#and not give in to the temptation to scald the shit out of each other with boiling hot liquids lol | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pyroclaststan · 3 years ago

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The Reveal

CW: cursing—younger Kingsley used to curse up a storm outside the stutter, soft shit

Your left hand busies itself with your coffee, an almost-burn from the heat seeping through the cardboard holder, scalding in a way you can handle and appreciate.

Your free hand clenches. Unclenches. Clenches. An old song and dance that will never leave you; a reflex you can’t shake. You would start another internal diatribe about how that’s going to get you killed or found out one day, but your mind is too busy to start a fight: even with you.

Your shields are up, held close and tight to keep out the majority of the hive that moves through the city. Small stretches of the mind now and then assure you that you’re not being watched, but you always retreat quickly before you accidentally latch onto some feeling or thought that might drain you before your day has even begun. So far the coast has been clear, but that means nothing when it comes to the kind of people you’re hiding from.

The woman on the opposite end of the patio having coffee with her friends is glancing at you again over the lip of her mug. You sense no deception, no recognition… why does she keep looking at you? Small smiles your way you’re not used to receiving. Hunching down a little, you politely push her focus back to her friends, leaving behind the feeling that she’d mistaken you for someone else: you’re simply a kind old lady enjoying some tea. Keeping a mental watch on her, she is quietly fed small bits of supporting emotions until her group leaves.

An unbidden shudder climbs up your spine, so you tighten your grip into a tight fist as if you could physically wring it out if not mentally. Again and again, as always: the stress, anxiety, every bit of nerves—all compiling and in overdrive. Today is the day. The light pain of nails into palm takes the edge off before you sink into a spiral of thoughts about this decision. You take a drink to ease your mood.

“You’re late, Chrysantamum!” a voice calls out from behind you, startling you mid-sip of said scalding hot coffee.

“Fucking fuck!” you spew, your customary curse half garbled by liquid.

Luckily, your hands are fast enough to pull the cup away and mitigate most of the damage: just a burnt tongue and throat for you. Some light coffee spots for your clothes. A bundle of napkins takes care of those and the spill on the table.

That ridiculous name alone tells you who got the jump on you, let alone the fact that someone got the jump on you at all with your vigilance.

Ricardo Ortega.

At least you can say he learned not to jump out and surprise you from the front—you can proudly say he knows better after that kick he took to the chest… and the various incidents after. And he’s been apparently been experimenting with your name now that he’s learned that, too.

Delightful.

You suppress the collection of biting words and spicy curses you come up with in response to him, once again quietly regretting you ever gave him a name at all. More so, regretting that once you turn around, he will finally see your face.

Why, for the love of any and every deity you could pull from your repertoire, did you agree to this? Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile—you know this, but here you are: ever forward ever deathward towards his orbit. Your sigh comes from a depth you didn’t realise you had in you. There might have been a little Steel channeled into it, if you’re honest.

You can’t say you’re surprised Ricardo knew it was you. This is specifically the address you were supposed to meet at, he’s noticed a few curls poke out from under your mask when your hair wasn’t braided, and even with you sitting he’s learned your signature slouch by now. ‘Fucking fuck’ probably isn’t an everyday curse either, but who’s to say?

Looking down, the clothes on your back are also a dead giveaway. A decently okay grey button down that was liberated from Ortega’s locker at Ranger’s HQ, the skinsuit that anyone else would mistake for a turtleneck peeking out from the sleeves and collar, an ages old hoodie hole-filled and sun bleached on the back of your chair, your secondhand high-water dress pants not quite long enough for your lanky legs, and your ratty old stompers bear laces in a telltale Ranger blue—courtesy of Anathema.

Of the few things you paid attention to today you made sure you didn’t give Ortega the ego boost of wearing the Charge laces they’d also gotten you, though you hope he doesn’t notice the earring out of the many lining your ears. They’re stacked with studs instead of rings today, in case you need to slip your mask on and make an escape. You should’ve have by now.

You are a particular brand of patchworked charity both subtle and recognisable to the favoured few who get to know you. Today is the day they’ll get to know you. Again, you remind yourself how much you already regret it. You hope you’re a decent enough ‘you’ for them to get to know.

Right hand into your thick curls you pull silently at a coil, reminding yourself that this is you here, and eventually that’s got to be enough for someone. Even if it’s never going to be for enough you. You idly ponder what colour your new braids should be as a self-distraction tactic before slipping your hand out and deciding to crumple up a napkin instead, fiddling with the texture of it. One stim for another as you wait out your impending doom.

Ortega’s steps grow louder as he gets closer, telltale modded weight in each step, and your cheeks begin to heat up at the approach, the buzz of his mind coming into staticky focus. Ha! There’s a new nervousness building now, and a little panic? Or rather, a touch of anxiety over your looks—he’s rubbing off on you in the worst ways. But you can’t hide the thought: if he doesn’t like what he sees? He’s only ever known you—and kissed you—with your mask on. You never care to care how you look; you’ve never tried to dress in any way that wasn’t covert and unassuming.

Damn it. You remember you forgot your cap.

Yours, not the Rangers one Anathema also got you (always buying you merch in a heavy-handed gesture) that you pointedly only wear when Chen is around, always over your mask.

He hates it, you love that he hates it. You wish he’d like—

The Steel-related thoughts you have on that note are mashed down before they can even bubble up. No time for that molotov cocktail of clusterfuck.

This meet-up has been planned for nearly a month, allowing you time to stake out a place, begin preparations, and come up with ample excuses to back out. You didn’t.

Idiot.

You made Ortega swear on his life that he would keep your face out of the papers, off the net, and completely unaffiliated with anything having to do with him. The front of his shirt was in dire need of dry cleaning by the time you finally let go of it, losing your nervous edge once the deal had been done. This is a risk beyond any you’ve ever taken and you’re doing it because you like him enough to try and make your fake life a little more real. Because you like having friends. Fucking fuck.

You make a mental note to have ‘World’s Greatest Idiot’ put into any possible epitaph you may get after this.

A weighted pause. You just realised what he said. How are you late? He’s here an hour after the agreed upon time in classic Ortega fashion. He’d almost be exasperating if he wasn’t so calming at the same time. Stupid static mind, resisting your every touch but giving out just enough feedback to settle you.

Wrapping your annoyance, frustration, and nerves around you like a brittle shield, you gather any venom you have left as a defence mechanism. A hard look very softened by the blush on your freckled bronze cheeks as you hear his steps stop just on the other side of the cafe railing to your left. The white noise of his mind quiets so many of your errant thoughts, and while the impenetrability would usually annoy you, right now it is a soothing reminder than this is, in fact, your best friend beside you.

You pointedly ignore the growing heat in your ears. And cheeks. And throat. And stomach.

“I’m uh, not an expert on interpersonal bullshit, but aren’t nicknames supposed to be sh-shorter than your actual name?” you huff, trying to put as much edge into your voice as you can in your current state.

Finally you turn your head, an annoyed glare in Ricardo’s direction before he can get out his smart ass response. Refusing to be soft, refusing to make this an easy reveal and hopefully showing how completely uncomfortable with all of this you are. How far out on a limb you’re going.

He won’t get it anyway.

And if you did show it, he sure doesn’t respond to it: instead, his face is lit up like a Christmas tree. His eyes dart around so fast, taking in every inch of yours so quick that you fear they may come loose and fly right out of his head. His grin is blinding—amazed and beautiful—and it takes every ounce of self-control for you not to turn away from him or vault the fence and make a run for it. You avoid the temptation to look closer at what you briefly noticed was a very nice, very new suit… as a preventative measure, of course. Can’t let him see you sweat, or, y’know.

The two of you finally make real eye contact but after even a few beats it’s too much for you, so you pointedly look away from his gaze, sipping your coffee and allowing him the privacy to study you while he can. As if being looked at wasn’t already distasteful enough for you, having your features memorised and scrutinised gives you even less pleasure, but at least now he’ll stop pestering you about it. Not at all happy that you wish you could read his mind to find out what he thinks.

No sooner than you have that thought does the soft little ‘mierda’ come from under his breath, making you want to die on the spot—you sincerely hope you’re not becoming a tomato.

“Kingsley Chrysanta,” he half announces, half inquires. Testing the reigns of his newfound knowledge most likely. Placing the name alongside the face in his head, and connecting a string between them like the many on his whiteboard. At his blooming smile your heart speeds up and your stomach does a flip. Id-i-ot!

“Yeah yeah,” you mutter against the rim of your now empty coffee cup, “we get it: you know my whole name now.” You look back at him, holding his line of sight with a half-hearted sneer. “I can do it too, Ricardo Felipe José García Sparkles Ortega. See? We b-both know words.”

He’s got a look of triumph and an even brighter grin on that note, your teasing bouncing right off of his impenetrable shield of sunshine, like he’s happy you memorised his name. Ricardo’s airy laugh is almost mystified, and the exhalation that he lets out is suspiciously soft before he confirms, “It really is you.”

