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subpar-ghoulfriend · 3 years ago

Text

A Family Affair

Slasher AU CannibalFamily!EraserMicxReader

We’re going with the “strange family that lives outside of a small town” trope. After a few deliveries to the Aizawa household you get pulled in to an affair you never wanted to be a part of.

Spooky season is upon us and I’ve already begun watching too many horror movies. This fic will definitely be a two parter

Super Dark Content Warning!!! Literally do not read if you have any reservation and definitely no minors!

TW: cannibal themes, mentions of murder, mentions of corpse mutilation, kidnapping, unhealthy relationships

Part 2 is gonna include more of this and the smut

Growing up you were grateful for living in a small town. You didn't really relate to the coming-of-age stories told in the movies where the small town girl runs off to the big city for a whirlwind romance and a chance at some "big break." To you, small town life was more picturesque than any overcrowded city. You knew your neighbors, and watched a lot of their families grow and change throughout the years. A small town allows you to become a regular at several businesses, including the coffee shop and your favorite diner downtown. Going away to college was tough even though you didn't go far. The nearest city - a little over 40 miles away - had a great college with a program you were really interested in pursuing.

You went home every break and picked up delivery jobs at one of the local restaurants. It was winter break of your last year in college when you first delivered to the Aizawa residence. In all your years at the restaurant they never ordered delivery, one of the two men would always place an order for pick up. The thing about small town stereotypes is that small towns tend to self-impose said stereotypes. The Aizawa's were that family. The one that everyone whispered when they came to town and children would tell horror stories about during Halloween. They were the weird family that lived just past the outskirts of town.

You weren't entirely sure what either of the two men did. Everyone speculated that Mr. Aizawa was some sort of mountain-man-feral type and maybe did some mechanic work for the folks that tend to live in between towns. His husband, Mr. Yamada seemed like the stay at home trophy husband but you heard he did some sort of conspiracy podcast. They had children - reportedly, but no one has really met them - and other family members that live similarly further out into the middle of nowhere. The drive was absurdly long but they were loyal customers and the owners didn't want to turn their request down. Your boss handed you a chunk of bills to fill up your tank before heading out. That's no place you'd want to get stranded, he told you.

The paved road got worse the further you got from town. Forty-five minutes later you were pulling down the dirt road that led to the illuminated Aizawa home. A wall of cold air slammed in to you when you opened your car door and you grumbled about leaving your gloves at home. There was no doorbell, so knocked and did that awkward please-don't-let-me-freeze dance while you waited. Two unfamiliar faces opened the door, an apathetic looking teen and an adorable little girl. Must be their children. The older one called out for his dad before taking one of the bags you held and disappearing into the home. You looked down awkwardly and wave at the girl. She smiled shyly and reached out for the other bag.

"Are you sure?" You asked her, "It's a little heavy."

She nodded.

"Okay, but use two hands," You passed her the bag. "Oh jeez, you're strong. Don't tell your brother, but I think this is the heavier bag."

You smiled when she giggled and ran off.

Mr. Aizawa appeared in the door, "How much do we owe?"

He was just as terrifying up close and for a split second your mind went blank while your basic instincts were begging you go back to the car. He raised an eyebrow at you, looking irritated at your falter.

"Uh - forty-two."

He pulled counted out a chunk of bills and then you were off. You didn't even count the amount until you parked. Forty-two with a forty-dollar tip. They may be odd but apparently they're loaded. You didn't think much of it until the following week when you were heading back to their house with another delivery. You wished that they would order earlier but at least you could hope for another generous tip. You were taken aback when the little girl answered the door by herself, jumping up and down with excitement.

Was she old enough to answer the door by herself?

"Papa," She yelled. "The lady is here!"

She turned her attention back to you with a huge grin, "Shinsou got sore that you told me I'm the stronger one."

Before you could respond to her the other man, Mr. Yamada, bounced around the corner, "Eri, what have we told you about the door? Oh no, you must be freezing come stand inside while I go get your payment. Forty-two right?"

