly!

But… how does he feel about Prowl? He doesn’t know. He’s never had to think past his own wounded ego before, so fixated on the fact the Praxian seemed to only treat him differently.

Maybe. Maybe that was part of the problem. If Prowl was really that shy, no wonder nobody wanted to spoil things for him.

Jazz pauses.

The mech had been flirting with him from the beginning. All those times he would suddenly blurt out an unrelated question, sheepishly apologizing when questioned about it. He was trying to get to know Jazz better.

That. That changed some things — a lot of things. It answered some things too, but that seemed rather trivial right now.

Prowl — Prowl had a crush on him. Him.

A hand comes up to rest against Jazz’s mouth, his head turned and making eye contact with his own reflection. He didn’t remember making it make to his hab, nor entering his washracks.

He was even more startled to find himself smiling.

Valentine’s was. A holiday. A great holiday, even. Jazz was always stoked for it, showing his appreciation for everyone on base in the little things, such as giving them little pieces reminiscent of their home back on Cybertron. From treats to playing music — he had it all. It reminded him what he had loved about being a cultural investigator so much, his spark full and warm whenever people thanked him.

This year… It wasn’t like Jazz was any less excited, far from it. The problem was…

“Woah, either you’re really deep in thought, or you want to kill Blaster right now. Which is it?”

“Thinking, so go away before I catch your disease.”

Smokescreen, damn him, only presses in closer, making an utter mockery of Jazz’s threat. “Hmmm, I don’t doubt that—the thinking bit, just to be clear—but it really does look like you want to tear Blaster apart right now. Last I checked, he was your second best friend—with me being the first, of course—so now I need to know why. Though,” he chuckles, “I might have a guess.”

Jazz sighs, focus thoroughly ruined now. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure you’re not. Blaster just conveniently happens to be chatting away with your not-so-secret admirer that you may or may not have similar feelings for, all whilst you’re glaring at him. I’m believing you so hard right now.”

“Knock it off,” Jazz says, giving him a shove. “It’s genuinely not like that. I think-“ He hesitates, knowing the words will be very real once they leave the sanctity of his own head. “I think Prowl’s planning to actually confess soon.”

“Oh.” Smokescreen’s blink is audible as he turns back to study Blaster and Prowl from the other side of the room. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s been acting more skittish than usual, almost acting guilty anytime I walk in on the two of them talking. Mighty embarrassed too.”

“Okay,” Smokescreen says, slowly and giving an even slower nod. “I’ll pretend to understand the thought process here.”

Exasperated, Jazz huffs again. “Prowl doesn’t get embarrassed unless it’s something to do with — y’know. This.” He waggles a finger between himself and where Prowl stands. “Which, considering Blaster’s title of second place bestie—soon to be first, if you don’t stop poking me—makes me think he’s plotting something. Something big.”

“Ah.”

It’s quiet then, both of them just staring as Prowl eventually leaves the rec. room, wings a little higher than normal. In unison, their heads turn to follow him out, mouths pressed into lines.

Watching Blaster soon leave as well, Smokescreen drums a finger against Jazz’s arm, humming. “You gonna do anything about it? You want to do anything about it?”

“That’d be mean though, right? He’s obviously trying so hard…”

Suddenly serious, Smokescreen sits bolt upright, grasping Jazz’s arm a little too firmly. Urgently. “Jazz. Jazz, Jazzy, Jazz-meister. You don’t have to reciprocate or do anything if you don’t want to. I know I teased you a lot-“

“What? No.” Jazz wriggles out of his friend’s hold, raising an optic ridge. “I’m not- ah, slag. That’s not what I meant, Smokes. I just meant I don’t wanna rush him by letting him I’ve caught on or anything. It’d spoil his fun, right?”

Smokescreen studies his face some more, likely trying to parse through his words and link them back to his body language. When he’s satisfied, he smiles, leaning out of Jazz’s space once more. He taps all fingers against both knees obnoxiously. “Well, you might be right about that. He might curl in on himself and die if he feels like he’s made a fool of himself.”

And then, he’s wearing that professional, clinical look. He looks over to Jazz out of the corner of his peripheral view. As much as he is Jazz’s friend, he’s also the glue holding this base together, and—in his own way—Prowl’s friend as well. “I know it’s been a long, long time, but he isn’t used to — sincerity, I guess. He’s a little slow when it comes to processing emotions and putting them in the right little boxes he’s made up. Sentinel… had a lot of fragged up ideals, you know. Didn’t approve of being so affectionate with others and other junk.”

The tapping continues.

“Now, imagine living a life of seclusion, hidden away and made to perform only one task and having no other opportunities. The only person that pays you attention is someone who treats you like slag, though not as harshly as you know other people are capable of being. It makes you lacking in social skills, harsh and cold because you were programmed to be as such and nobody has given you anything more than diplomatic pleasantries. Suddenly, that’s gone and you’re surrounded by new, unpredictable people. They care about and appreciate you, but you were convinced such things weren’t yours to have. It goes on for years and years, and while it gets a little easier to believe, you’re still stuck being standoffish and a little alienated. How would you react if someone told you outright ‘I like you’ before you get to do it yourself?”

Jazz is silent for a long, long time. He thinks about it — really, truly thinks about it, hands clasped together, elbows pressing down into the armor of his knees.

Eventually, “I wouldn’t believe it. I’d think it’s some kind of joke to get a reaction out of me.” And Prowl is a very, very logical mech in all areas, except for feelings. There, he’s illogical as can be, as emotional as the best of them.

The Praxian clasps his shoulder. “Good.” Approval dyes his words in bright hues, a small smile on his face as he stands up with a groan, twisting. “Definitely sat there too long,” he grumbles under his breath, wincing as he rubs at his back.

It makes Jazz laugh, which might’ve been what Smokey was really aiming for all along.

He’s turning to leave when Jazz makes a grab for his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it to a degree words can’t convey. “And don’t worry.”

“Who said anything about being worried?” Smokescreen retorts, so gooey and fond.

Jazz has been avoiding the rec. room tonight, every revolution of his spark loud in his head. He can’t remember ever being this nervous before, practically giving himself a spark attack with the way he’s both giddy and filled to the brim with anxiety.

He can hear the sounds of the party going on even in his room, loud and positively thunderous, making the ground shake a little, depending on where you are. It’s exactly the scene of life he’s always loved, feeling at one with the beat and energy. It makes him remember days of a little town of nowhere, one small mech clinging to a pillar hidden in shadows as they watched a live performance. They were never meant to be there, having snuck in.

Every bit of it was worth it though, the music resonating and positively singing in his spark. It was heavenly bliss, enough for him to get lost in it, forgetting his place.

He expected the musicians to be upset at having discovered a little stowaway taking up their time. Instead, they had been delighted with how enthusiastic he had been about their music, jumping up and down.

It was the entire group that had given him a new designation then and there, taking him along and raising Jazz as their own.

The rec. room practically beckons out to him, but — he’s unable to stay still, so sickeningly worried. What if he’s wrong? What if he’s right?

Prowl was special to him — that much became so blindingly clear the moment he discovered the Praxian’s crush on him. It only made sense for him to be bothered when he thought the mech seemingly hated him — he wanted his attention! He just. Hadn’t realized that at the time. But now it’s so painfully there, squeezing his chest and pressing down until it hurts.

Lovesick — that’s what Smokescreen had called it. Kinda embarrassing, considering Jazz’s age. He’s much too old to be acting like a youngling having their first crush, writing away in this datapad and swinging their peds.

But here he is, virtually doing that very thing.

In, out. Round and round the air goes, flustered hands constantly in motion, checking all over himself for any unseen imperfection.

He wants this to be perfect. He wants-

Prowl. Wants to hold him and kiss him — eventually. He doubts the Praxian’s the type to move so fast, but hey, he’s surprised Jazz before.

All Jazz has to do is go out there and see. He’ll never know if he stays in here all night. Would Prowl be crushed if he did? He would, wouldn’t he. All assuming Jazz’s suspicions are right, of course, and Prowl really is planning something tonight. Primus. Jazz could be so very, very wrong. Prowl didn’t go to parties, what has him so convinced tonight will be any different?

But it’s also Jazz’s party and, well. He’s sorta obligated to show up no matter what.

Right.

Steeling himself, Jazz makes the oh so very scary decision of finally leaving his room, gradually approaching the ruckus of music, streamers, and a little bit of high-grade. Just a little.