“Got it in one,” you can’t stop your answering smile, suddenly aware of how crooked yours is compared to his. And that halts you. How disheveled and awkward and unreal you are compared to him.

Don’t go there. Not now.

“Your speech is getting better,” he comments softly, carefully. “Looks like me annoying you into talking really is good for you.” His sly smile aimed down at his shoes.

Your speech has been getting better, though that is also a product of your own efforts, not just his: he always thought you said so little for no reason. Taking it slow, smaller sentences, and keeping calm have helped you manage your impediment—you get less frustrated trying to speak. You think less about the fists that gave you the problem in the first place. You ultimately refuse to acknowledge his statement, correct as it may be.

“My point still stands: that’s long for a nickname,” your deflection hopefully going unnoticed. “Don’t you, uh, usually just call me King? What happened to that one?”

He’s much closer now, leaning forward over the barrier in that way that puts him right inside everyone’s bubble: personal, personable. In his defence, however, he’s keeping his hands firmly on the railing, as if to stop the rest of himself from going right over. The twitch on his lips and the white-knuckled grip of his hands are the only clues to how much he’s feigning composure right now—well, that and the static to his mods. But still being patient, still keeping your direct space open, and keeping quiet about whatever is on his mind. Always so kind to you when you need it, and even when you don’t.

“Anyone can call you King: mine’s more personal,” he smiles even wider, nodding like his words are sagely.

“And long,” you frown, complaining just to complain. Being contrarian has been a trusted weapon in the face of Ricardo’s… everything.

“I think it works,” he answers your complaint with a smug look back at you. “Chrysanta, Chrysantamum. Get it?” A bright laugh. “It’s a good pun, with how your hair kind of reminds me of the flower in a way. ‘Cause of all the layers and petals, but instead they’re curls—plus we met in November! That’s that month’s flower, or the flower of that month, and…”

You’re stunned by the rationale he’s giving as he continues to list things off: insight and perception you’ve often accused him of not having. His hands are moving about, his head tilting to and fro, his expressions and gestures and movements all clockwork to you by now. But more importantly: he’s rambling, downright nervous, more focused on counting off on his fingers than looking at you. Suspicious. New. Cute. You focus back onto his words.

“…and it’s when I’ve decided your birthday will be, since you refuse to give me a date,” he finishes while you’re mulling over thoughts, a look in your direction for a reaction.

“Are you calling me a flower?” A frown, not taking any birthday bait.

The faces he makes go on a journey for a few moments before he collects himself with a small exhalation, rubbing at his forehead before dropping his hands into his pockets. He seems a little flushed. Probably not best to stand around in the Los Diablos heat.

A small smile perks up inevitably. “Would it be better if I answer that with the idea that I’m calling you my flower?”

You can’t even hide your groan on that one, responding to his repeatedly lifting brows with a furrow of your own. Half disgust, half embarrassment, all stomach flip.

“Stop! I’ll vomit. Or worse, get a migraine.” You make a face at him and rub your temple, but it only seems to delight him further. Shades of you he’s never seen before being revealed now.

“Right right, not in public.” He gives a conspiratorial wink, rotating left and right on his heels, as bad at staying still as you are—your leg’s been bouncing up a storm and your napkin can’t get much more crumpled. “Anathema should be showing up soon, anyway. We can save our personal stuff for later.”

You absolutely do not colour slightly at the innuendo in that statement, and you assuredly do not glance down at his lips. At this point your skin colour may as well be burgundy.

“Oh, so you gave them the wrong time so you wouldn’t be the last to arrive, huh? Should’ve known something was off when I got to actually enjoy a moment of quiet in this city.”

Aiming quickly, you bullseye him in the forehead with the balled-up napkin.

“Oooh, sassy when your shell’s off: now I get why ‘Thema voted for King Crab instead of the flowers.”

You make a very sour face. He cackles, his whole upper body bending back almost losing balance as he holds his stomach. You immediately reach out and force away the attention of everyone who’s looking to see what’s going on, making them all register the sound further away and from the opposite end of the street.

“Fucking fuck—f-for a nickname? That’s it. I’m moving to San Francisco and getting better friends.”

“That implies anyone else in the world would want to befriend you.” He states gleefully as he jumps out of your reach, dodging your swipe at him as you lunge from your chair.

“I’m sure some single, lonely Ranger up there might also have a th-thing for tall, angry vigilantes.” Your turn for a sly look. “Maybe there’ll be an uh, autumnal wedding—I’d still let you be my best man.”

“Just don’t get mad at me if I object: someone has to act in the groom’s best interest.” He shrugs exaggeratedly, matching your smile and banter.

Reflexive, telepathic pushes make the others on the patio and in the cafe ignore the two of you and your shenanigans. It’s draining, but you can pick up on how quickly your distractions melt away and Ricardo gets recognised again in his public face. You’d almost forgotten about that with the warm buzz of Ortega on your shields and occupying your mind. Dangerous to be so inside your own head that you forget about the ones around you.

Time to get moving then. A quick glance about as you step aside to throw away your empty cup—training telling you to check for exits, hats, and thoughts pointed at you.

“I suppose it would also be too cruel of me to subject, uh, anyone else to your friendship.” You straighten your shirt and pick up your mottled jacket and small bag, adding drama to your sigh as you slip them on to head out.

“Perish the thought: who’d last a day by my side with the trouble we get into?”

“Being your friend will be the death of me, I’m sure.” Funny in a dark way, considering how close you two have come to death together, so many times.

“And yet…” he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and looks at you thoughtfully, walking down the street with a light pace, “…you still choose to do all this. With me.”

Falling into step, your tongue stills in your mouth. You question yourself and your intentions but ultimately: you decide to slip him a piece of truth. Walking the dangerous lines like he does but in quieter ways.

“I’ve uh, never really known wh-what to do with choice: I’ve always just done what I’m supposed to do. Everything that’s happened since I came here… it’s liberating and it’s terrifying, but it’s mine, right?”

You want to kick yourself for the little lilt to your voice at the end, but your eyes are too busy silently pleading for some kind of understanding and validation.

These little choices, these silent confessions, these quiet surrenders… these are everything you have to give to a man with the whole world before him. You have nothing else, and no one will never understand how much weight and truth is behind that. You’ve wanted nothing but to help people since the day you were decanted: you have always felt so deeply, all too easily touched by other minds, and once you picked from enough thoughts to develop the words and concepts for it, you knew you wanted to be a hero. A not-so-gentle reminder that it was them who taught you to fight the bad and save the good, but pleasing in that you know they’d disapprove of how you do that now.

From one government operation to the next, you stupid, silly fool.

In that, Ricardo has always been symbolic to you: heroics and freedom made flesh. You’ve known since the day he saved your life—in your early days, homeless and squatting with your first ‘friends’—that you would follow this man into hell. But now, you know him. You know you would do whatever it takes to protect him, because he’s not a symbol, he’s all too real, too human—and that has made him even greater to you. No longer content with being a shadow, but wanting to be a shield. He is an inspiration, yes, but he is foremost your friend and partner. Maybe something more.

He responds to your question with a fond, sincere smile and a nod, and you start to think maybe it might be the same for him.

“It always will be,” he says quietly, pausing mid-step to look at you like he’s really seeing you. Not like earlier, but like he does when you’re in your suit: searching, trying to reach out, but only as far as you’ll let him.

It’s a deep look between the two of you, holding too much meaning but from sides of understanding the other will never get. The white noise of his mind hinders any opportunity to glimpse what he’s thinking or feeling, leaving your telepathic fingers missing any chance to understand what that look of his means. The soft moment is interrupted by a cheerful, “Hey!” sung out in the distance.

A familiar mind practically screaming in elation and pointedly directed at you, impossible to ignore and so easy to pinpoint.

Anathema is in the middle of the street, wildly waving and doing a little jump as if there were any way that you could miss those red curls and freckled arms out there in the open, even if there was a crowd. With a laugh, they come running over to you and Ortega once you two wave back, enthusiasm filling the air with an almost heady energy.

Someone is happy to see you… you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to that outside of a fight.

“Look at you! It’s YOU!” Anathema declares with a flailing of arms pointed at you, looking between you, who looks rather uncomfortable with the attention, and Ortega, who is beaming and loving this.

He immediately hops to their side, arm around their bare shoulders pulling at their cut-off tank top’s strap to pull them in, the other also flailing in your direction.

“It’s them! They’re real!” he exclaims in response, partially mocking but another part still hyped up from the revelation. “Sidestep, in the flesh!”

The two of them are jumping up and down, holding onto each other and chanting your name repeatedly, either in an attempt to welcome you excitedly or to embarrass you completely. While their intent may be the former, you are feeling entirely the latter. More minds you focus on pushing away light up: these two draw so much attention.

“Please, stop,” you mumble looking around at all the owners to the minds you feel trained on you. “You’re making a scene… and my s-secret identity is supposed to be, y’know, a secret.”

They both stop their hopping, attempting to look sorry but their grins are just the opposite. Their frozen pose looks like circus act waiting to begin.