You wanted to protest, feeling uneasy in their entryway but the little girl tugged you by the delivery bags. So you stood there quietly while she ran back in forth so she could unload the delivery for you. Shinsou peered around the corner so you gave a small wave. Then it was just you and Eri once again. In the background you could hear Yamada asking his husband where the wallet went.

"I like your shirt," You smiled, trying to fill the silence.

"I wanted a Pegasus shirt but this was the only one my daddy could find."

"Well I think unicorns are pretty cool too."

You use to babysit for some of the families in town, no part of you could imagine doing that all the way out here.

The blonde rejoined you, giving you another lush payment. You heard the little girl whine about you leaving so quickly until her father appeased her by saying you'd be back.

Something about that rubbed you the wrong way; but you were back like clockwork the next week with their usual delivery. Once again you were brought inside while they went to get your payment. But on your fourth and what should have been your final delivery of the winter break you noticed something was off when you parked. Their truck was missing from its usual spot. Strange but they probably just moved it somewhere else on the property. You had become accustom Eri running to answer the door and telling you wait for her parents in the entrance of the house. You became suspicious after she had run back and forth to take the food to the kitchen.

"Eri, where are your parents? Or Shinsou?"

The little girl's response was nonchalant, "They had to go out, one of our cattle got out. But they gave me the money."

You stuffed the money into your jacket; payment was the issue here. In the back of your mind you though about how you never saw any cattle on your deliveries. A child her age shouldn’t be left alone.

"Oh, well, can I hang out with you while we wait for them to come back?"

The little girl lit up as she pulled you to the living room. There was a kid's movie playing on the TV and she had a coloring book out. Eri divide up her crayons and tore out a page for you to join her. You kept looking to the window, waiting for the truck to pull up.

Suddenly there was banging at the door, which elicited a cry from Eri. You reached into your pocket only finding the crumpled bills. Shit, your stomach dropped. You left your phone in your car. After all, this was just supposed to be a quick delivery. The noise stopped, only for a moment, before resuming.

"Eri, sweetie," You whispered to the stunned little girl. "Do your parents have a phone here?"

She shook her head.

A man’s voice tore through the door, "Let me in dammit, you have to let me in before they come back."

You held your finger to your lip, and Eri nodded, repeating the gesture. The living room light was on and you realized that if he came to the side of the house you'd be seen through the window, but turning out the light would draw attention. Maybe he was bluffing, maybe he didn't know if anyone was inside and turning off the light would signal your presence. You pointed to the kitchen, where the lights were off and the two of you tip toed to the safety of darkness.

"Eri, honey, can you go sit in the pantry for me and be really, really quiet? I'll be right out here and don't come out until I come to get you okay?"

She looked hesitant and tearful but you were surprised at her level of composure for a kid. Finally she complied. Once the pantry door was closed you began rummaging through the drawers, looking for something that could inflict the most damage. A meat tenderizer could work. The banging continued and you swore you hear wood beginning to splinter. Your grip tightened with every bang. Finally the door gave way and a man stumbled through the splintered wood. He stopped when he saw you holding the cleaver.

He was dirty, without shoes or a shirt and his skin was red from the cold.

You hoped your voice wouldn’t crack, "You need to leave-"

"Monsters, monsters," he blabbed. "They're gonna come back and we gotta go."

You decided to bluff, "Get out of here, I already called the cops."

"Good, good, good," He mumbled, “but we still gotta go. NOW."

There was one step forward from him, one step back from you.

"If you come near me, I'll make sure you don't get up," You warned. At the very least you had to keep him away from Eri. Even if that was all you could do.

There was a desperate look in his eyes; they darted from you to the keys hooked to your jeans, then back to the keys. Finally he smiled, "You have a car, man that's perfect. Listen I won't hurt you but we need to get in your damn car, now."