The whole room is dyed red, many mechs dancing and laughing, loud, loud, loud. Too loud and totally not Prowl’s scene, Jazz really should just — he’s already said hello to like, five different people, surely — half of them were drunk off their afts already, they wouldn’t even notice-

Where is Prowl??

Jazz doesn’t even notice he lifted himself up to the tips of his peds until he’s lowering himself to the floor in disappointment when he’s unable to spot the mech he’s been both hoping and dreading seeing.

A shame, really, because Jazz really thinks he’s outdone himself this year with the amount of heart decorations and streamers. It’s practically a whole store’s worth of things.

Yeah. That’s the only reason he feels sad right now. The only reason at all.

He tries, he really does. He smiles, he waves, he even dances a bit. Does the things expected of him, acting like nothing’s wrong, nothing at all.

It doesn’t last, not completely. He doesn’t think anyone notices or questions his sudden departure, halfway out the door without anyone stopping him. But he does — stop, that is.

Down the hall, he hears it: a song he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

Following the distant sound of music, Jazz finds himself in a more secluded section of the Ark, away from prying eyes. It’s not a very spacious room, but nor is it crowded like the rec. room. It’s quiet, save for the red boombox perched up on a small ledge.

“Blaster…? What’s going on?”

Blaster, predictably, doesn’t answer.

“I asked him to, considering he’s the only one with records of this song.”

Jazz whirls around and — there — there’s Prowl. Smiling that smile that he’s so fickle about sharing, saying it makes him look untrustworthy. Which was really just a fancy way of saying he didn’t like it, which always made Jazz sad because — it’s cute. Ridiculously so, the way it’s lopsided and shows a little teeth.

“Hey,” Jazz says.

“Hey,” Prowl echoes.

“What’s,” Jazz gestures to the small bit of heart streamers he’s only now noticed, “all of this?”

“What does it look like?” Prowl says, flashing more teeth as he playfully pokes Jazz’s arm. “Surely you of all mechs recognize a party?”

“I- I do, but-“

Oh, Primus. He really hopes he still looks put together right now.

“It’s my song,” he says, voice nothing more than a choked up whisper packed full of love and shock. “It’s the song my mentors played and re-named after me. I didn’t- I’ve never played this song for anyone before. How did you…?”

“Rewind,” Prowl answers, holding out one of his hands. And Jazz — he takes it. It doesn’t even occur to him why until they’re dancing. Not a formal dance or anything like that — it’s Polyhexian to its core. “He’s got a recording of practically everything, you know. Even of your mentors��� older performances.”

“And the — and the dancing?” Jazz asks, grinning like mad as Prowl leads him through the motions of a song and dance he knows by spark. He thinks he should be more shocked by this entire affair, maybe stuttering and disbelieving. But he knew Prowl a little better than that — knew his subtle cues and spark better than most.

Everything about this was so very Prowl; down to the way it’s a moment between them, and them alone. Minus Blaster, but ah well. Blaster was always good at keeping a secret.

“Blaster. I — apologize if it isn’t any good. I’ve never done anything more than the formal dances expected at political events.” And the thing was, it — well, it was awkward, the movements stilted and a little clumsy. Less than Jazz would have expected from Prowl, convincing him that it’s more about the dance itself than the action as a whole.

Funny, how Jazz wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s perfect. Just — perfect. You’re perfect.”

That makes Prowl — stop. Stop like Jazz had always interpreted as being a sign of discomfort.

His eyes go wide, mouth forming a little ‘o’. He ducks his head, trying to hide it in the crook of his neck.

“Aw, c’mon, none of that,” Jazz teases, putting his hands on either side of the Praxian’s face, turning him back forward. “I wanna look at’cha. I don’t get to do it this close, this often. I like looking at such a handsome face.”

“I’m assuming you knew, then?” Embarrassment twinges in Prowl’s field, twined with mortification and a bit of loathing. All making Jazz’s smile turn a little sympathetic, but above all else: full of love, love, love. Adoration for this shy weirdo of a mech he’s come to know and appreciation.

“Took me a bit,” he admits. “But once I caught on — oh boo, all subtly was off the table. You’re so transparent, but that’s something I love about ya.”

Prowl’s eyes are zeroed in on Jazz’s hands, sliding his own up until he’s clasping them. He rubs small, little circles into the palms, voice a little husky and shaky as he says, “Can I take this as a yes, then?”

“Yeah, Prowler,” Jazz whispers, voice equally shaky now, leaning his helm to rest against the tactician’s. “You can.”

[xoxorealitygalore]

Trust and Believe IX

summary: Keyshia and Joe had a seemingly perfect life together after marrying in 2010. However, as their careers grew, so did the strain on their relationship. When Joe cheats on Keyshia. The emotional fallout from the incident leaves their relationship hanging in the balance, with Keyshia questioning if they could ever recover from the betrayal.

Joe sat in his living room, the dim light from the television flickering across his tired face. His fingers drummed anxiously against the armrest, the rhythmic tapping a manifestation of the unease gnawing at him.

His cousins Jonathan, Jacob, and Joshua sat in a semi-circle around him, their faces tight with concern, mirroring the same worry Joe felt deep in the pit of his stomach. The air was thick with tension, and the room felt smaller, the silence between them unbearable.

“Uce, you still haven’t heard from her?” Jonathan’s voice cut through the stillness, soft but sharp, as if it were the question on everyone’s mind.

Joe’s gaze remained unfocused, his eyes staring blankly ahead. He didn’t have the answer. He wasn’t sure he ever would. His mind replayed the disastrous events of the past few days, the awkwardness, the anger, the silence, and all of it led to one conclusion: Keyshia was gone.

He shook his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. The weight of it all seemed to press down on him with every passing second. He couldn’t remember a time when he had felt so helpless, so utterly lost. The woman he loved, the woman he had hurt so deeply, had disappeared without a trace. And now, here he was, surrounded by his family, unable to offer anything but a sense of hopelessness.

Jonathan’s question hung in the air, unanswered. It was a question Joe didn’t have the heart to respond to directly. He’d tried everything. Calling, texting, pleading. Nothing worked. In the aftermath of the disastrous night, the night they ran into Tyson, Keyshia’s ex-boyfriend, the world had come crashing down around him.

It had been a failed date night, a fragile attempt at salvaging something after everything they’d been through. Joe had hoped it would be a simple, fun evening, a momentary escape from the strain that had settled between them. But then they saw Tyson, sitting across the room at the same restaurant, on a date with the woman that Joe had cheated on Keyshia with. The sight of them together, laughing and sharing an intimate moment, had been the last straw for Keyshia. The pain, the betrayal, the memories, all of it hit her like a tidal wave.

She had fled the scene before Joe could even process what was happening. In a daze, he paid their tab and rushed after her, hoping to catch her before she left. At first, he thought she had caught an Uber home. It seemed like the logical explanation at the time. But when he got home, Keyshia was nowhere to be found. Her things were still in their room, her side of the bed empty.

He had waited up that night, hoping against hope that she would return, that things would somehow right themselves. But when morning came and she still wasn’t there, the reality of the situation settled in. She had disappeared, and Joe was left to pick up the pieces of his shattered marriage.

For three days, Joe had been unable to reach her. His calls went unanswered, his texts went unread. He even sent her a message in desperation: “U can block me all u want doesn’t mean I’m letting u go.”

But Keyshia had blocked him just as she had done with everyone else. The silence from her side was deafening, and with each passing day, Joe's fear grew deeper. What if something had happened to her? What if she was in danger? He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in pain, that the weight of everything had caused her to retreat into herself, to hide away from it all.

"I’ve been texting and calling everyone trying to figure out where she is, but no one is saying anything," Joe confessed to his cousins, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and worry. "I think she had a nervous breakdown and went into hiding."

There was a long pause before Joshua spoke up, his voice quiet but probing. “Have the kids said anything about her contacting them?”

Joe sighed deeply, a heavy, defeated sound. He rubbed his temples, his mind spinning. His thoughts were consumed by Keyshia’s absence, by the guilt of knowing that he had pushed her to the edge. “The older kids are keeping their lips sealed,” he replied, his voice thick with the weight of truth.

He knew his daughters, Josie and Kayleigh, understood the gravity of the situation. Josie, seventeen, was old enough to grasp the complexities of relationships, to know when things weren’t right. Kayleigh, ten, though younger, had always been sensitive, always attuned to the emotions of those around her. They had seen the pain in their mother’s eyes long before the disastrous encounter with Tyson, and it was clear which side they had chosen. Keyshia hadn’t asked them to take sides, but it was natural for daughters to stick up for their mother. Joe had always known that.