“You can’t blame us for getting excited—the big secret has been revealed! I mean, look at you!” Another manic gesture from Anathema. “You’re so! Wow! Real!”

“Thank you for your o-observation: scientists may now rest knowing the universe’s grandest mystery has been laid to rest,” you snark.

“Wow,” they sigh almost dreamily, “it really is you, dude.”

“I feel like we’ve established that ten, maybe, maybe fifteen times now,” you sigh exasperatedly. You’re absolutely not embarrassed or flattered, you’re just scratching your ear because you’re checking for all your piercings, not because of any heat.

“Well, you gotta forgive me, y’know? Like, you haven’t been exactly the most accessible person in our day-to-day lives given the ratio to how often you’re around and in the shit with us. And then here you are: unmasked, named, walking down the street with ‘Tega like you live here or something.” It’s a grand smile they aim at you, one that you can’t resist answering.

“Yeah, I’ve been known to wander to and fro in the city now and then. Usually uh, when a group of blue unitard wearing assholes get into trouble they can’t get out of themselves. Heroes, y’know? Can’t even match the same shade m-much less clean up their own mess.”

After about a full minute of laughter at that joke you fear Anathema might keel over right in front of you: they’ve got a death grip on their ribs and their face is as red as a tomato.

Ortega claps you on your shoulder causing you to flinch: you didn’t pick up his intentions to do that of course, or even notice him slipping in by your side, so you shoot him a dirty look that he doesn’t notice while he looks at Anathema.

“Vigilantes and their egos over here… can’t live with ‘em—“ he trails off.

“—Can’t live without ‘em,” they finish.

You suddenly understand Steel’s complete and absolute refusal to ever hang out with the three of you. In fact, you let out another one of his customary groans in respect for his sacrifice: having the three of you as allies.

“Did you chucklefucks rehearse this skit or have you been i-improv comedians the whole time? At least I know that if you’re hero careers fall through you’ll uh, have a back-up option.”

You’re getting nervous out here unmasked and in the open with two of the Los Diablos Rangers, and the effort to actively track and distract any minds coming your way is burning you out fast. It shows in the harsh tone you’re starting to adopt and the jokes you use to deflect: always the type to swing instead of run.

“I forget you have such a filthy tongue sometimes,” Anathema pouts, only partially serious. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, and I got it from my babysitter, thank you very much.”

Your flinch goes unnoticed but it’s still time to stop talking and get moving. Your smile is caustic, easily mistaken for an annoyed look with your joke, but you too easily told the truth.

You technically had a sitter, and you did pick up her incessant cursing as a defence mechanism: it makes for a good character trait and convinces people to leave you the hell alone when you don’t use your telepathy to do the trick. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a bit good, too.

Ortega is frowning at you, but as you turn to look at him it disappears before you even see it. Instead, you get a grin.

“Truly, this asshole is where I hath lain my affections,” he bemoans, genuflecting along with his performance before carrying on to walk ahead.

“We never said you had taste.” Anathema’s elbow catches his ribs as he passes them, falling into step after you.

You roll your eyes. “Clowns.”

“Welcome to the circus, Saltstep,” they shoot back.

“Alright, I’ll concede to that one,” you rub your neck and cast a guilty look towards your friends.

Sometimes you find the heat all too easily and throw back harder than you mean to, never quite sure of how hard you hit. She taught you more severity than restraint, but the point of being under your own control is to be better than that. “I can show that I am capable of, uh, not being a dick head for at least an evening.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?!” Ortega yells, throwing his hands into the air dramatically, getting a good laugh from Anathema behind you.

“Please, don’t hurt yourself on our behalf, ‘Step,” they follow up, still laughing.

“Kingsley,” you supply, casting a look back and down at them over your shoulder. “You can call me Kingsley… that’s kind of the point today, right?”

A soft smile in your direction, followed by a hushed tone, “I hope you didn’t mind the song and dance back there, I just know that if we didn’t show you how happy we are to see you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

As good at reading you as you are them.

You rub your neck and flex your hand. Reality catching up to reassert it’s weight on your shoulders. You suddenly feel watched—seen. Anyone anywhere could be looking at you and you haven’t even been paying attention. You scan yours surroundings, peeking into minds and shuffling through emotions, guiding any and everyone to forget any glimpse of you. Your ‘don’t look’ aura is as hard as the expression on your face.

“…I believe it.” A truth that won’t kill you.

“So soft, Chrysantamum,” Ortega says sweetly from up ahead, making sure not to look at you or make a big deal of it. He knows you’ll run if put under any more pressure. Especially with where he’s leading you.

“Cállate, Rico,” a playful smack to the back of his head like you’ve seen his mother pantomime doing.

Oh no. She’s going see your face one day, too. Your regrets are playing Tetris at this point.

“Aww! I want a personalised nickname for ‘em too! Hmm…” they fall into silence for a while, making plenty of exaggerated sounds. “Yeah, I’m stuck on King Crab.”

“What?! Why?” you whine.

“‘Cause you’re so tough and snappy but you’re so soft underneath the shell,” they supply, far too pleased with themself.

“I like it,” Ortega laughs.

“You’re killing me today guys.”

You all stop walking. Or rather Ortega stops, and you crash into him—that damned blank spot of a man—and Anathema crashes into you, always speed walking trying to keep up with your legs.

Three Stooges, just like Owl said. You bristle at the thought of her and wrinkle your nose.

“You’re not dead just yet. One more stop to go,” Ortega says, rubbing his neck as he turns and looks at you sheepishly.

“Huh?”

You turn your head and see exactly what he means: Rangers HQ.

“…No. Absolutely not.”

Before you can even side step either of them, they’ve both got you by an arm, planting themselves.

“King! It’s just the rest of the team: you know them.” Anathema’s looking up at you, trying to give you a half-assed puppy dog face you blatantly ignore by looking over their short head.

“Oh, yeah. It’s only Sentinel and Sunstream and the entire staff and whoever w-watches your security and visitors and Steel! Nothing big.” You stress the last name heavily, as if that should say all it needs to.

“It’s just Steel, Chrysantamum. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You can’t resist the modded strength pulling you towards the building, and stepping back onto Anathema’s toes will do nothing: even if they weren’t wearing boots. Their cut off shorts stop right above the knee, but a kick like that won’t work either. Damned invulnerability.

“Let’s see: he could say he hates m-me to my actual face, he could see my actual face, he could exist within the same r-room with me outside of my suit, I could exist in the same room with him—also outside of my suit…”

The moment they let go to throw their hands up in defeat you reach up, grabbing your hood and tearing it down over your face harshly, just as you all get into the lobby. You turn on the spot and step into Ortega’s space aggressively, fists balled.

“No one gets my name who’s not core team. No one gets my f-face who’s not core team. You erase, or let me erase, all traces of me from the, from the cameras and security checks, and any room we end up in I get to disable any electronics. I’m not taking another step until you agree.”

At this close a proximity, Ricardo has to look up at you. His face is soft and understanding, as Anathema walks away to handle the front desk clerk. “Hey,” his voice equally soft but serious, “I promised. No cameras, no press, no net. Nothing you don’t feel comfortable doing.”

“I don’t feel comfortable w-with any of this, but I can’t exactly wipe your minds and go about my merry way, now can I? You know that’s a lot of work, even for me.”

You both wince at that low blow, instantly regretting it slipping past but refusing to back down. Neither of you need to mention the name Riley to know the implications of your comment.

“Got it, you feel cornered,” he sighs. “At any point: any time—doesn’t matter when—you decide you wanna leave? Just tell me, and I’ll walk you out; we’ll take the back way out, the works.” His face softens a bit to an apologetic smile. “Buuut I definitely can’t let you into our security system without clearance: you’ll have to settle for tearing apart accessible wires. We’ll call it a security test.”

“Deal.” You stomp away, headed over to the elevator where Anathema is waiting, trying to gather your nerves into adrenaline.

Just think of this like a fight.

The doors chime and open and your stomach pools to the floor as those two step right past you and go in, one leaning on the left, one leaning on the right. Both smug.

Bastards. Trapping you in a small space, easily pacified, easily taken out. Right in the belly of the beast itself. Not like before: a new threat.

You step in and turn around, looking out the doors like they’re your last chance at salvation. Your hands clench and unclench, your breathing is getting a little rough, you start to sweat and thoughts—too many to sift through—start to bubble.

Please no, not a panic attack in an elevator with two people you see regularly.

A hand quietly slips into yours and gives it a squeeze. The doors are closing but you look to your left, at Ortega who is looking up at the floor display, not at all paying close attention to you. You get another squeeze and catch a small lift in the corner of his lips. A squeeze back and they lift a little higher.

You turn back to the closed doors, swallowing hard as the movement kicks in, and take in a deep breath to kick out the images of an older, crueler place.

You’re only about to expose yourself to the entirety of a government-owned and monitored team of superheroes. You’ve done worse. Like escape another government-owned and independently ran black site. This is a piece of cake by comparison—it only completely puts your life in danger. Your teeth grind as the beep of arrival sounds.