Sounds like something someone who wants to hurt me would say, you thought. Apparently you took too long to respond, the man lunged toward you and you tried to swing the meat tenderizer. The tool connected with his shoulder and he howled out in pain but still managed to wrestle you to the ground. The two of you struggled with each other and the man was yelling that you'd die if you didn't listen to him. You landed a weak hit to his jaw, splitting his lip. You even tried biting at him but he was persistent and struggling to get your keys. You were telling him he could have them that he just needed to let you go but he wasn't listening to you. Managing to grab his ear you had a flashback to the self-defense seminar you had to take in college, it should be easy to rip a human ear. So you pulled. Blood began to flow from the wound down his face and on to you. He got you off him before you got the whole ear by delivering a blow to your stomach. The air rushed from your body, is this what it means to get the wind knocked out of you?

There was a loud noise and fog lights flooded through the broken door. Then saw Shinsou and Aizawa pulling the man off you. You pushed yourself and back, clutching at your stomach. Your cheeks were wet. Were you crying or was that blood on your face? Probably both.

The trio wrangled the man outside where you heard more struggling, fighting, and groaning.

Eri. You managed your way to the kitchen but realized you were covered in blood. Not wanting to traumatize the little girl any further you spoke through the door.

"Eri, can you stay there a little bit longer?"

"Can't I come out? I heard my daddies," She cried, tugging at your heartstrings.

"Not yet, okay? They're here and everything's okay, I'm gonna have them come get you okay?"

Thankfully, the door didn't open. As you shuffled toward the front door Mr. Yamada entered, wiping specks of blood off him.

You were shocked when he pulled you into a hug, "You're okay. Sho and Shinsou got everything under control. Where is Eri?"

You told him about her hiding spot and he sighed in relief and rushed to her.

The other two returned with bloodied knuckles that made your stomach churn.

"Yamada," The mountain man called, with his eyes scanning the home.

"Don't worry, Sho, I got Eri. She's fine. Our delivery girl is okay, she's got some bumps and bruises but she made the other guy look worse."

Aizawa ushered you to the couch, expecting your legs to give out at any moment.

"We need to call the police," You finally spoke.

Aizawa assured you he did. They were 45 minutes out but they'd work on getting here faster. Yamada brewed you a cup of tea, “for while we wait.” They finally calmed Eri down and Shinsou took her upstairs to get ready for bed. It felt weird for them to return to mundane evening routines so quickly after all that chaos, but maybe you were just the odd one out. Close to an hour later you were still waiting for the police to show up. Your tea was finished long ago and your nerves had calmed. You were even having trouble keeping your eyes open.

"You think they're almost here, babe" The blonde wondered, draping a throw blanket around your shoulders. "I'm sure she wants to this day to be over with."

---

It was still dark when you woke up. The blonde was fast asleep on the recliner next to you. The police must have come by now but there was no way you slept through the visit. Anxiety from earlier made it’s way back in to your chest. The clock read 4am; had they even called the police. All of the childhood rumors you heard came flooding back and you exited the house as quietly as you could, not realizing your keys were no longer with you.

When you made it outside you noticed dried blood on the ground, trailing toward what you assumed was their barn or storage shed. You were entranced. Looking back to the house, no one was awake; there was no movement, no light, just quiet. You shouldn’t follow the bloody trail, you shouldn't go near the shed; but your body moved on it's own accord and before you realized it you were at the doors. You gave a tug, expecting it to be locked, but the door swung open and inside you noticed the lock lay on the ground.

You should have turned around, got in your car, and drove away. Instead you stepped inside and found the bloody, broken body of the man who attacked you. There was a slight sway to the corpse that was hanging from a reinforced pillar. Nearly screaming your hand shot to cover your mouth.

You should've left.

Aizawa was watching you from the kitchen, cursing Hizashi for leaving the shed unlocked. His hand hovered over the secured cabinet drawer that stored a pistol. He wouldn't shoot you only scare you a bit. But you weren't running out in a panic. He didn't even hear you scream. Interesting. He went to join you, moving like any predator concealing it presence and leaving the gun safe untouched.

You should've left.

You finally came to your sense and whirled around only to run into your late night admirer. A terrified squeak escaped you as you jumped further into the confined space.

"Mr Aizawa! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - I'm sorry."

He didn't look angry, although you wished he did. It would be better than the unsettling smile on his face.