His younger kids were too young to understand what was happening. They hadn’t mentioned anything about Keyshia, and Joe hadn’t expected them to. They were still innocent, untouched by the complexities of the adult world.

“What are you going to do?” Jacob asked after a long silence, his voice softer now, laced with concern for his cousin.

Joe ran his hands down his face, frustration and helplessness mingling in his expression. “I’m trying,” he murmured. His words held a layer of desperation, of yearning for things to be different. “I want her home. I want my marriage and my family. But I won’t sacrifice Keyshia’s mental health for it. If she needs to be away from me at the moment, then I’ll let her be for now.”

His words, though sincere, felt like a hollow promise. How could he just let her go? How could he stand by and watch her slip away when all he wanted was to make things right?

Meanwhile, miles away, Keyshia sat in a dimly lit hotel room, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. The bed was unmade, a single suitcase sitting by the foot, half-packed with the few belongings she had taken when she left. She didn’t know where else to go, and the hotel room felt like a temporary escape, an unfamiliar space where she could think, breathe, and let the weight of the past few days settle before making any decisions. Her phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with dozens of missed calls and text messages, mostly from Joe.

She had blocked him, a decision made in desperation. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. Keyshia just needed space, and time to sort through the wreckage of her life, to process the betrayal, the pain, and the exhaustion that had been building for so long.

Joe’s persistence had become suffocating. The constant barrage of messages only served to remind her of the pressure she felt to fix things, to make it all better. But how could she? How could she fix a marriage when the foundation had cracked so deeply? How could she trust again after the betrayal that had cut her to the core?

It wasn’t just Tyson or even Joe’s affair. It was the years of unmet needs, the subtle erosion of their connection, and the slow unraveling of trust that had been wearing her down for far too long. Joe had pushed her to the brink, and now she was standing on the edge, unsure of which way to go.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed again. She rolled over, her body aching with fatigue, and reached for the device. She glanced at the screen, seeing her mother’s name flash across it.

With a deep breath, Keyshia swiped to answer, her finger trembling slightly.

“Keyshia, baby, where are you? What’s going on? Joe’s been calling me nonstop. Everyone’s worried about you.”

Her mother’s voice was a soothing balm, but it only made Keyshia feel more exposed, more fragile. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to explain herself, but she knew her mother wouldn’t stop until she heard something.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Keyshia replied, her voice raw and tight with emotion. “I just need some time. I need to be alone right now.”

Her mother, ever the concerned parent, didn’t accept this easily. “Alone? Keyshia, you don’t need to be alone. You need to talk to someone. You can’t run away from this.”

Keyshia’s hand tightened around the phone. She didn’t want to argue, but her emotions were too much to keep in check. “I’m not running, Mom. I just need space to think. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I need to figure out what’s next for me.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Her mother wasn’t sure how to respond, but Keyshia could hear the concern in her voice. “I just want you to be happy, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I’ll be okay, Mom,” Keyshia whispered, the words feeling both true and hollow at the same time. “I just need time to breathe.”

She ended the call, her phone lying heavy in her hand. The silence of the room enveloped her once again, and for the first time in days, she felt a fragile sense of peace. There was still so much to figure out, but for now, the only thing that mattered was taking care of herself. The rest could wait.

[itsnesss]

I don't know if you take requests, but since I like your writing language very much, I would love you to write something like this. It seems like something like the reader saying she wants to get pregnant while making love after noticing Hwan Jun Ho's interest in children would be nice.

𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | hwang jun-ho × fem!reader

summary | the request

warnings | intimacy (implicit/not overly graphic), emotional vulnerability, discussions of parenthood

word count | 1.5 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

Moonlight filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the dimly lit room. Outside, the city continues its course, indifferent, but here, within these four walls, everything feels different. There are no rushes, no worries. It’s just the two of you, trapped in a moment that seems suspended in time.

You feel the weight of his body over yours, his warmth surrounding you, the brush of his skin against yours in a slow, deliberate dance. Every touch, every kiss, every shared breath carries the weight of everything you’ve built together. It’s not just desire, not just need—it’s something deeper, something more meaningful. Something that goes beyond the fleeting passion of a single night.

Your fingers trace down his back, following the contours of his muscles with a light, almost reverent touch. You know that Junho isn’t a man who allows himself to be vulnerable easily, but here, with you, he lets all his walls down. The way he holds you, how he brushes his nose against yours before kissing you again, how he intertwines his fingers with yours as he moves above you—it tells you more than any words ever could.

And then, like a whisper among your thoughts, like a truth that has been waiting to be spoken, the words slip from your lips before you can stop them.

"I want to have a child with you."

Junho tenses slightly but doesn’t stop. His gaze meets yours in the dim light, and in his eyes, there’s more than just surprise. There’s curiosity, tenderness… something you can’t quite decipher.

"Really?" His voice is low, almost a murmur against your skin, as if he doesn’t want to break the atmosphere surrounding you.

You take a breath, feeling your chest rise against his. There’s no doubt in you. It’s something you’ve been feeling for a long time, but only now have you found the words to express it.

"Yes," you answer firmly. "I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve seen you with children… how you look at them, how you care about them without even realizing it."

He blinks, surprised, but says nothing. You know he’s listening, that he’s processing what you’ve just said.

"When you see a child on the street, you always pause a second longer than necessary," you continue. "When we’re at the park, your attention always drifts toward them. And when you talk about your brother…"

You hesitate because you know mentioning his brother touches a sensitive part of him. But it’s part of what makes him who he is. Part of what has led you to realize what you truly want.

"I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about it," you add softly. "But if you ever wanted to… if you ever desired it, I’d want it to be with you."

Junho exhales, closing his eyes for a moment before resting his forehead against yours. His breath is warm, unsteady, and his hands tighten around your waist.

"I wasn’t expecting to hear something like that tonight," he admits with a low chuckle—not one of mockery, but of disbelief. As if he finds it hard to believe this is real.

"I didn’t plan it," you respond, smiling too. "I just… felt it."

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. His fingers trace slow circles on your skin, as if memorizing every detail of you. Then, without saying anything else, he kisses you. It’s a different kiss than before: deeper, more meaningful, more devoted.

And in that kiss, you find your answer.

Time seems to dissolve as you remain wrapped in each other’s warmth. Junho never stops touching you, holding you with the same delicacy one would hold something fragile, precious. Every movement of his carries a new purpose, as if your words have shifted something inside him. As if something has settled in his heart.

His face is partially hidden in the curve of your neck when he murmurs, his voice husky, "I never thought of myself as a father."

You slide your hands into his hair, running your fingers through his dark strands with tenderness.

"And now?"

He sighs, his lips brushing against your collarbone before lifting his gaze to meet yours.

"I don’t know," he admits. "But if it ever happens… I can’t imagine anyone but you."

Your heart pounds at his words. It’s not an absolute statement, not an immediate promise, but you understand. Junho isn’t someone who rushes into things. He needs time to process, to internalize. But the fact that he hasn’t rejected the idea, that he’s considering it, means more than you can express in this moment.

"That’s enough for me," you whisper.

He gives a small, lopsided smile, and with one last kiss to your forehead, he lets your bodies find that shared rhythm again, allowing the moment to envelop you completely.

Later, when sleep begins to claim you and Junho still holds you in his embrace, you break the silence once more.

"If we had a child… what name would you like to give them?"

You feel his chest shake with a low, drowsy chuckle.

"Are we already picking names?"

"I’m just curious."

He stays quiet for a moment, absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm.

"If it’s a girl… I’d like her to have a strong name. Something that makes her stand out."

"And if it’s a boy?"

Junho falls silent, and for a moment, you think he has fallen asleep. But then, his voice comes in a whisper, as if he’s testing the sound of the idea in his own mind.

"Maybe something in honor of my brother."

Your chest tightens with a mix of emotion and tenderness. You don’t push him to say more—you don’t want to force him to keep talking if he doesn’t want to. Instead, you snuggle closer against him, letting the warmth of his body envelop you.

And as sleep finally pulls you under, a soft smile graces your lips. Because even though the future is still uncertain, even though Junho needs time to process everything you talked about tonight, there is one thing you know with absolute certainty:

If that moment ever comes… he would be an incredible father.

And there’s no one else in the world you’d rather share that future with.