Chen is at the doors, just as they open, looking up from the papers in hand. He looks wide-eyed at you, trying to figure out who you are before his eyes go down to your hand in Ortega’s. He frowns and narrows his eyes at you.

Idiot, idiot, idiot!

#the mischief scribbles #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #Ricardo Ortega #Anathema #fallen hero: rebirth #pre-Rebirth #fh:r #Sidestep #King thinks wordy thoughts but says so little #chargestep (implied)

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legrandepapillon · 6 years ago

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Missing In Action (thaurens)

Summary: In military terminology, desertion is the abandonment of a duty or post without permission and is done with the intention of not returning. In military terminology, John Laurens is a war criminal. In military terminology, so is Thomas Jefferson. Prompt: Person A is a soldier that went AWOL after watching his battalion execute a group of teenage soldiers. Person B is helping them hide from the military officials looking for them. Author’s Notes: (WWII AU, part II of II) I dunno why I’m doing this series (maybe its because the current political climate is scarily similar to the one from the war days before and during the Holocaust) but I do know that I’m having a little fun exploring it. I am fascinated by both of the world wars and do a lot of research on them for fun, so it feels nice to be able to have my two hobbies crossover. I chose the prompt of desertion for Laurens because c’mon… he would so desert if the military’s actions weren’t morally sound. hopefully, the next time I do a series, it’ll be for the seven deadly sins.

c. 1942-1943

When Thomas Jefferson is shocked awake in the middle of the night by a loud banging on the door of the house he shares with his family, he immediately begins to worry for the couple sleeping in the room over. Ever since George had returned from the war, he and Lafayette spent all of their time together—there wasn’t a moment they weren’t apart, they'd even gotten some perverted version of common law married. Lafayette flounced about Shadwell with a diamond on his ring finger and Washington walking around with a gold band on his like idiots—each speaking of some made-up French wife when asked about it. Though their immediate family knew the truths of their relationship, it was still a secret that needed desperately to be kept elsewhere. And for a moment, Thomas worries that it hadn't been.

As he takes his flashlight down the flight of stairs with him to see who could possibly be at the door at this time of night, all sorts of horrid images run through his brain of his cousin and his secret lover being strung up and castrated by a mob of angry Virginians—especially after that incident where the Mayor’s daughter almost caught the two of them in bed together. The images are made more realistic when Thomas remembers that George would be shipping out to Germany the next morning—they had probably figured that it would better to be now than miss their chance of killing the sodomite.

However, he is—either pleasantly or unpleasantly, the debate of that would be saved for later—surprised to find not a mob of angry townsfolk standing on the porch of the manor, but the freckle-faced soldier he’d befriended two years ago during a pen pal program standing at his door. The young man is soaking wet and shivering from the cold and heavy downpour of April rain. Corporal John Laurens.

“John?” Thomas asks, reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes in the confusion. He shines the light off the porch and into the night—looking for some sort of trap to be sprung, or waiting to wake up from the strange dream. Neither of those things comes, which only makes the worry lines on his forehead even deeper. “What are you doing here? What happened? Are you alright? What happened to being in Japan?”

“Let me in, Thomas. Please,” John pleads, his eyes wild and desperate as he looks over his shoulder. Jefferson eyes him strangely, naturally hesitant. He’d only met the young soldier once before when he’d come back stateside briefly for Christmas. Despite the fact that they’d been friends for two years, exchanging quite intimate letters, Thomas still didn’t particularly know the man very well. After all, they'd only met in person once—and it had been very briefly—but all of a sudden the soldier had shown up on his doorstep. In the midst of a world war.

“What happened, John? What’s wrong?” he asks warily, brows furrowing nervously. The look of exhaustion in the soldier’s eyes quickly unsettles him though, so he steps aside so that John can get into the house—hurriedly locking the door behind him. When he turns around, John is standing in the middle of the foyer—using his equally wet undershirt to attempt to dry his hair. “Laurens?”

“Thomas, you should’ve seen the shit they did… in Japan… it was… oh god,” John’s eyes are shocked with red and brimming with tears when he turns around, blending seamlessly with the rainwater still on his face. “They were kids, Thomas. The oldest couldn’t have been more than seventeen. And they were jus’ executed. In cold blood, right in front o’ my face. I couldn’t… I couldn’t fight that stupid fuckin’ war no more.”

“What are you talking about, John?” Jefferson asks, guiding him through the manor to the closest bathroom. If he's being completely honest with himself, seeing the other man in such a distressed state was not only worrying him but breaking his very heart. All the pictures he'd ever been sent of John, the freckled man had been sporting a bright smile—even when his eyes betrayed the truth of his psyche. He'd grown accustomed to Laurens’ happiness, had even become dependant on it for his own, in a way. To see him this way was absolutely crushing.

He hands the soldier one of the warm, fluffy towels from the rack and watches with straying eyes as the man strips of his clothes. He spots scars—whipping scars, by the looks of it—forming almost a sort of railroad track across his back, crisscrossing over each other with varying degrees of freshness. The newest can't be but a year old. Strong muscles move and work beneath tanned, freckled skin as John sheds his soaking wet clothing—stirring a shameful pit of desire in Thomas’ stomach.

Jefferson only abashedly averts his eyes when John looks over his shoulder to speak again, voice sounding more broken and sad with each word.

“I'm talkin’ about the outright murder of children. My platoon came ‘cross a group of Japanese child soldiers. There was this massacre in Nanking before the war… and it left a lot of innocent folks dead. So my platoon got their revenge. Some of them raped those boys, others just flat out tortured ‘em. Then they shot them in ditches and took body parts as souvenirs. Heads, eyes, hands. I couldn't stand it after that. I'd watched these fuckers sodomize a Nazi’s wife and child, massacre entire villages… I couldn't do it anymore, Thomas. I refuse to go down in history as a monster. I deserted. Took a refugee boat leavin’ Japan here to America, and hiked from California to Virginia. To you.”

John turns fully at his last words, bringing a bruised hand up to Thomas’ face—pushing his kinky curls from his cheeks and staring at him affectionate yet sorrowful green eyes. Jefferson almost leans into the touch, almost allows himself to be comforted by the fact that the man he'd disgracefully fallen in love with was finally here—but then those awful mental images of Gilbert and George being hung and castrated cruelly return, and he pulls away from the touch as if it'd scalded him.

“Oh my God, John! Desertion is a war crime!” Thomas exclaims, instead of dwelling too long on that fluttery feeling in his chest. “You're a traitor!”

“You don't think I know that!? I already know I'm bein’ court-martialed, the military is lookin’ for me—I almost had a run-in in with an Army base in Texas, and my father already told me that if I go back to North Carolina he'll turn me in the second he catches a look at my face. But I'd rather commit this war crime than murder any more innocent people. I went to war because I didn't believe in what Germany was doing to those poor jewfolk. But I don't believe in what US troops are doing to those commies either. Please, Thomas. I need you to hide me out for awhile.”

Giving a frustrating grunt, Jefferson turns away from the young soldier. There's a conflict stirring in his mind, and he wrings his hands together nervously as he debates himself.

On one hand, he doesn't want John around. Not only because the man was a war criminal and a traitor—which put far too much heat on a household already helping to cover up one crime—but because he'd mistakenly fallen in love with the young soldier through their letters. They'd been writing for several years at this point, but that had been something Thomas knew he could handle. Distance—the extent of their communication being held within the pieces of paper they sent each other. As long as John wasn't a material temptation standing before him, as long as there was no crime to commit, the young man could quell the desires that waged wars within him. He could bury it and lock it away, marry some nice Christian girl just like his mother wanted him to and pretend that his affections were nothing but a schoolyard crush.

But with John here, in this house with him… especially after months of seeing just how happy Gilbert was whenever his George was around… Thomas just isn't so sure he'll be able to control himself. The young soldier certainly wasn’t terribly hard on the eyes and he was far too good of a man for Thomas to resist falling for his mind all over again. The thoughts of loving touches and late nights spent together, wrapped within each other’s arms and simply enjoying being together… Jefferson had tried to burn them out of his mind and lock them away. But now they were no longer wishful. If he gave in, if he just conceded to take a taste of that cursed apple…

“I don't know, Laurens. I'm already helping one too many criminals.”

“What're you talking about?”

“General George Washington and my cousin are… ahem… engaged. Illegally, of course, but the idiots say they're in love and Lafayette has always been the more childish of us… we don’t have the heart to deny them. Of course, my cousin is… well, he's got the wrong fixings to be publicly married to a General,” Jefferson realizes he’s nervously rambling and turns on his heel to face John—who had stopped in the midst of running himself a warm shower. Sitting there on the edge of their bathtub with wide-shocked eyes, he looks positively adorable and Thomas hates how that’s the first thought that comes to mind.

He barely gives a passing thought to the fact that John doesn’t even miss a beat at the thought of Washington being attracted to men.