"That's alright, I was heading out here anyway," He closed the door behind him and flicked on a dim light that lit up the room with shadows. "Can't leave it hanging for too long."

Your throat tightened, he stood between you and the only exit. If he noticed your terror there was no indication that he cared. He turned his back to you momentarily, rummaging through the clutter on the workbench. Now was the best chance you may get and you made a dash for the door. It was a futile attempt and part of you knew it but your nerves were ablaze with adrenaline and you were running on instinct not reason. There was a foreign tightness around your throat that kept you fighting to inhale. Struggling to breathe you didn’t even register the sharp pinch of a needle piercing your deltoid.

Aizawa pressed his nose to your hair, "Behave. Even if you get out of here, your tire has a flat, pesky nails tend to find their way on to the roads out here. A real shame."

He dragged you over to a chair across from the lifeless body cuffing both your wrists to the armrests. Stupid, stupid, he was grabbing out cuffs and I ran straight into him, you scolded yourself. You went to open your mouth and beg to be let go, but you were silenced.

"Keep it down or I'll have to find a way to keep you quiet."

Your heart was beating so hard it hurt. Once a friend said it was possible to die by fright, if that was true you wouldn't last much longer. Now that you were safely out of the way, Aizawa could make quick work dismembering the carcass. He donned his usual rubber apron and pulled back his hair. With his experience he could finish the job in less than two hours. Now was as good a time as ever for you to learn.

With a sigh he began his explanation and craft:

"Cannibalism has been around as long as we've existed: sacrificially, ceremonially, culturally, especially during times of plague, war, and famine. You can find documented accounts from pretty much every part of the world. And there's no one reason. Our family keeps it simple. We eat meat, animals are meat, and humans are animals. In times of famine and other hardships, this was a reliable food source. Of course now, there's not much of a risk for severe famine to effect people like us but it's tradition. This is how it's been for our family for years. And not just those of us around these parts but our relatives everywhere. It's important to keep old trades alive."

He paused, now splattered with blood, to take note of your dry heaving.

"Please," You gasped. "I just want to go -"

With narrowed eyes he continued:

"It's important for you to listen to our family history. Typically we don't reap a harvest until three weeks after the winter solstice and 3 weeks before the summer solstice. Twice a year is enough to get us by. Zashi and I are impressed that you managed to wrangle him in. Poetic in a way, don’t ’cha think? Consuming the flesh of someone who tried to overpower you. First reap of the harvest. Nice that it's a family affair."

The room was spinning and you were fighting the sedative as hard as you could. There was no way any of this was real, maybe you were dreaming? Maybe you'd been knocked unconscious when that man rushed you. Or better yet, maybe you were asleep at home still. It was possible that this whole delivery fiasco was just a nightmare. Your stomach churned at the speech. There was sun peaking through the cracks in the wall by the time he finished separating the ... different sections. There was no more body, just pieces. You nodded off for a few minutes before being jolted awake by the door opening and letting in the bright morning light .

"Good morning, you two night owls," Hizashi beamed. Walking to his husband handing over a tall mug of coffee. He was completely unfazed by the scene he walked in on. In fact the only frown he made was when Aizawa said he put too much sweetener in the coffee. "Anyways, grumpy pants, I called your sister. She's on her way to pick up Eri and Shinsou for a few days. To give us some time to focus on our little muse. Speaking of, I should go get her some water. Oh, plus we need to fix our door."

---

After you refused to drink anything they tried to give you they left you alone in the shed. The handcuffs were too tight for you to slip through and in your struggle you managed to topple the chair over, hitting the floor with painful slap. It was hard to ignore the buzzing of the flies swarming the space where the body once hung. You closed your eyes, your mind wandering to your family and what they would think when they realized you were missing.

Outside you heard a car pull up and were tempted to scream for someone to help you. Maybe it was the police; maybe someone realized you didn't go home last night and found out where your last delivery was. Your captors came out to greet whoever it was and you were glad you didn't yell, they sounded friendly. They were coming toward the shed but you were too defeated to react.