[kazusrightmole]

BACK AGAIN

small note: a small and old drabble to upload before my exams tom lol (also an offering to the dr stone fandom as a celebration for the season 4 of dr stone,, also a bit of a canon divergence here and takes place way before taiju was first revived by senku lmfao) and uhh no dialogues from reader here as this was set in senku's pov

SENKU ISHIGAMI was someone who wasn’t too fond of romance or anything related to it in general, which was why he’d rather spend the rest of his life dedicating to the love of his life—Science.

That, he made it pretty well-known among his fellow peers and the loved ones involved in his life. The blunt male just guessed that the reason behind was simply because he wasn’t all up for the hype of something so complicated. Obviously, Science was supposed to be a concept filled with natural complexities dedicating to everything within and in life itself, but with thorough and careful research, even the most complicated processes of certain materials and life forms could easily be answered if anyone had just taken the time to do simple research or whatever.

Unlike everything else about romance itself. If you liked this person so much, why can’t you just get on and be done with it already? Does it really matter whether you’d get rejected or not? Because frankly, after begrudgingly watching a few romcom films (thanks to Yuzuriha’s and Taiju’s conjoined yet stubborn efforts), most of them could’ve been easily solved if they had just stopped distancing themselves from each other and just communicate everything they’ve been feeling towards the other.

It’s as simple as that, isn’t it? he let out a snicker as he recalled those memories, his movements unnoticeably shaky yet still somehow maintaining relentlessly. Even as his throat silently begged be to quenched of its thirst and his frame on the verge of being roasted under the sun’s harsh light—Senku Ishigami, unsurprisingly, couldn’t find it in himself to stop whatever he was doing even if it was for a quick break.

His calloused hand then popped another one of his, hopefully now working fluid he randomly found in some cave—seeing as the previous fluid he just poured over the stone obviously didn't work.

At this rate, he might just start believing in god and lady luck themselves if the stone ever cracked.

Just a little more—can’t let them down now.

Which was exactly why tinkering, experimenting, and discovering new stuff using certain things along with newfound materials, was something he’d been mostly looking forward to do as soon as he got up from bed. While others may find his interest with science a bit too excessive, Senku Ishigami could really care less.

Honestly, the blunt male would rather have his head filled with thoughts of all possibilities of creating something beneficial for all of humanity. A bit of an ambitious dream, but with senku’s intelligence and insane dedication combined? Yeah, no, at this point, nothing was ever going to phase him one bit.

Or at least he thought so.

For some reason, the universe and above had somehow collectively thought to prove the smart teenager otherwise. And what other way could it be if not turning all of humanity into stone by some sort of weird green light?

Yeah, honestly, Senku would’ve been shocked at most if he hadn’t been already turned to stone as soon as the light hit his skin. Too bad he already turned into a living concrete before he could even get the chance to process whatever the hell’s going on.

Thankfully enough, he still managed to maintain his consciousness long enough by counting down every seconds, minutes, months, and heck, even years.

“How annoying,” he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes before chuckling and wiping away the sweat that trickled down his temple. A seemingly malicious yet tired grin plastered across his face as he opened his eyes and leaned back once more, a pair of crimson hues glinting in delight at the sight of the stone gradually cracking below him. The small sound of rumbling echoed as multiple lines emerged, smoothly working together across the surface to unveil whatever laid beneath, while an alluring white glow shone from behind the slowly cracking stone—thanks to the recently successful fluid Senku had just poured over today's subject.

The teenage boy, however, just didn’t expect his consciousness would last up to 3,700 years later—but he guessed it should be something more considered as a relief more than anything. Especially since humanity, having been turned to stone, must’ve had their bodies’ aging processes halted, at least until they miraculously broke free from the hard confines encasing them.

Whatever the case—Senku Ishigami was just glad to have you back once more.

“Heh, took you long enough to wake up, huh? While you were busy taking the world's longest nap, I was out here doing all the heavy lifting to bust you out of that stone, you cotton brain.”

TAG LIST; EMPTY SLOT

— MASTERLIST

[haonqq]

Might have to fistfight this mechanic shop, we shall see

[critai]

4321

[cream-and-tea]

oh pallas and agnes power dynamic you really are SO unbelievably fucked,,,,,

[buckshotanon]

This is a simple question with a complicated answer. There are a few factors we currently have no way of knowing that will determine what this scenario would look like, namely how much time passed between the extermination and the beginning of season 2. For that reason and just based on not yet knowing what will happen, I might go over this again once season 2 releases.

But even without that information, the big thing to figure out would be what finding him "in time" means. As I mentioned before, a non-penetrating TBI like the one he faced (getting hit on the back of the head, causing additional damage to the front of the brain as it strikes the inside of the skull) would kill in about 8-24 hours depending on severity, but other complications and longterm damage would occur in a shorter period.

Technically, it can take considerably longer like days or weeks for complications with a head injury to reveal themselves, but the force Alastor hit the wall with, and how his head made contact with that wall, added to everything else he had going on is where the acute time frame comes from, instead of subacute which would have given the longer range. The time frame for debilitating complications could also be significantly shorter, only a matter of minutes. But if it were that bad, he wouldn't have gotten up from Adam's blow, or if he did, would have been on the brink of death before the battle ended, let alone however long it took to find him.

So what defines "in time" would be between simply preventing death, or preventing anything hard to recover from. It is possible for people to recover remarkably well from even severe TBIs, but the chances are directly correlated with how long it takes for that person to receive medical attention. It is possible in any case, as long as the person is still breathing there is a chance, but probable is another matter entirely.

The ideal would be for Alastor to be found immediately before the worst of the symptoms could reveal themselves, but the one most likely to accomplish that would be his soul owner, and even then it could take some time to locate and reach him depending on where he was.

Given his circumstances and adrenaline, Alastor's symptoms have the highest chance of manifesting somewhere between 30 minutes and 2 hours, and once they did, they would worsen fast. There is wiggle room, it could happen much faster or slower, but adrenaline can do this funny thing where it won't tell you about dire problems until the adrenaline fades, and Alastor's adrenaline would be extremely active. Even if his symptoms were on the faster end, it may take him some time to process there is something wrong.

With this in mind, for the best chance of longterm recovery, the hotel would need to start looking, if not immediately, within a couple hours. If all that matters is him being alive, the max would be about 12-20 hours. He could be dead by that point if the injury was on the very severe side (in which case the max would be around 5-6 hours), but that would be a general maximum for what would constitute "in time."

Alastor ended up in the radio tower, and with the aid of adrenaline, he should be able to make it there from wherever he first was. Not gracefully, I've only talked about the head injury thus far but for full realistic injuries, the rest of his torso is some combination of broken, bruised, ruptured, sprained, or strained, which would cause even a non-damaged brain to be not in the best state. That alone would make my personal max for starting the search 12 hours, but humanoids are weirdly durable sometimes, so it wouldn't be strange for Alastor's max on his own to be longer. Him making it to the fallen radio tower means he wasn't too far from the rest of the hotel, so once the search began, it shouldn't take more than an hour or so to actually find him. It could take longer, easily, but if they started in the surrounding area it shouldn't take too long.

That's the set up out of the way. From here, there are a few different ways this could go, entirely depending on the severity of the brain bleed and how long it took to be found.

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

ASAP: The ideal scenario, Alastor was found somewhere between immediately and within an hour or two. Even if the symptoms have manifested, unless the head injury was extremely severe, he has a higher chance of still being conscious. He may be disoriented and suffer a headache, and could experience post-traumatic amnesia as many who suffer a TBI do, but that would be temporary, and his chances of longterm recovery with proper medical care would be greatly increased.

Even if his symptoms haven't manifested, one of the most obvious signs would be one or both eyes being visibly dilated when they shouldn't be. The moment after being struck by Adam when his eyes were different, one black and one red, could be made into a stylistic way of conveying that, but a difference in pupils alone would be more realistic. One or both ears may begin to droop as well. Both of these signs would become more apparent the more time has gone on.

Moderate Time: Alastor was found within 4-10 hours. The chances of finding him conscious have notably decreased. If he is conscious, he will be experiencing clear symptoms, and is almost guaranteed to be in a state of post-traumatic amnesia. How that manifests would be a state of extreme confusion, struggle to remember things (not full-blown amnesia, but would not be able to answer menial things like conversations he had or what he ate that day), not recognizing people, and could become either very aggressive or unusually docile—it could go either way, but given Alastor's emotional state he would not be able to control, he has a higher chance of aggression. He may experience photophobia, dizziness, nausea and vomiting, and have lost a considerable amount of his vision. Depending on severity, he would struggle to speak or understand speech, and if he still had that ability, his words would come out slurred.