“General Washington? Is here?” Laurens asks nervously, rising from his spot on the edge of the bathtub to peek outside the bathroom door—his eyes dart wildly around before he closes the door and locks it, pressing his back against it and fluttering his eyes closed.

“Yes, he's asleep upstairs. Why is there something wrong with him being here?”

“I have to get out of here. He’s known for being merciless with deserters… he’ll send me straight to prison, and I can’t go there. They’ll kill me, Thomas and I don’t wanna die over somethin’ like this.”

“Hey, hey, no! No, you don't have to go anywhere,” Thomas exclaims, placing his hands on John’s shoulders in order to keep him still from where he’d begun pacing. If only just to calm that deranged, cornered animal look that’s in his eye. He knew all too well from living with the General what a cornered soldier looked like, and it wasn’t pretty. “He's leaving for Germany tomorrow—first thing in the morning, Lafayette is driving him down to the docks to ship off. You can sleep in my room tonight, and in the morning we'll see about getting you to Canada.”

“So you’ll help me? You understand why I did what I did?”

“Of course, John.”

Admittedly, Thomas doesn’t fully understand what this promise entails… might not really grasp what he’s signing himself up for. He’s still quite young, and naive in his own right when it came to matters of the law. Though significantly smarter than most boys his own age—managing to find an excuse well enough to dodge the draft was smart as hell—he still hadn’t been smart enough to make the effort of finding out the consequences of harboring a war fugitive. And due to this oversight, when he returns home from grocery shopping ten months after agreeing to let John Laurens stay with the Jefferson family, he is met with the consequences of this.

It’s a fairly snowy day in Shadwell, Virginia—the old Monticello plantation looks almost like one of those catalog homes, sitting prettily against the backdrop of the greyed skies and drizzle of snow and the frozen manmade lake in front of it reflecting the trees surrounding the manor. To his knowledge, Thomas and John are the only two staying at Monticello through the Winter. Lafayette had moved down to the Mount Vernon plantation near the Potomac on request from George to handle some of the manors affairs in his absence and would be there indefinitely. And most of his family had retired to their home in New Zealand to wait out the cold weather, especially since his sister was terribly prone to colds.

For nearly three months, Thomas and John had the vast Monticello estate to themselves. It had been a lovely experience, including many nights of passionate sex in front of the living room fireplace. To Thomas’ knowledge, there was no one that knew of John Laurens’ whereabouts. According to the military, he was supposed to be MIA or deserted.

Jefferson had begun to get notions of living out a long, happy life with his soldier—unbothered by the American military or the war. Of course, he’s young. Naive. Though, a bit too smart for these fantasies. He should’ve known better.

For as he pulls up to the snowy, frozen fields of his home, his stomach immediately sinks to his toes at the sight of the local Sheriff’s car sitting in the driveway—obviously either waiting for Thomas or come to take John away for good.

Once he reaches the driveway and has safely parked beside the Sheriff’s car, Thomas tries his best to come off as innocently as possible. He wouldn’t want any of his strange behavior to tip off the policeman if he wasn’t there for any important reasons.

“Good evening, officer,” Thomas calls out plainly, adjusting the bags of groceries in his arms so that he can pull his coat tighter against the cold. Sheriff Seabury turns on his heel rapidly at his voice, shock evident all over his pale face. It takes all of Jefferson’s muscles to keep a neutral expression, and not frown at the odd reaction. “How can I help you this evening?”

“Well, Thomas. I must say, I am a bit surprised. Your father asked me to come by. Said there was a missing soldier holding you hostage and demanding board for the winter. Is that true?”

“H-holding me hostage?” Thomas stutters out, confusion now completely taking over his countenance—despite his efforts to remain as calm and collected as possible. Why would his father do such a thing? It was one matter to call the police to the residence on a wellness check, knowing that John was there and could be found out. But another matter entirely to tell the local Sheriff that not only was there a deserted hiding out in their home, but that said deserted soldier was anything but a friend and was actually holding Thomas hostage. “I admit, I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.”

Seabury nods, looking around once more. He’d always been a bit of a mousy young man, so Thomas honestly expects him to take his word for it and go. Besides, even if what Peter Jefferson had reported was true—Seabury was a white Sheriff in the very deep South. He had no obligation to any young black man, even one whose grandfather had amassed large amounts of wealth by selling off some of Monticello’s land following his childless slave master’s death. If there was a soldier in there, threatening harm onto the prodigal Jefferson son, it was of a high probability that Seabury would care more about a local white shopkeeper’s home getting vandalized than a threat on Thomas Jefferson’s life.

Which, of course, is why Thomas is once again shocked when Seabury rests his hand on his gun says, “Well, I better have a look around. Just in case. Make sure you're safe.”

Swallowing thickly, Thomas gives a curt nod and fumbles through his pockets for his keys. What else is he to do? If he denies the Sheriff, he might draw even more suspicion and the manor would be searched anyway. He can only hope that John might’ve well had the sense to hear the car rolling up or the conversation going on and hide away.

When the door swings open, Thomas takes a sigh of relief at the sight of the place completely desolate. He makes quick business of the groceries, setting them on the dining room table before turning back to Seabury—who is taking small peeks around corners and into closets, as though he’s looking for a monster under a child’s bed.

“See?” Thomas says quietly, as he shrugs out of his coat and goes to light the fireplace. Doing his very best to make himself seem polite but simultaneously nonchalant, he even offers the man a seat. “No deranged soldier here. I assure you, Mr. Seabury, I am perfectly fine. The house is empty, save for myself.”

“I see… you mind if I ask why you didn’t go with your family? I hear their property in New Zealand is beautiful this time of year. Warm weather year round, it is, ain’t it?”

“Yessir,” Thomas mumbles, before clearing his throat and straightening his back. As he does, he sees John—when Seabury had turned his back to face Thomas in his spot in the dining room, John had apparently snuck from his hiding space in a cupboard. It takes all the nerves in Thomas’ body to remain focused on the conversation. “Last year we had vandals on the property when everyone left. I offered to stay behind so that Father didn’t have to pay so much to the insurance company this year.”

“Ah, I see…” Samuel says, seemingly giving the place his stamp of approval. He’s just about to turn to leave when he catches a glimpse of John in the hallway mirror and gives a loud shout. “Hey! Stop right there!”

“John, run!” Thomas shouts, closing the space between himself and the Sheriff by tackling the officer. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, attacking a fully-armed white cop like this—it goes against the very nature of his entire upbringing. He’d always been taught to keep his head down and his nose clean. Obey every law there was, speak with propriety in his tongue. Give them no reason to bother him, and they wouldn’t.

But it seems he’s willing going against his instinctual nature for the love of the renegade soldier.

Samuel is cursing and shouting, but all Thomas can focus on is the gun. His hand is right over the barrel of the small revolver, and if Sheriff Seabury could get his finger on the trigger, it would be blown right to bits. All he has to do is give it one good yank to pull it entirely from the smaller man's grasp, but it’s a difficult task with the Sheriff attempting to use what little weight he has to his advantage—slamming his upper body against Thomas’.

Adrenaline pumps through Thomas’ veins as Seabury gets a better grip on the gun, and he stares deep into the other man’s angry, startled green eyes. He knows that he’s using this battle—that in a few seconds, the Sheriff would slip his finger onto the trigger and pull. Briefly, he wonders if there will be any body for his family to bury. Or would he be ripped to bits by the angry white citizens of Shadwell?

He hopes John has gotten out safely. Hopes that the man had already taken the car and driven as far as he can, away from the inevitable mess. He prays that John stays safe.

Thomas lets go of the gun the second two loud shots ring through the air and closes his eyes in anticipation. There’s no pain, there’s nothing. He wonders if he’s already dead, or if this is what dying feels like.

But then Seabury slumps back, and Thomas’ eyes open again to find the Sheriff’s cold and dead—staring straight ahead at the ceiling. Looking around, Thomas’ eyes land on his lover—who still has the gun in hand, eyes furious, and breathing hard. He recognizes the weapon as something that John had come to Monticello with, having stolen it from the armory when he deserted.

Eventually, the blood leaking from the holes in Seabury’s head begin to stain the carpet, forming a wine red halo around his head.

“John…” Thomas exhales, eyes filled with fear as the realization of what just happened settles over him. John Laurens, deserter, war fugitive, trained soldier had just killed Samuel Seabury. The town Sheriff of Shadwell, Virginia. This certainly meant two things—Thomas Jefferson was now also a criminal, and he was very quickly going to become a fugitive as well. “What have you done?”

Laurens ignores him, his expression falling into something steely and cold as he drops the still smoking gun beside the dead man's body and turns towards the staircase. “Pack some clothes. We’re getting out of Virginia before someone comes looking for Captain-Save-A-Lot.”