"Sho," Hizashi gasped, "She fell."

The response was sharp and sarcastic, "I hadn't noticed." He yanked you up with ease and the world was no longer side ways but the jolt paired with the exhaustion and drugs left the world spinning.

The woman must've been the sister they mentioned earlier. She squealed with delight, "Oh isn't she the cutest, lemme get a good look."

She resembled neither of the men and gave off cool-soccer-mom vibes. With a gentle grip on your chin she bore into your eyes.

"Please,” You begged, “I just want go home."

The sister didn't waiver, "Don't worry sweet thing, these two are gonna take such good care of you. Just relax and let them help you."

Help? You don't need help from them. You needed to get out of this hell.

"Okay," She bounced toward the exit, "Bring out my niece and nephew, we're gonna have a fun weekend. And take care of your girl, she looks like a keeper."

Finally you screamed in frustration. Brief, loud, and full of anger but it deflated just as quickly when the two men shot you a menacing look. How could all three of them show no display of empathy? You were again convinced this was an alternate reality when both children peaked their heads in to wave goodbye before they peeled away from the home, leaving you alone with Hizashi and Aizawa.

---

There was a hatch toward the back of the room where the two disappeared until they came back with a third body. They were dragging a woman up like a ragdoll and acidic bile burned your throat. If you had to guess you would say she was late middle age. It felt like they were setting a stage, Hizashi pulled you closer to where they stood while Aizawa managed to tie the woman down to the stained table.

"Why are you doing this," you cried. But they ignored you.

"Did you know there are people who pay for certain oddities and they’re willing to spend big bucks to get what they want? We keep whatever makes sense to eat and sell the rest. Ideally nothing goes to waste.”

The next hour and forty-seven minutes were excruciating. There were several “items” – as they referred to her body parts – that they removed while she was still alive; but finally Aizawa made the perfect incision along her thigh and a pomegranate wave gushed out. There was no way she would suffer much longer with this amount of blood loss.

"Please just let her die," You begged the universe. "Please let it end."

For the first time since starting they stepped back from the body, leaving it on the table to come over to you. Aizawa knelt before you and his bloody hand brushed hair from your face; his thumb rested on your lip and you couldn't even physically respond. Hizashi was behind him, rubbing his partner's shoulders.

"You're going to kill me?”

Both men finally softened, coming down their endorphin high. There was something so satisfying about your question. Arousing, even. They made it clear that your life was up to them, which meant they had you where they needed you.

"Am I having a blonde moment? I don't recall saying we'd kill her."

Aizawa threw an incredulous look his way before addressing you, "We aren't going to kill you. We wouldn't've saved you from that terrible animal if that were the plan. We don't kill just anyone. We wanted to introduce you to our lifestyle and now’s the best chance. Eri’s wanted to keep you since day one, but if you can't behave that'll be an issue. Can you prove to us that you’re going to behave or do we have to get you down into the cellar?”

There was no other choice than to nod. Picking up a piece of the dissected woman Hizashi muttered something about starting dinner before telling his husband that you really need to get more rest. Aizawa agreed, and since it seemed like you were having trouble getting rest he decided to give you another little dose of medicine.

#slasher au #mha x reader #bnha yandere #mha yandere #yandere erasermic #yandere erasermic x reader #yandere x reader

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butwhyduh · 4 years ago

Text

A Date to Remember

Damian Wayne x Superman’s daughter reader

Damian is 20, reader 19, Jon is her little brother at 18 and Kon acts like an older brother to her.

Warning: angsty and kidnapping

You’d always told Damian that the sunset on the Kent farm was the best in the world. Damian smiled a little as he drove down the long road to Smallville. Damian had thought about classic dinner date in one of Metropolis’ fanciest restaurants but you insisted on meeting him in a barn.

He felt underdressed. Blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Why did he let Jon help him get dressed? He felt ridiculous but at least he wore sensible shoes. But deep down Damian knew you world like it. And he was certainly willing to feel a little foolish for you.