Something that would be apparent around this point is Alastor may struggle or be unable to regulate his body temperature. He could be either too hot or too cold, depending on external factors like weather and how his other injuries impact his circulation.

In the event he still has enough control of his extremities (unlikely considering everything with his torso, as well as numbness and loss of coordination, but it is possible) he may try to wander, which could make finding him more difficult. An argument could be made of him going to the radio tower while in a wandering state, searching for somewhere familiar because of the confusion.

If found unconscious, his chances of survival would be reduced, but he would by that point not be in a coma, though he could fall into one rather easily. If given medical intervention fast enough, he should be saved before too much damage is done, and if he did fall into a coma, his estimate to wake up would be sooner rather than later. But he will have a rockier longterm recovery than if he was found earlier; there could be permanent effects or ones that take longer to recover from.

If found conscious, that greatly improves his chances of a smoother recovery, and the goal would be to keep him conscious for as long as possible until getting the proper help. This may be difficult to do, and will become more so the more time has passed. If he does lose consciousness, the goal becomes waking him up again.

Be careful if the method of choice is rubbing a knuckle against his sternum. That can be risky with Alastor's situation, and should not be done at all if his ribs are broken.

Maximum Time: Alastor was found at the maximum duration for this specific brain bleed that is still survivable. He will not be conscious—he will more than likely be in a coma or on the brink of one, and will have experienced seizures.

The goal would be to wake him up if possible, but that would be doubtful. He would need immediate emergency surgery, with the chances of success being reduced but still possible. Something to take note of in any of these outcomes but specifically this one is he may score lower on the GCS (Glasgow Coma Scale) than is actually true, on account of his other injuries making it difficult to get a reliable score. Testing his motor responses doesn't work when there is damage to the muscles and bones that are important to those responses.

Where he would score on the GCS isn't guaranteed, and even if it was, that test isn't an end-all-be-all especially for reasons mentioned above, but a rule of thumb would be somewhere between 3-8. How long he would remain comatose and the ramifications of that would depend on his starting point.

If by some miracle he was able to be woken up, it would be only in technicality. He would not be coherent or responding to people around him beyond reacting to stimuli.

Making a full or significant recovery is possible especially with the proper care, but a poor neurological outcome would be the standard to prepare for.

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

Which of these do I think is most likely? If his soul owner is allowed to intervene, somewhere between ASAP and moderate. If it's the hotel, somewhere between moderate and max. That's not me making any commentary on the characters, but based on the circumstances and everything going on, his soul owner would have an objective edge the hotel would not have unless Alastor had enough of his sense about him to send an SOS to Husk or Niffty. Asking someone with serious head trauma and disorientation to have enough sense to do that is a tall order, and even if he did, it may be too late to do so successfully by that point. Hence moderate or max.

Timeline, Treatment, and Other Complications

Obviously, how this would impact Alastor's involvement in season 2 depends on the question proposed earlier: how much time was there between the extermination and the beginning of season 2? All signs from the finale song and the scenes after point to the idea season 2 will take place immediately if not extremely soon after the end of season 1, at most the same period between the pilot and the series proper of about a week. That means the real question to ask is how long was between the extermination and the end of the finale song.

The average time from research to build a large hotel is about 2.5-3 years, though the fastest record time was allegedly 15 days based on foundation built ahead of time and some other factors that still left the end product of questionable safety but technically done. From what we see of the hotel's construction involving no shipment wait times and the use of magic, a guess of the Hazbin Hotel taking 2.5-3 weeks feels more reasonable. However, that estimate has a caveat in this scenario that may cause things to move slower, because having someone in the hospital tends to reduce morale and energy, even if only by a little. With construction, the opposite happening of manic energy and determination to get things done would lead to concerns of the building being structurally sound, so that speed would cancel itself out.

Based on that estimate, Alastor would have 25-28 days, a little under a month, from point of injury until the expectation to do things during season 2.

That's not going to happen.

Anyone who has had a concussion can probably attribute to what a bastard they can be to shake. While most concussions do resolve themselves for the most part in a week or two, with an average of roughly 10 days, even milder concussions can linger for months. The TBI Alastor is facing is a bit more than a mild-moderate concussion.

Some brain hemorrhages don't require surgery. Alastor may be able to escape that if he was found ASAP, but it's more probable that even in the best circumstance, he would need at least decompression, drilling a hole in the skull to drain blood and relieve pressure in the brain. What is much more likely, especially in the worse cases, is a piece of his skull would be removed and replaced, to relieve the pressure and manage the source of the bleeding. Congratulations, Alastor, whatever is going on with the back of your hair might spare you some of the impromptu haircut that will result from this.

How long recovery from this would take depends on if the piece of skull can be replaced at this time or would need to be done as a follow-up surgery. In the case of emergencies where there wasn't scheduling ahead of time or if the swelling in Alastor's brain was a serious concern beyond draining the blood, it's more common this would need to be a second procedure and the patient would wear a helmet in the interim, but it can be done at once, which would make the surgery a craniotomy instead of a craniectomy + cranioplasty.

Given the options for who would be bringing him in, there would be a much higher incentive to do the procedure all at once. Royalty being involved would magically make this procedure more convenient for everyone, because that is the world we live in. Obviously, this would change if Alastor needed time to reduce the swelling in his brain and would die without that time, but if the swelling could be managed in other ways, a craniotomy would be the goal. If the removed piece of skull was too damaged to be placed back in, a metal plate would be used instead. There are other synthetic materials that could be used, but doubtfully on that short of notice.

So, Alastor is once again down some skull. Between this and the chances of vision loss, he can expect some feelings of déjà vu. Not that he would be conscious for that déjà vu for a while. The procedure itself would take somewhere between 3-5 hours, but could run longer when accounting for everything else going on in his torso that could make him harder to stabilize. Even if none of his other injuries were serious enough to require surgery, his slash wound from Adam would need to be treated at some point, and that would add more time, up to around an hour.

Tests would be done to make sure no broken bones were about to puncture organs and none of those organs had ruptured. If they had, surgery would be significantly more intensive, and how long it would take depends on the organ. It should be mentioned if there was serious damage to his organs, that would drastically reduce the time to find him before he succumbs, I wouldn't go beyond 3-5 hours at most. If it was a ruptured heart or pneumothorax, he would be done for or at least in grave danger before ASAP could find him. But the ask was about the head injury, so I won't go into this quite as much.

All of this is important when accounting for how long Alastor would be looking at for recovery. Typically with a craniotomy, what would follow after leaving the operating room is a transfer to the ICU to be monitored for roughly 24 hours, and he would stay in the hospital an additional week.

However, what complicates this would be the event Alastor did fall comatose, which would mean a prolonged state of unconsciousness, that requires more dedicated care and a longer stay in the ICU to support his spinal cord, breathing, organ function, and circulation until he has woken up. For that reason, the aftermath of this surgery would likely be exclusively in the ICU, and he would stay there anywhere from a few days to a few weeks depending on the severity of his condition.

There could be an argument made to transfer him somewhere else for personal safety reasons, but that would not be a discussion for at least the first 24 hours, or until he was stabilized enough to be out of immediate danger. After that point, it still wouldn't be preferred, but provided the place he was being transferred to had the necessary equipment and there could be a team to monitor him, it can be done.

From the head injury alone even if a coma was factored in, stabilizing could be done in 24-48 hours. As he was monitored, professionals could more reliably determine what else is going on, and if either the angelic nature of the wound or any contaminants got into his bloodstream that could cause infection and sepsis. Both concern and likelihood of infection and blood poisoning would increase in direct relation with how long it took for him to be found. This wouldn't be as much of a concern if he was found within a couple hours, whereas if it took closer to a day, it would be wise to prepare in advance for an infection to reveal itself.

How long an infection or sepsis would take to treat and recover from depends on its severity. Given in any scenario, Alastor would need to be found in less than a day, neither of these would have time to set in with too much severity, so his recovery from that would be more in line with somewhere between a few days and 2 weeks.

If he was going to stay in the hospital for acute recovery, he would be there for a minimum of 8 days, but provided he did fall into a coma, he would remain for the duration of that coma. If he were going to be transferred somewhere, that would become a discussion within 24-48 hours only if measures can be taken to ensure he is still cared for and won't die the second he leaves immediate care. However, if he were going to be transferred, it would not be to the hotel, unless it could somehow be guaranteed the room he was staying in would in no way be impacted by what is going on around it. I don't think I need to explain why a patient of questionable consciousness recovering from a skull surgery in a construction zone is a bad idea. Once the hotel was rebuilt, he could be brought there, but not while it was an active construction zone.