Author’s Note: if you want to read more about deserters and the people that harbor them (especially those during WWII), here are the links I used for research: [max punishment for desertion: dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay, five years imprisonment & max punishment for harboring a deserter: fines & three years imprisonment]

https://www.npr.org/2013/06/17/189275754/wwii-deserters-stories-of-men-who-left-the-front-lines

https://military.findlaw.com/criminal-law/failure-to-report-for-duty-awol-and-other-charges.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desertion

https://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/text/18/1381

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theyareskewed · 7 years ago

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Chapter Three

Hey everybody! Here is the very late release of Chapter Three. I’ll release more as soon as I am able, sorry for the wait.

The dull thud of wood on wood was extremely prominent in the mid-morning camp. There was a small crowd of people clustered around a relatively clear area beside the highway on the dry soil. Dust was swirling around the group as they watched the ongoing tussle with interest.

Razz was standing with her knees slightly bent in the middle of three others with weapons. Her machete was in one hand, tomahawk in the other. They had their blades embedded in wood so that if a strike was made there would be no blood. The other three people were armed as well, one with a mace, another with a whip, and the final with several daggers, shanks, and shivs of different shapes and sizes.

Sin moved first, flicking her whip out with a sharp crack, aiming for Razz’s feet. Razz’s lips curled into a smile as she leaped forwards, just barely skimming past the whips location and landing neatly. She turned on her heel and began to sprint towards the mace-wielding boy named Kane.

He hefted his weapon above his head, and swung it down at her as soon as she came near, but she deftly paused right before she got into range and alternated her path from directly at him to towards his left. She moved with speed, racing past him and giving him a solid thwack with the machete held in her right hand as she passed. Now that she was behind him, she slid back a small bit, allowing herself time to regain her solid footing. Kane turned to her, and swung his mace towards her with more speed than she’d predicted.

Razz whipped up her machete, bracing it with both arms though she still held the tomahawk in her left. She winced as the mace-wielder cracked his weapon into hers, jolting her entire body. The distinctive pop of joints cracking echoed just behind the sound of the impact and Razz leaped forwards, slamming her tomahawk into Kane’s collarbone with the flat of the blade, so as not to harm him.

He gave a little involuntary yelp, and Razz was grinning in a rather disturbing way now. She shoved him away with all her strength, which simply caused him to stumble a tiny bit, and began to run towards Dee.

Dee’s face was curved into a smile even more unnerving than Razz’s. Her eyes were unsettlingly filled with enjoyment and satisfaction as Razz approached her.

The moment Razz was in range to swing at Dee, the younger girl leaped backward, arching her back so that the blade of Razz’s machete brushed past her. She smacked the back of Razz’s arm with her own, lunging forwards to add more to the shove.

Razz stumbled rather significantly, nearly catching herself before there was a sharp whistle and something black and leathery wrapped itself around her ankles. With a swift tug, it was over.

Razz hit the ground face first, coughing as the wind was knocked out of her. She groaned, rolling over onto her back and grabbing her chest, Tomahawk lying in the dust beside her. Her machete was still held in the hand not clutching her ribs, however. Claps and whistles echoed around from the bystanders as they hucked different colored stones at each other in payment for their bets.

“You’re dead,” Dee said coolly, standing over her with eyes of steel.

“Yeah, no shit,” Razz grumbled, looking away from the blond haired guard.

“What did you do wrong?” Dee prompted her, a minor bit of irritation now in her gaze.

“Nothing,” Razz muttered, propping herself up and continuing to avoid the guard master's eyes.

“That’s bullshit,” Dee spat, “I’ve spoken to you about this every fight since we started training your sorry ass!”

Razz couldn’t restrain herself as she turned to Dee with fiery eyes. “Wanna call me that again?” She snapped.

“You answer the damn question and maybe I won’t have to call you that,” Dee hissed.

Razz and Dee stared one another down for several long seconds before the former finally relented. “Fine,” she muttered, “I didn’t look behind my back, and I let myself get unbalanced.”

“Damn right you did,” Dee snapped stepping away from Razz, “Let me show you how it’s done one more damn time.” She walked back over towards the central area of their training, and shouted, “Sin, Kane, form up!”

The pair quickly moved into positions on either side of Dee, weapons drawn. The girl in the middle was easily a full head smaller than just Sin, much more than that in comparison to Kane, and yet she radiated confidence.

The girl waited for one of the others to move first. The moment that they did, she sidestepped and calmly spun her weapons in her hands. She moved towards Kane, her steps fluid as she leaned out of the way of his first swing, one weapon facing forwards and the other held behind her back. The second Kane finished his swing, she neatly elbowed him on the shoulder blade and sent him tumbling to the ground.

She then turned, her second weapon flying up to block Sin’s whip. The black leather curled around her shank, and Dee glowered, dropping the useless weapon and grabbing the whip. She yanked it hard, jerking Sin forwards before turning again to jab her weapon at Kane’s back before he could get himself back up. She whirled towards Sin again, and before the raven haired girl could get her dagger from its holster Dee held her shiv at her opponent’s throat.

“Game over,” Dee hissed, dropping the whip and stepping away from Sin to scoop up her shank.

She turned to Razz with smoldering eyes, and said coolly, “maybe put a bit of effort into it next time.”

Razz glowered right back at her, and after several long seconds, Dee turned away, tossing her weapons at Chrys who was in the crowd.

“Get those ready for an actual fight,” she ordered, before blowing past the crowd.

Razz didn’t pay attention to where the blond girl went from there. She was too irritated to care. She was seething, and almost threw an elbow when Major laid his hand on her shoulder.

He leaped back, lifting up his hands in an ‘I come in peace’ gesture.

“What the fuck do you want,” she hissed, glowering at him.

“Easy, Spitfire,” he said evenly, “just coming to tell you that your twin wants you.”

She stared at him, sensing that there was more.

“Alright, alright. I also came to say that you shouldn’t take Dee so seriously. Kid’s been through a lot, she doesn’t mean to cause such harm.”

“She’s a bitch,” Razz snapped, “we’ve all been through a lot, but not all of us are as much of a bitch as she is.”

“Very few of us actually watched our families be slaughtered, Razz. Just- cut her some slack, ok? She’s younger than you.”

“Screw off Major,” Razz said, rolling her eyes and starting to storm away, “I’m going to go find Gwen.”

Major watched her go, Razz could feel his eyes on her back and she resisted the temptation to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy, and at his head. The only thing she was remotely grateful for was the fact that he didn’t call after her.

She didn’t really intend to go after her twin. Gwen would be busy organizing the patrolling for the day, and Razz had no say. She didn’t want to sit quietly on the ground behind her twin while the taller girl did the commanding and she was left to mutter ineptitudes under her breath.

No, going to Gwen just wouldn’t do. With a deep sigh, Razz walked over to the farthest edge of their camp and settled down in the dust. She pulled her weapons around so that she could see them, and went about pulling the chunks of wood off of their edges. It was as if the blades sighed in relief, a crushing weight lifted off of their chests.

Razz sighed, lying down so that her back and head had contact with the dusty ground. She closed her eyes, hugging the machete to her chest. The black metal was hot in the afternoon sun, and she relished the burn in her hands. She wanted the callouses to harden, wanted her hands to burn and scald until the warmth of her blade was no longer painful. That was how she would survive, she reminded herself every time the burn grew too intense, and she did not remove her hands.

She couldn’t say how long she lay there but eventually, her peace was disturbed.

“Razz. Razz get your ass up.”

Razz opened one eye, staring at her sister, entirely unimpressed. “That’s how I’m treated now?” she asked mildly, closing her eye again, “like a dog that isn’t listening?”

“Oh my god, you’re impossible,” Gwen groaned loudly, “can’t you just get UP?”

Razz waited just a moment before she could sense her twins irritation and she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Satisfied?” She asked, her sarcasm thinly veiled as she stared her twin down.

Gwen took a deep breath. “Can you just- stand. Please?”

Razz rolled her eyes, and dropped her arms to her sides, pulling the machete and tomahawk off her chest. She stood then, looking away from Gwen to shove the machete through a pocket with a hole in the bottom and hook her machete to her back, the grip rising just above her right shoulder. She turned her eyes back to her twin, and said with more calm, “What do you want, Gwen?”

“You fought with Dee again,” Gwen said, her eyes tired, “that’s the fifth time this week Razz. You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Razz said, irritation creeping back into her tone, “if Dee was less of a prick-”

“No, Razz, no. I’m stopping you right there. I’m pulling you from the guards.”

Razz was immediately hit by a wave of insult. “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Gwen said, her eyes tired as she did her best to ignore the fury that emanated from her sister, “You’re being reassigned.”

“To where?” She was angry, truly angry. “I’ve been everywhere else! Ray says I’m too headstrong for the Scouts, the Cache won’t have me, you don’t need another pack mule, and now you’re telling me I don’t fit in with the group of headstrong pricks?”

“Yes,” Gwen said, “That is exactly what I am saying. If you would shut your mouth, maybe I’d tell you where you’re going!”

Fair point. Razz fell silent.

Gwen waited for several seconds, and Razz could feel her anger mounting again but she held her tongue. Finally, Gwen spoke.

“You will be in a free rider group.”