Clark was off world and Lois was on a mission. Jon had his own date in the city so it was the both of you alone tonight. How long had it been since the two of you were alone without someone around? Between his half a dozen brothers and your family with literal super hearing... yeah it’s been tough. So being 50 miles from everyone was kind of a dream.

Damian pulled in the driveway with some flowers and walked up to the house. He knocked on the door only for it to swing open. Damian noticed the splintered door frame and his heart sped up. He called your name. Act like the rich billionaire son while working like Robin, even though he wasn’t quite sure he still wanted the name.

He scanned every surface and he noticed a small scratch near the back door after looking through every room. Most people wouldn’t even notice it. You weren’t there. He looked closely and saw drag marks in the gravel path to the barn. His heart was thundering at this point. You weren’t in the barn either.

You were half Kryptonian but the genetic inheritance was complicated. Jon had won the lottery with having most of his father’s powers and not being as sensitive to Kryptonite. You had lost it. Hypersensitive to Kryptonite and only some speed and increased hearing and strength. Barely about the average human. You weren’t a fighter.

Damian pulled out his phone to call Jon.

“Bit busy here, Damian,” Jon said, sounding far from amused. Damian could hear kissing noises in the background and frowned. He didn’t want to hear that.

“Your sister is missing,” he said and he heard a lot of movement on the phone.

“What??”

“The door jam was kicked in and there are scrap marks of her being dragged away. I think she’s been kidnapped,” Damian said. His voice felt tight. He, son of Batman, let his girlfriend get kidnapped. “Whoever it was clearly waited until she had no other Kryptonians around to grab her. It wasn’t a coincidence that she was taken tonight. Can you get out here? I’m calling father to try and trace her. Her phone is missing too.”

“I’m leaving in 5. Damian, if Luther has her, she can’t handle Krytonite,” Jon said, worry bleeding into his voice. “It’s like it poisons her.”

“I know. But we don’t know who has her. Let’s hope they don’t know she’s part Krytonian,” Damian said, already mentally moving on to his next step. Contact Bruce. Get the bat computer to trace her. Look for more evidence. Don’t freak out completely that she might be poisoned by Kyrotonite.

“Okay. I’m about to fly. I’ll see you soon,” Jon said before hanging up.

——————————

You woke up with a cough. You head throbbed and your stomach rolled as you laid in a bed? Maybe a couch? It was a horrible feeling but you knew exactly what it was: Kryptonite. You couldn’t forget what how that stuff made you feel. You tried to look around to see it but the room was completely dark. Night vision would be nice but you got human eyes. Your slightly enhanced hearing heard nothing but the wind outside. Okay, you were ground level or higher.

You tried to twist in the cuffs that bound your hands only to cry out. There was the Kryptonite. It was on the outside of the cuffs and you almost threw up at it touched your skin. You were cuffed with Kryptonite to a hospital bed, you figured. What other bed had areas perfect for cuffs? Your legs were equally restrained and you felt so exposed in the dark room.

Your dad was off world. He wouldn’t hear you if you called for him. But Jon might. But if you yelled, someone might come in and who knows what they would do. You’d wait a little bit longer. You wanted to fall asleep. The Kryptonite made you feel so dull. Like the first time you were exposed to it.

You were all of 4 years old. Your dad had brought you with him to the Justice League meeting. Relatively safe and Batman promised Robin would watch you. Dick was so excited to be a babysitter. You had hugged him tight enough to hurt before running to the climbing wall.

“Hey!” Called the 16 year old. “I brought games instead!”

You warily walked back over to him and card games and board games fell out of a duffle bag as he opened it. Half the stuff you were far too young for. You bent down as he scooped up his gameboy. You pulled out some games and open a side pocket to grab a small metal box. Dick sat down his gameboy carefully before turning back to you.

“Don’t open th-“ he started before you pulled open the box to show a bright green stone. Followed by you throwing up all over his bag of games. You dropped the box and sat on the floor. Dick quickly closed the box with the piece of Kryptonite and put it in his pocket. He had boroughed one of Bruce’s bags that apparently wasn’t fully unpacked.

“Dad, I don’t feel good,” you said as Clark ran over. Dick looked at you so guiltily.