Alastor's head would need to be elevated while on bedrest, so most likely he would be in a semi-sitting position similar to what a recliner would provide, instead of being laid down flat. There are certain beds and pillows to make that possible, and that is one of many things that should he be transferred outside of the hospital, the people taking him would need to be aware of.

Something else that would be taken note of is the state of Alastor's spine after making contact with the wall. Any injuries to the spine are a bit different and need to be brought up, because unlike anything else going on in his torso, this directly relates to what is going on in his brain and how his recovery would be handled going forward. To put it bluntly, the human back is a design travesty and there is almost a guarantee of some type of issue that no amount of ability to twist and crack his neck would save him from.

What do I mean by that? Alastor's spinal cord itself didn't seem to be all too damaged, and if his ribs and muscles took the brunt of that damage, he wouldn't necessarily be paralyzed. He certainly could be, but going by the idea he was able to get away and walk to the radio tower, then his spinal cord is intact. What Alastor has to worry about going forward is less fatal and more annoying, and that comes down to costal cartilage and spinal discs.

Costal cartilage is cartilage of the ribs, and the reason to be careful of this is that when that cartilage is damaged, it has a tendency to make a person's individual ribs more prone to dislocating themselves with minimal provocation. When this happens, depending on which rib it is, but especially if it's in the upper ribs, it can lead to losing function of the arm on the impacted side. With a head injury, this would be a serious problem if the body in response doesn't properly relearn how to use that arm, because during the healing stages it would just stop working. This can be difficult to treat if it's one of the top three ribs, because that can be mistaken by the body and by specialists for the neck being out of alignment, and cause them to treat the wrong thing while the rib continues to cause problems. However, if the rib is found, it wouldn't be dislocated enough that it couldn't be put back.

There are warning signs one can notice when this is about to happen, but what those warning signs are vary from person to person. One example is a popping sensation in the sternum with movement, and that will happen in the days leading up to a rib detaching in the back.

And the other problem to look out for is spinal discs. Nothing loves killing itself quite like spinal discs. If I had a dollar for every time I've seen L4-L5 and/or L5-S1 decide it didn't want to exist anymore and either degenerate or explode for no reason, I would be able to pay my rent for a few months. If a spinal disc has a legitimate opportunity to end its own existence, it will, and it won't hesitate.

This is where Alastor's ability to crack and twist his neck may come to his advantage and make him more resistant to this, but as I have mentioned before, the spine reacts differently to doing something versus having it done by an external force. Therefore, it is still worth watching out for the chance at least one of Alastor's spinal discs makes an attempt to end his entire way of life. This wouldn't be fatal on its own, but it can be agonizingly painful for reasons of no longer having a working cushion between vertebrae, as well as the nucleus pulposus (jelly-like substance in discs) getting onto and agitating nearby nerves, and being attacked by the immune system that doesn't recognize it outside of where it belongs. That detail is an issue if Alastor is fighting an infection or sepsis, and could push his immune system further into overdrive.

Spinal discs could be treated with a different surgery quite easily, but because this isn't fatal, it would be something to talk to Alastor himself about before doing. People can recover from this without surgeries or nerve ablations, it will only take some time. This may be subject to change if Alastor's immune system is pushed too far, and he is unable to make a judgement call.

What makes spinal discs a particular problem for Alastor with a head injury is where these herniations occur. If it happens in the neck, it would cause sharp pains in the arm and shoulder. If it happens in the lower back, this pain would be down one or both legs and into the foot. Anything impacted would suffer considerable muscle weakness and struggling to move, which would impair recovery. Lower back would be the worst, because this would directly impact Alastor's ability to walk. Not paralyzed, but the muscles being so agitated and weak that it would be very difficult.

Adding on inevitable small vertebral fractures, not enough to necessarily damage the spinal cord but enough to cause concern and a need to be careful, he would be put in a back brace. It would need to be one that doesn't compress any ribs if they are broken or agitate his chest wound, but keeps the spine supported. The condition of his spine, discs, and ribs would need to be monitored alongside his head to determine what lingering problems came from the head or something else.

How This Impacts Season 2

With this out of the way, we can give a more accurate assessment of where Alastor would be at in his recovery by the end of the time-skip, or at the end of the estimated 25-28 days.

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

ASAP: If found in the early aftermath of the battle before too many symptoms manifest, Alastor could receive treatment quickly. This would not change the severity of his injury, but it would have given blood less time to cause pressure and additional damage in the brain. He doubtfully lost consciousness, and if he did, not for very long. He would remain in the hospital for the duration of surgery recovery and be monitored, but over the next few weeks, he could be well into the subacute stages of his recovery and be in active rehabilitation and therapy by the end of the timeskip.

How long treatment takes depends on the extent of the damage and Alastor's personal response to that treatment. He could have a more difficult time with this when accounting for other potential injuries and especially the chest wound that would hinder movement. Chronic headaches and migraines would be something to look out for as well, though they wouldn't be labeled chronic for a few more months. Head pain is a normal response to head trauma, so frequent headaches would not inherently mean chronic during this stage, but it's worth looking out for.

He could be an active presence among the cast, but he would not be able to maintain his role as hotelier. His role in the conflict would be hindered by those limitations, as well as photophobia, which would continue on into the coming weeks or months (to be elaborated on), and potentially a need to relearn speech.

Moderate Time: Finding him in this timeframe has the most variety in what could be happening. Like with finding him ASAP, he would be able to receive treatment and may not have lost consciousness, but the damage has had time to cause continued problems in his brain. He would most likely remain in a state of post-traumatic amnesia and disorientation for anywhere from a few hours to a few days, but not going past a week.

Alastor would remain on bedrest or resting while avoiding rigorous activity for the majority if not the entirety of the 25-28 days. This would be the time to monitor him and check for any lasting effects. He may experience a struggle to speak, temporary vision loss, fatigue and brain fog, balance and dizziness problems, spasticity, sensory impairment, chronic headaches and migraines, and ataxia (struggle to move and control muscles, most obvious in extremities). His ability to control his emotions will also be hindered during recovery, and he may be prone to emotional outbursts.

The emotional outbursts can be managed by prescribed anti-anxiety medication. It might seem like a bizarre medicine to prescribe for a head injury, but it's done in scenarios exactly like this. That would be one of multiple medications he was given which could include any combination of anticonvulsants, non-opioid pain relievers, anticoagulants, stimulants, steroids (not the ones most think of), diuretics, and stool softeners.

Sexual dysfunction also can happen, but if he was impacted by that, it would be something to be discovered further down the line. That does not seem like something that would impact season 2.

If he did lose consciousness and was unable to be woken up, or if the damage was bad enough he was induced into a coma to heal, his prognosis would be better than if found later. Loss of consciousness would most likely be in the range of 6-48 hours, but if he had truly fallen into a coma, a few days to a week would be a rough estimate. His recovery would be paused for him to regain consciousness and awareness (to be elaborated on*).

Maximum Time: Alastor has a high chance of spending most of the 25-28 days in a coma and recovering from that coma—either being in one on his own, or being induced into one to give his brain time to heal. Being induced would be a more likely situation if this were the moderate time, but in the case of maximum, that probably happened on its own.

How long he would be in a coma does depend, and the likelihood of a longterm recovery does relate to that. With the amount of damage he would have suffered from the blow itself and the amount of time before getting medical care, he could be looking in the range of 2-4 weeks.

Technically, it is possible especially for the maximum time, he could be comatose for all of season 2. But that feels like a cop-out answer, and if it were to happen, it would reduce his chances of longterm recovery even further, so we're getting into specifics.

Looking at the range of 2-4 weeks, and factoring in a storytelling standpoint of this question, that means that Alastor would be either waking up by the end of episode 1, or if he was closer to the 2 week range, he could have regained awareness by the end of episode 1.

* This is more common knowledge than it used to be, but media depictions of people waking up from a coma are inaccurate to what it's actually like. There is no immediate waking up like someone was asleep, because unconsciousness and sleep may look the same from an outside perspective, but are notably different. It is a very gradual process over the course of days to a couple weeks of slowly regaining awareness, where Alastor may seem awake for short periods ranging from a few minutes to an hour, but he is not all-there. His eyes might start to open more frequently, he might show signs of agitation and confusion based on instincts, but there will be little higher level of responsiveness. Once he has regained awareness, he may remember very little about this period.