“What the fuck is that?” Razz asked though it was apparent that her anger was subsiding.

“I know you, and I know that you… think. Differently.” Gwen rolled her eyes at herself and then rephrased it. “I want you to think for me.”

“Once again,” Razz said, sarcasm so thick it dripped from her words like syrup, “what the fuck is that?”

Gwen thought for a second. “Strategist,” she finally said, “I want you to be my strategist.”

Razz could not find the words to argue with this choice. She stumbled over her words for several seconds before finally managing to coherently ask, “Why me? What would it entail?”

“You’ll help with organizing the scouting patterns, and when we have to fight, you’ll join the fighters. Any sort of large attack that we notice in time will be yours to command until the fighting begins, then you will defer to Dee like everyone else will in that situation. We’ll figure more stuff out as we go, but that’s the gist of it.”

Razz stared at Gwen for several long seconds and then let out a whoop. “Are you kidding? You better not be kidding!”

“I’m not kidding,” Gwen said, a well-deserved smile curling onto her lips.

Razz cheered again, almost tackling her twin in a hug. Gwen let out a small giggle and hugged Razz back, before shoving her off. “Come on, bitch sister,” she taunted, using the hated nickname that she used when Razz was being annoying, “let’s go see about making sure your aptitude is correct at the Cache.”

“Wow”, Razz snorted, “nice of you to pull out that name again.”

“I knew you’d love it,” Gwen teased, now out of Razz’s reach.

Razz gave a little noise of indignation and darted after her twin, punching her in the arm. “We all know,” she said with sarcasm barely veiled in her voice, “that you’re the bitch in this duo.”

Gwen smiled broadly, and without another word, they walked towards the main part of the camp, side by side.

They opted to get something to eat before going to meet up with the Weapons Cache. Razz insisted like usual that they eat from her dwindling store of food instead of the group’s significantly larger one, but Gwen didn’t protest. They ate in a peaceable silence, and after that stood to make their way to the Cache.

It struck Razz again once they approached the small, exclusive group. They were so odd.

She looked them up and down as she approached, the small things registering in her brain. The dark brunette she knew- that was Chrys, the leader. She had become… acquainted with the short heterochromatic eyed girl in a scuff over who owned what weapon. Bonnie- that was her name, yes. The final member of the group she had not yet been introduced to, though she had seen them around camp. She had heard some of the gossip, about how the pepper-haired kid wasn’t ‘normal’, but it didn’t particularly phase her. Afterall, none of them were normal by this point.

Normal wasn’t something that you called a kid after they had killed something living. It wasn’t what you called a kid after they lived alone on the streets for weeks, or banded into a ragtag group of different ages, lifestyles, and beliefs.

No, they were not normal. Not one of them. So what did it matter if the third member of the Cache wasn’t ‘normal’.

Razz let Gwen lead her into the midst of the trio, drawing herself up so that she would come off as a larger person. She knew that she wasn’t the biggest person, and she did her best to let her personality beef up her size.

“Chrys, Bonnie, Ven,” Gwen said, nodding to each of them in turn, “you’ve all heard of Razz by now.”

The three members of the Cache nodded their heads in near unison, eyes watching the twins with an unimpressed expression.

“Well, she’s been here a bit now and I think it’s time that we do aptitude work.”

“That’s Chrys’ department,” Ven said mildly, their voice inflecting a mix of curiosity and distrust.

Razz knew that already, but she didn’t say anything. She simply turned towards Chrysoberyl’s unimpressed face and stared.

Chrys stared back, equally unimpressed.

After a moment of awkward staring, Gwen spoke up.

“Uh… guys? Can we… get to the whole… aptitude thing?”

Chrys gestured to Bonnie. The small girl stood, uttering a curse under her breath as she walked to her bag.

“We have to get you a couple of weapons to try out first,” Chrys explained coolly, her voice unimpressed but firm, “At least one of each aptitude.”

Razz was just slightly embarrassed that she didn’t know exactly what each aptitude was, but she didn’t really want to ask. Asking would make her seem much less in control.

“The aptitudes are towards heavy, light, or medium weapons,” Gwen explained quickly, sensing Razz’s faint confusion, “and from there they get divided into long distance, middle range, or melee.”

“You’ll be designated a primary aptitude and a secondary one,” Chrys said mildly. “Medium weapons,” Gwen explained quickly, sensing Razz’s faint confusion, “and from there they get divided into long distance, middle range, or melee.”

“You’ll be designated a primary aptitude and a secondary one,” Chrys said mildly, catching on, “one that’s based around distance, and one around melee. We want you to be able to beat the shit out of something up close if you don’t have the ability to smack it from afar.”

Razz resisted the urge to laugh at that mental image. “Fair enough,” she said.

“I’ve got the weapons,” Bonnie interrupted, straightening from beside the massive backpack. She was literally covered in weapons, from head to toe. She had a massive sniper rifle strapped to her back, several pistols and a few revolvers strapped to her hips, and some smaller rifles and shotguns slung over her shoulders. That was just the guns. She was decked out with staffs, knives, blades, maces and bludgeons, shanks, shivs, spears, and every other classification of weapon you could imagine.

It didn’t seem possible for the tiny blond girl to be able to carry so much, but she didn’t seem to be too phased.

“Let’s get away from the main area,” Chrys prompted, already walking away.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Gwen said quietly over her twin’s shoulder, “I have to go check on the others.”

Razz gave her a rather desperate look.

Gwen giggled. “You’ll be fine! I’ll be over in the main area, you can come and get me once you’re finished.”

“Hey!” Chrys was yelling from an area farther away from them. “Let’s move it!”

Razz didn’t allow herself any more hesitation. She broke away from her twin, heading to meet Chrys.

The testing took several hours longer than Razz expected. It involved a lot of target practice, with a range of guns. She started off small, handling the smallest of the handguns and slowly building up to the rifles. She was then handed spears, staffs, whips, and any other weapon that couldn’t swing out as far as everything else but still went farther than a simple melee weapon.

That was just the distance weapons.

After breaking up fence post after fence post, Razz was expected to take the handheld weapons and beat the shit out of a skeletal looking tree, devoid of all leaves.

The sun was starting to set by the time Chrys told her she could stop.

Razz was panting, exhausted and hungry. She turned angry blue-green orbs towards Chrysoberyl, waiting to hear the final decision.

“So?” she asked after several long moments.

Chrys rolled her neck, and shrugged. “Well,” she said evenly, “you’re definitely a medium to lightweight.”

“Thanks,” Razz muttered sarcastically, rubbing her wrists. Some of her blisters had popped, and new ones had formed. She stung all over.

Chrys waited a moment more before saying anything else. “You’re a medium melee primary,” she decided, “and a medium long range secondary.”

“Which means what?”

“You get to keep your machete,” Chrys said evenly, “and you’ll be assigned a handgun and a rifle to go with your tomahawk. The knives can stay, I suppose, but they’re not something you should be working with regularly.”

Razz heaved a sigh. She got to keep her weapons.

“Where did you even get all of this shit anyway?” she asked.

“Lots and lots of illegal looting,” Chrys said without emotion, turning away. “Yo, Bonnie!”

Bonnie looked up from her position beside Ven over with the group.

“Let’s get this shit cleaned up!”

Bonnie lifted a hand to show that she’d heard, and she said something to her friend before she began making her way towards them.

“What’re you still doing here?” Chrys asked irritably, glowering at Razz.

Razz didn’t need another hint. She forced her legs to carry her back to the group, eyelids drooping. When she neared, Gwen was one of the first to notice her.

“Hey, Razz!”

Razz lifted a hand in greeting, and Gwen jogged over to her. The slightly taller twin wrapped an arm under Razz’s arms, supporting her a bit.

“Kicked your ass, did she?”

“Apparently,” Razz groaned, “aptitude testing takes several hours.”

“Yeah Chrys was vetting you pretty hard. Let’s get you over to Dusk for some help with those hands.”

“What about my hands?” Razz asked, looking down. She was surprised to see the blisters that had popped had begun to bleed a small bit. “Oh,” she intoned mildly, “I hadn’t realized.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Gwen said with a small bit of amusement, “come on now.”

They slowly made their way over to where Dusk was sitting, rummaging through a large bag of medical supplies. He glanced up when they neared, noticing Razz’s bloody hands, and he reached back into the bag.

“What the hell did you do?” he asked without much emotion.

“Chrys was aptitude testing her,” Gwen explained so that Razz didn’t have to. She helped her twin sit, and then settled down beside her, holding out Razz’s hand.

Dusk made a small noise of understanding, and pulled out some antibiotic cream and bandages. “I don’t have a lot of gauze,” he explained as he began to smear the medicine over her wounds, “but these bandages should be thick enough to protect the blisters until they heal.”

“Speaking of the testing,” Gwen said over Dusk’s explanation, “what did you get?”

Razz had been mostly zoning out, ignoring the sting to the best of her abilities. “Oh.” She blinked, before thinking back. “Uhh… Medium melee, and medium long distance?”