“I didn’t know,” he swore. “I’m so sorry.” Bruce stood by quietly.

“We need to talk later,” Clark had told Bruce and yeah, they were mad at each other for a while.

——————————————

Jon arrived shortly in a dress shirt and slacks and he looked at Damian just as weird as Damian looked at him. They had basically switched clothing.

“Not to judge but that’s date clothing? You told me to not wear flannel,” Jon said accusingly.

“That’s because your sister wanted me to wear this,” Damian said back. “Let’s focus on finding her. Father’s calling me now. We’ll change in a minute.”

“Hello, you’re on speaker phone,” Damian said.

“Her tracker is showing a warehouse owned by Luthor Corp in downtown Metropolis,” Bruce said. “Do you need help? I can see if Dick is nearby.”

“No thanks. Jon will help me. Thank you, father,” Damian said before hanging up.

“Luthor. I knew it,” Jon said with a frown. “Wait, you put a tracker on my sister? Does she know?”

“Now is not the time. Let’s get to Metropolis,” Damian said, changing the subject while both got dressed. Jon nodded and offered his arms. “I’m not being carried like that. I’ll hold on your back,” Damian said. Jon rolled his eyes and nodded again.

As they flew over corn fields and pastures, Jon began to question Damian. “So when did you put this tracker in? Does she even know? Where is it? Do I want to even know?”

“It’s sub-dermal in her forearm and I haven’t told her yet. And it’s irrelevant right now as it might save her life,” Damian said and Jon looked disgusted. “We need to focus on saving her and then you can be her angry brother.”

“Wow...”

————————————

You moved and the cuffs burned your skin. You gasped and screamed “Jon! Kon!” You called out to them hoping one of them would hear you.

“Dad!” you cried frantic. There was no way he would hear you. “Damian! Jonathan! Conner!”

You panted and your head pounded. You were so tired. You’d lose consciousness if no one saved you. Then who knows what they would do to you.

“Superman!” You screamed desperately before finally passing out.

——————————

“Did you hear that?” Jon said as they flew towards the Metropolis skyline.

“No all I hear is wind. What did you hear?” Damian said.

“Y/n. She’s calling for us,” Jon said speeding up.

“Is she okay?” Fear bled into Damian’s voice.

“I can’t tell. I’m trying to hurry,” Jon said flying quickly towards the industrial area of the city. He landed on the roof of a warehouse. Jon’s eyes glowed as he looked through the building.

“7 men. 4 posted outside the door to the room that’s she’s being held on the 2nd floor. Her heart rate is steady and she isn’t screaming any more. Almost sounds asleep,” Jon said after his analysis.

“Probably tranquilizer. Father’s data said this building is used for research purposes. Does that fit?” Damian asked.

“Uh more like research subject holding. Maybe a small lab on the first floor but other than cameras everywhere, there isn’t much science stuff that I can scan. But also the basement is sealed off,” Jon said.

“How?”

“Lead bound. You can check it out while I rescue her. 4 guys is nothing,” Jon said making a fist.

“Hold on. Luthor would probably have her surrounded by Kryptonite. Just in case one of you look for her. And that’s the last thing we need,” Damian said. “I’ll rescue her and you look for the basement. Knowing Luthor, it’s probably an entire facility of experiments below. He just hadn’t gotten her room ready yet.”

Jon looked frustrated. “Fine. You rescue her but be careful. She is the weakest of us. She’s not invulnerable to bullets or anything.”

“Most of the people I rescue aren’t either,” Damian reminded him. “And I’m certainly not taking a chance with my beloved.”

Jon looked over to respond but Damian was already gone. Just like the rest of the bats: silent goodbyes. Jon quietly moved down to the first floor. He was working but at the same time, his ear was trained on his sister’s heartbeat. Jon might be the younger sibling but she didn’t have powers and he felt so protective.