To put that simply, he could be mistaken for being fully awake once he opens his eyes, but that's not the full story. This is the waking up stage, not necessarily being actively awake and alert. Having any conversation and expecting a coherent answer would need to wait until this stage has passed.

This scenario would mean he would need to be more heavily watched than any other, to look out for complications like infections from the surgery like pneumonia, deep vein thrombosis (blood clots in the legs that can form during long periods of inactivity like being bedridden), seizures, or a stroke. He would need to be monitored at all times even after waking up to make sure there are no lasting complications like this.

Though a possibly unexpected benefit would be whereas moderate means Alastor would be more aware of everything such as pain and vision loss, the time unconscious would double as the time for those aspects to begin healing and be less of an active presence when he does awaken. If he did experience vision loss, it wouldn't be back fully for a few more months, but there would be enough time to establish this is not a permanent thing.

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But, in any case, every one of these scenarios would have Alastor out of the hospital either by the end of the timeskip or by roughly episode 2 of the season at the latest, assuming he was staying there and not cared for somewhere else like Cannibal Town or the later completed Hotel. If found ASAP or Moderate, he could be in the subacute stages of healing, whereas with Maximum, he would be further behind, but at the very least conscious and alert early on and able to begin those therapies.

Relearning to walk and speak if those is something he lost would be the highest priorities, as well as making sure there are no continence problems. But of the things Alastor himself could focus on, it would be walking and speaking. Providing physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy would be ideal, but it may be difficult to find all the necessary people, so at least have some type of plan to make up the difference.

While there is a broad range for how long it takes to recover from a head injury like this, a slight majority of patients are able to walk with minimal help after six months. More specific hand movements and speech could be in the realm of a year or two, but there are plenty of patients who have made a remarkable recovery within the six-month range.

From my experience, Alastor would be an interesting patient to have, and one of the more difficult. There are two types of patient he could fall under:

Patients who are willing to do whatever they have to for recovery. Extremely receptive to the point they sometimes overdo it. Those are the ones who will rest if they are specifically told to, but need to be very specific on how long, otherwise they will start trying to do things before they should and set themselves back on accident.

Patients who refuse to accept they need help. May either forcefully ignore the problem or try to treat themselves with no guidance. They won't let anyone know they are struggling, and do more harm to themselves than good.

In most cases, the second option becomes the first option once they have a harsh wake up call, something that could take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. Reasons for why vary but it tends to come down to dignity and pride, or if they have loved ones the believe they need to be strong for. They don't want to be seen as vulnerable or weak.

These are some of the toughest patients, not because they are bad or even difficult people, but if the therapist doesn't thread the needle, it can lead to the patient not being as receptive to treatment or actively fighting against it. Through no fault of the patient's own, this often happens subconsciously and causes feelings of stress and shame for the patient. Obviously, some patients can become spiteful and hard to work with, but those are not as common as people seem to think.

With these patients, it's a delicate balance of making sure they know they are making progress without babying them, and pushing them like they want without overdoing it and hurting them. Place yourself into the shoes of the patient, figure out what they would consider true progress.

Don't get overexcited about accomplishments. An innocent mistake to make, but if this type of patient is going to become agitated, being treated like a child is most of the time how it happens. The patient is not a toddler taking their first steps or saying their first words. But they do need to know when they are making good progress.

Don't be super delicate and dance around difficult topics with them. But being too harsh or blunt with those topics can cause feelings of stress and hopelessness. Realism is important, with a lean towards making sure belief in the patient is conveyed. Tracking progress and showing data tends to be useful for this.

An effective way of tracking progress is to give them goals one step at a time, something that would distinctly be a challenge to work towards but a realistic one that they won't hurt themselves pushing for. Just enough that they feel like they're doing something, and you believe they are strong enough to get through it, without doing harm if they try to push just a bit more, or causing psychological distress if they're not quite ready.

It really is a very delicate balance, even professionals make mistakes on it all the time. But it is so rewarding when it's done right, and can have amazing results for the patient. A good way to think about these types of patients is "high risk, high reward," because of how easy it is to mess up, but if done right the patient may heal better and/or faster than average.

Provided someone manages to accomplish this, and stops Alastor from overdoing it or pushing himself too far, he may be able to see significant recoveries within the six-month range. He may not have everything back and struggle in some areas, but his prognosis could have a positive outlook. If symptoms were to linger and become chronic beyond during the healing phase, he may have difficulty concentrating, minor memory problems, headaches (though they would reduce in frequency), and fatigue.

The main thing Alastor could struggle with is regaining speech. When I say he will struggle to speak, I don’t mean he would lose the ability to make sounds. He can still communicate, but like with his hands, he will struggle with precise muscle movements such as controlling the facial muscles that help properly turn sound into words. Notably, he will need to give up the permanent smile. If the smile is stitched on, the stitches need to come out (this may be difficult if the smile was stitched on my someone else). On paper, him not using those muscles and keeping them in place would mean less muscles to relearn, but it would double to mean he would require more effort for other facial muscles and take a longer time.

However, one aspect of Alastor’s powers has shown him speaking with his mouth closed and the words still come through, his teeth just start glowing. If he is able to speak without facial movement or use of muscle as part of his powerset and that wasn’t impacted by his staff breaking, then he wouldn’t have trouble with speech at all beyond any struggles with focus that could make it easy to forget words. But he would still need to relearn to use those facial muscles eventually.

Additionally, depending on how well his vision returns, he may need to wear glasses instead of only the monocle. This may be temporary, it is rare for vision loss to be permanent, but he may need the glasses longterm.

He may also have struggles with reading, either having to outright relearn or simply suffering mental fog that makes it hard to focus. It can happen that people can read just fine but the brain gets stuck on processing words despite them being read through.

Lifestyle changes would be important. Obvious things like avoiding overworking himself, adapting to any limitations he may have, and making sure to avoid substances like alcohol, tobacco, and drugs for a minimum of 3-6 months (depending on severity of the injury) but closer to a year on the safe side, after which reintroduce them gradually provided that's what he chooses and a doctor deems that safe, and he is not on prescription medications that react badly to those substances. All of those substances can worsen the outcome of a head injury during the recovery stages, and Alastor may have a significantly reduced alcohol tolerance going forward.

He will need to cut cannibalism. Cannibalism has too many negative impacts on the brain for him to be able to continue with that aspect of his diet. That isn't something to be lenient or gradual on. No cannibalism. If he insists on cannibalism and will not listen to reason, there needs to be a set time frame he is not allowed to engage in cannibalism, like for example a year or two. There can be nothing vague like "when you're better," that is subjective and patients are willing to abuse technicalities or claim to be better to get access to something they're restricted from. He wouldn't be leaving the hotel much if at all during the recovery period, but avoid going to Cannibal Town if temptation becomes a problem.

Relying on his powers would be something to avoid, but as long as his powers are used to supplement his recovery instead of take away from it, that would be welcome.

I do need to emphasize that even if his prognosis could be positive with proper care, this would be a grueling process for everyone involved. Caring for a patient with a head injury, especially someone you know and care about, is a physically and emotionally demanding full-time task. There will be a period of time Alastor is unable to control his emotions and may be prone to outbursts and episodes of aggression (threats, swearing, scratching and biting are common occurrences) and confusion, especially in the early days. It could go in the other direction of him being very docile and in no way acting like the person the people of the hotel know, which can be just as traumatic for people caring for a loved one. This will be reduced over time as he recovers and regains more of his ability to control that, but it will go beyond the initial recovery. The rates of depression in the first year following a TBI is extremely high compared to those without a TBI, and setbacks in the recovery would also be setbacks in Alastor's mental health.

Not everyone is able to handle this. The hotel would need to be prepared for that, this isn't something that can be fixed with summer camp strategies. Optimism is a good thing, but there needs to be an understanding of the situation, and not trying to ignore reality. For a while even in the best case, it may feel like things will not be okay. Alastor may take strides forward and just as easily take strides back. It's not linear. It would be important they take care of themselves and support one another just as much as Alastor. Some may need to acknowledge they are not cut out for the long haul, while others may have a much easier time, and whoever can successfully do it would impact the story of the season.

When asking how Alastor having a head injury would impact season 2, it would have ripple effects onto the other characters because of how demanding it can be. It may not change things too drastically in other plotlines, but it's worth noting.

We have no way of knowing how long season 2 will go on for in terms of its timeline. Season 1 was over the course of six months. It could be different on account of a different antagonist, but six months feels like a reasonable estimate. Where would Alastor be at?