Dusk smiled faintly. “That’s the same as Gwen,” he reflected with a small bit of amusement as he finished binding Razz’s hands.

“Really?” she asked, tipping her head slightly, “I didn’t realize that we fought so similarly.”

“Chrys bases it off of body type, not fighting style,” Dusk explained evenly as he taped the end of the bandage to itself.

“Makes sense then,” Gwen said with a small snort of laughter, “we are you know, identical twins after all.”

“Oh really,” Dusk said, his voice crimping up in sarcasm, “I hadn’t noticed.”

Razz chuckled, looking down at her bandaged hands.

“You know,” Gwen said calmly, “they look kinda good on you.”

“Well I rock anything I wear,” Razz responded evenly, winking at her sister. She was rewarded with an obvious eye roll.

“What are you two doing up here?”

Razz yelped, ducking her head and swinging an arm out wildly.

She punched Major in the shin rather hard.

“Motherfucker,” he gasped out, bouncing backwards, “ow!”

“Oh shit!”

“I told you not to sneak up on her like that Major,” Gwen intoned mildly.

“Fuck that hurts!”

Razz winced slightly for him, shaking out her hand.

“That’s going to bruise,” he groaned, drawing out the last syllable in a plaintive tone.

“Don’t fucking sneak up on me, prick,” Razz muttered just loud enough to be heard.

Dusk chuckled a bit and shoved his supplies back into the bag. “Get the hell out of my area,” he said with amusement, and Gwen flipped him the bird in a loving way before getting to her feet.

“Come on, you two frickin babies.”

“Have you felt her punch?” Major gasped out, tentatively testing his shin.

“I’m her twin Major. I’ve been punched by her more times than I can count,” Gwen said evenly, and Razz smirked.

“That was gentle,” she warned him, “don’t mess with the hormonal teen.”

“Yeah no shit,” Major muttered, testing his leg again before settling back into a standing position.

Gwen shoved them both. “Move!”

“Ok, ok! We’re going!” Razz feigned exasperation as she started to jog away, clenching and unclenching her fists against the bandages, getting used to the feeling.

“Let’s go, Major!”

“I’m moving!”

The three moved off in a small bickering bundle back into the main part of the group. Once they arrived there, Razz couldn’t help but smile a little bit. The bandages really did suit her, and she couldn’t help but find a small bit of joy in this odd but caring group she had stumbled upon.

She felt that things might really be alright for once.

#Chapter Three #Chapter 3 #3 #Chapter #Writing #Release #Razz #Bonnie #Chrys #Gwen #Dusk #Ven #Sin #Kane #Swearing #Character Development #Fun #Platonic Fluff #Siblings

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teaboot · 8 years ago

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Writing Characters Who Self-Harm: (WARNINGS FOR BLOOD, ABUSE, AND GRAPHIC SUBJECT MATTER)

So, self-harm has a pretty shameful spotlight in general society, and perhaps because of that it seems difficult to find many first-hand accounts on the details of how it works. That said, I've come across a few stories that go about the topic... Somewhat crudely? So if it helps, here's a little breakdown. Keep in mind that it's different for everybody, so this isn't intended to be Holy Law From On High, just a handy reference for any writers who aren't familiar with SH looking to go about touching this subject. TRIGGER WARNINGS General warnings for blood, self-harm, descriptions of violence, etc. 1. BLOOD: Lots of scene imagery after a self-harm episode tends to focus on, "oh god, blood everywhere!" But the thing is, it's really difficult to get a significant amount of body juice out, (depending on the method), and it's not incredibly common for a self-harm problem to get that extreme. Usually, if there's an alarming quantity o' people ketchup present, than (MORE LIKELY) either 1. The person involved was under an unusually high amount of stress and didn't mean to go that hard, and it was accidental and they may be freaking out a little themselves; 2. Blood is the catharsis, not pain, in which case it *might* be produced from multiple small wounds as opposed to one big one, 3. O shit they didn't know there was an artery there, and 4. They might have pulled off a scab from an earlier wound- when this happens, the scab comes off with an amount of healing skin and tissue, creating a wound deeper than the original. Sometimes this bleeds more than the original damage, too, And 5. If the damage involves water or saliva, it can look like there's a lot more blood than there actually is. (This all being said, I have no personal experience with wounds located on forearms, and as such I'm personally uncertain how much blood is normal and expected.) 2. MOTIVE: I see a lot of stuff about knives and razors. Which, yeah, fair, but people can get damned creative when they're desperate. (See #3). That being said, not all self-harm involves cutting, or even breaking skin- self-harm is a coping mechanism where the individual needs to focus on something to either heighten or numb mental stimulus- the urge could be to do something meditative and methodical to distract from unmanageable thoughts and emotions, (or the absence thereof), or it could stem from a sense that they deserve punishment for a misdeed or failure. With punishment, the focus is likely to be on pain, both mental and physical. The end goal is relief from guilt, failure, and depression. With overload or numbness, the urge could simply be to see blood or get that rush of adrenaline that makes everything more manageable. Even aftercare can be soothing to someone who practices self-harm: the act of cleaning and treating and bandaging a damaged area can feel like self-care, like fixing something internally that can't otherwise be controlled. Even the act of self-harm itself can be an act of seizing control, of defying a sense of helplessness, of finally being able to change something. Again, everyone who SHs is different, but very common motives are shame, guilt, and helplessness. Triggers for episodes can include for each: SHAME: Shame is public by nature. Shame is guilt that is revealed to an audience, and as such it is triggered by social conflict. For example, an authority figure telling you you did something wrong, a parental figure expressing disappointment, a teacher calling you out on missing homework or skipping a deadline. Even a peer or peers saying something perceived as hurtful, like, 'your joke wasn't funny'. Non-verbal shame can come from botching a public presentation in front of a crowd, or forgetting something in a group task. Shame can result in numbness, overstimulation, or a need for retribution that is coped with using unpredictable forms of SH that are often kept hidden out of fear of further shame. GUILT: Guilt is private. Where shame is a socially motivated emotion, guilt is personally motivated. A good majority of human beings have a personal set of morals and ethics we adhere to: "Don't lie" could be one. Or, "Elderly persons deserve priority seating on the subway". A personal rule is something you believe is right, that you do your best to adhere to. Guilt happens when you are unable or unwilling to follow your own rules. Guilt comes from giving in to the temptation to do that 'wrong' thing, or from being physically unable to do the 'right' thing. Guilt is a roundabout plethora of 'I could have done this', 'but I didn't', 'therefore I am a bad person', 'but it's okay because of this', 'except making excuses is also against my personal rules', 'now I'm a worse person', 'I don't deserve to feel good', and again, it's different for everybody, but this can also spiral into self-destructive behaviour. HELPLESSNESS: This one in particular is incredibly common among people who have experienced abuse. People who have been restricted from making personal choices, people who are forced into looking a certain way, who are in difficult situations that seem impossible to change. These things are overwhelming and numbing and smothering, and self-harm can be a way of feeling like you have control. 'I can't overcome this situation, but I can overcome pain'. 'I'm not weak because I can handle this'. 'I can't cut my hair or change my appearance but I can change my skin'. Even having a lasting mark or bruise can be a reminder that 'there are things I can control'. 3. TOOLS: As mentioned in point 2, it's not always knives and razors. Those are the best-known, sure, but not all self-harm is cutting. It's true that once someone who self-harms becomes comfortable with a particular method or instrument, they often tend to stick to the familiar routine- either because the ritual itself is calming, or because they've become familiar with their personal limits, or for purely hygienic reasons. Many who practice SH make sure to sterilize puncture tools with soap, a lighter, antiseptic, etc. in order to avoid infection. Self-harm, in addition to cutting, can also manifest as: -Punctures or insertion, as with pins, -Abrasion, with pumice stone or sandpaper, -Scalding with too-hot water, -Burning with cigarettes or lighters, matches, candles, etc. -Elastic bands- repetitive snapping can cause bruises and flashes of pain, -Biting -Pinching -Bruising with fists or blunt objects -Kicking or punching hard objects -Fingernails -Interfering with wound healing- peeling scabs, poking, deepening bruises -Consuming substances that cause physical pain and discomfort -Freezing- sticking hands in ice or frigid water -Banging head or arms against solid objects, walls, furniture -Hitting and slapping -Poisoning -etc. Self-harm is dangerous, but it's normal. It is a coping mechanism that people use when they see no other options. It can be addictive. It can slowly escalate. It can end tragically, but in most cases death is not the goal. Coping mechanisms are used be people trying to live. People who self-harm are often secretive or ashamed. Our society is not kind to things it doesn't understand, and it's difficult to open dialogue when you know what people are thinking. 'Emo', 'attention whore', 'psycho'. That shit doesn't help. And frankly? It's not your tragedy porn. Try to be understanding. Try to keep an open mind. Don't try it yourself, because trust me, there's nothing beautiful or romantic about it and it's a long dark rabbit hole, but try and respect it as something that real people live with.

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