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This estimate is based on the scenario where recovery goes relatively smoothly, he stays consistent with the work necessary, and an effort is being made to reduce his stress as much as possible. This does account for a grace period he may resist treatment for reasons mentioned above. Any extra injuries or illnesses are also accounted for, but as they would be healing simultaneously, the difference isn't all too substantial.

ASAP: Alastor has regained the ability to walk. He would still need to be careful not to push himself, but he can walk around the hotel and outside with company. He will be able to take care of himself. He may have some trouble with refined movements like speaking or writing, but he will have made progress and have some or even most of his range of motion. He may have lingering issues such as headaches, fatigue, and brain fog, but these should be reducing in frequency. He has regained control of his emotions. Will suffer from mild photophobia.

If he experienced trouble with spinal discs, he may experience pain, and his back may be prone to going out during flare-ups if it's in the low back, but he will have regained sensation in any limbs that were previously numb. (If he opted to treat this with surgery, this would not be a problem, or a reduced one.)

May experience struggles with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. If the symptoms continue beyond this point, he may want to be screened for a formal diagnosis.

He can return to some of his duties as hotelier, but nothing strenuous and the workload would need to be reduced. Maintain a gradual progression of mentally-stimulating activity, but make sure not to overdo it and take breaks.

Moderate Time: Alastor may still struggle to walk. The problem may be less in muscle control or balance and more endurance leaving something to be desired, but he should be able to walk at least short distances. He may need to be accompanied, but he would be able to take care of himself for the most part besides that.

Refined movements may be a problem, but he will have gained back some range of motion. He could still struggle with cognitive tasks like reading due to brain fog or headaches, but this is improving and will continue to improve. He has regained control over his emotions. Will suffer from photophobia.

Like with ASAP, if he experienced trouble with spinal discs, he may experience pain, and his back may be prone to going out during flare-ups if it's in the low back, but he will have regained sensation in any limbs that were previously numb. (If he opted to treat this with surgery, this would not be a problem, or a reduced one.)

May experience struggles with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. If the symptoms continue beyond this point, he should be screened for a formal diagnosis.

He is not ready to return to his duties as hotelier, but he can help with tasks around the hotel. Once he is consistently steady on his own, he should be able to return to his duties in the next few weeks.

Maximum Time: Alastor will have some ability to walk, but may still struggle considerably with balance. He may need to wear a gait belt to prevent falls on bad days, and have someone close-by.

Progress will be limited on refined movements, but it does exist. He may be able to speak some with effort. Headaches and brain fog may be a continued problem inhibiting daily life, but this will be gradually reducing. He has regained control of his emotions, but may have episodes of losing control. Will suffer from photophobia.

If he experienced trouble with spinal discs, he will experience pain, and his back may be prone to going out during flare-ups. He may not have gained back as much mobility, but the numbness in impacted extremities should be gone or reduced. (If he opted to treat this with surgery, this would not be a problem, or a reduced one.)

Mental health needs to be carefully watched. Patients struggling with a severe injury getting in the way of progress may be prone to decline the more time passes.

He is not ready to return to his duties as hotelier, and should focus on therapy and recovery. If he becomes restless or feels a need to help with tasks, allow him to do tasks under supervision, but nothing that could be strenuous.

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Over the course of the next few months, and therefore the next few seasons, Alastor's condition would continue to gradually improve. He should be for the most part recovered within 2 years, but have made significant progress by the one-year mark.

There is a myth that the limit to healing is around 2 years. That isn't true. Healing will continue for decades, though it will slow over time. Even if it ends up taking a long time, Alastor will recover eventually.

Photophobia and the Death of the Alastor-Vox Plotline

One thing has continued to come up over the course of this analysis, and that is photophobia. Contrary to what people associate the term "phobia" with, photophobia is not a fear. It's an abnormal sensitivity to light, but as some people may be able to guess, there's a reason emphasis is put on Alastor continuing to suffer from photophobia during this time. The answer is simple: Vox.

Vox being the main antagonist puts Alastor in an interesting position, not even for anything Vox himself could or would do. Vox's head emits a blue light as most modern screens do. Based on that alone, Alastor would not be able to interact with Vox without physical pain or discomfort, with severity depending on a few factors gone through above.

We don't know the details of what Vox's plan is exactly. Various leaks give some clues, both the November ones and one a few months ago that was a chunk of script, but not enough to have a firm grasp on what exactly Alastor being down for the count would change about his plans.

Going into speculation of what his plans could be, one could assume Vox would want access to Alastor in some way. This is a case where Alastor's head injury and resulting photophobia could be his greatest advantage or his worst nightmare, and it all comes down to the care of others. I tend to avoid character discussion unless it's relevant, but it would take a lot to get around "your face brings physical pain to our hotelier," and not have the explanation be a lack of decency from others. Photophobia is not something Alastor would successfully be able to hide.

Because Vox has been willing to send in spies before, I should clarify that a spy wouldn't count when I say accessing Alastor directly would be difficult. A direct meeting would be mean an interaction between the two. Vox himself would have to try really hard to interact with Alastor, be that in a room face-to-face, or any screen-related means of communication.

Therefore, Vox's plans in relation to Alastor and the hotel are either the easiest or the hardest thing he has ever done, and there is no in-between. If he can pull it off, this is a walk in the park. If not, then he's shit out of luck unless he gets really creative really fast.

However, if Alastor is disconnected from the rest of Hell, that would give Vox an advantage with any indirect plans going unchallenged unless someone steps in so Alastor doesn't have to.

The biggest challenge is that Alastor having a head injury means he cannot under any circumstances fight Vox. Not only would photophobia make that battle almost impossible, but there would be another factor to worry about, and that's second impact syndrome. Second impact syndrome essentially means he would suffer fatal or otherwise life-ruining consequences if he sustains another blow to the head before recovering from his current head injury. Fighting anyone, much less Vox who would be almost guaranteed to know that weakness, would not be in the cards.

All of that points to as long as Vox is satisfied not interacting with Alastor directly, this is the easiest evil plan ever. Until, of course, bringing it back around to it all depends on the care of others.

Hyper-vigilance and protective behavior is common in the family and friends of people who suffer a serious injury. The hotel may be more prone to noticing and reacting to things than they would be in any other situation—not just related to Alastor, but in general. That could make Vox's plan incredibly difficult.

In Summary: If any part of Vox's plan is to make Alastor suffer, he got beaten to it by Alastor's own body. There is not much Vox could do that Alastor's body wouldn't say "challenge accepted" to.

Alastor will be conscious and an active character for most or all of season 2, but his storylines will be on pause to focus on recovery. Not much can be done about his soul deal or his situation with Vox when he has to avoid stress, therefore avoid engaging with the plot, to heal.

Everyone else may have ripple effects from this into their plotlines, ranging from emotional draining to hyper-vigilance to actively having their plotlines disrupted if they were viable caretakers.

But at the end of the day, in every scenario, no matter the severity or the time it takes to find him... Alastor is uniquely qualified to opt out of the entirety of the canon season 2 Vox plotline. The real complicated and sad was the head trauma we got along the way.

(Note: Something I do take into consideration is this being Hell, and it feels like it would be a design flaw for head injuries to cause drastic personality changes or mental incapacitating like they could for a living person. That feels like it defeats the purpose of punishing someone in Hell if a head injury can stop that person from existing anymore. If sinners come back by respawning with no consequences we know of unless done in by an angelic weapon, that specifically is most likely not something to worry about. My guess is that at most for plausible mental impacts, memory loss could be something to consider as long as the person themselves remains intact, but that's speculation. That is the reason I didn't go into that aspect of head injuries.)

(Another Note: This is based on one scenario of brain bleed TBI, there is a very wide variety, and all of them have broad ranges of symptoms and recovery times. Different people will have different experiences. Alastor's injury could be debilitating and significantly worse, but as the ask mentioned him healing, I decided to go with a more positive outcome.)

@buckshotanon you talked about how if Alastor's injuries from Adam were realistic he would have a nasty head injury. Assuming the hotel found him in time and got him the help he needed, how much involvement could he feasibly have in season 2? Head injuries take a long time to heal, right? Can't imagine a brain bleed would heal in a timely manner.

👀

[lemongogo]

me admitting that i dont hate ast*rion after all .

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I keep remembering that back in the congregation I most recently attended, there is an elder’s wife who is a rockhound for the scientific and aesthetic intrigue, but also believes in crystal healing… which, all things considered, is absolutely fucking bonkers.

[drivemysoul]

i think this whole process broke something in me that i don’t think i can ever put back together