—————————————

Damian rolled his eyes at the 5 ways he could see that the security sucks in the 3 minutes he hung out the window before climbing in. Large rafters and guards who didn’t bother to look up. Not to mention the fact that they let there be a solid wall between the set of guards which meant that Damian was easily able to jump down to knock them out in pairs without the other set knowing. If the security was any worse they would leave the door unlocked.

The door wasn’t unlocked but it was a deadbolt that Damian easily disabled. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was on purpose. He gulped before opening the door. What if you were really hurt? Or dead? Ignore and get in there.

Damian opened the door and he felt white hot rage. You were tied to a bed and were unconscious. You were in a nice dressy shirt and sweatpants. They’d clearly taken you while you were getting dressed. Damian wanted to kill them. He had to take a breath to help you. Jon was taking them out and Damian was on rescue. He had to stay level headed.

Even the cuffs on your wrists were inadequate. If they had attempted to restrain Damian, he would have gotten out in 3 minutes. When he was 6 years old. The Kryptonite had left nasty red burns on your skin and he clenched his jaw at the sight. Jon better be punching extra hard.

Damian picked you up bridal style and you groaned a little before turning your head against his chest. The farther he got you from that fucking Kryotonite the better you were. He took you to the roof and you started waking up.

“Damian,” you said softly and a little confused.

“Hey you’re awake. How are you feeling?” He asked looking all over your face for injury.

“Kryptonite. I hate that stuff,” you said. Damian grabbed your hand and you hissed. He looked to see bright red knuckles. You’d clearly fought at some point. He certainly knew the signs of punching someone.

“You fought back?”

“Yeah and hitting someone in a helmet and body armor sucks. I got just a few in before they pulled out the damn rock. I throw up every damn time,” you said shaking your head.

Before Damian could comment on how brave and stupid it was to punch body armor, there was a huge crash down on the first floor as someone flew in the building through the window. You grabbed him tightly.

“What the hell is that?”

“Kon. Conner’s here. I’m up here,” you yelled.

Conner flew up to the roof. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Kidnapped. Damian and Jon saved me. He’s still down there actually. Can you check on him?” You said. Damian suddenly stood up.

“What if you were a distraction and the real problem is downstairs?” Damian suddenly said with clarity. The Kryptonite alone was enough to hold you down. The half ass security was to hold their attention when they rescued you. Jon was already flying back down before Damian could say more. Damian weighed his options: leave you alone, bring you with him, or stay out of it and while the last sounded nice, he’d have to go in case of more Kryptonite.

Before Damian could decide, Kon was back on the roof. “You’ve got to come see this.”

Downstairs was a lead lined basement. That alone had you nervous. Jon stood by the door. Little spattering of blood could be seen on his hands. He had a hard look.

“Warning: this is going to be messed up,” he said and you were even more worried. You walked in to see cages. Kids. Unconscious adults lay around in the hallway. “They were experimenting on them.”

You felt nauseous.

“My father is on the way. This is much bigger than I thought,” Damian said messing with his comms. His free hand was on your shoulder protectively.

There were 8 kids in cages. Bruce was running tests on their blood and investigating the area as you helped to get them out of the cages. What a terrible Valentine’s Day.

“Beloved, let’s get you home. We can stay at the farm tonight. You need sleep,” Damian said worried. You looked at him distracted.

“They’re just kids.”

“Come on. Let’s go. Kon is going to stay there too. Just for the night,” Damian said helping you up. Kon flew you both back to the farm.

“I’m going back to help. You okay, kid,” Kon asked as Damian inspected the house.

“I’ll be alright. Just help those kids,” you said.

“Yeah, of course,” he said ruffling your head. You rolled your eyes. “But seriously, the way you screamed I thought you were being murdered.”

You stiffened. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Kon knew when to quit. Something he had learned from Tim. He gave you a big hug and flew off towards Metropolis.

“Hey. I made your bed so you can sleep,” Damian said quietly. “And a change of clothes.”

You nodded and went upstairs. Damian helped pull off your shirt and put on a sweater. He looked at the marks around your wrist and red knuckles but didn’t note any more bruises or cuts. You pulled on sweatpants and climbed in small twin bed that Lois kept for guests. The pink and yellow flowery quilt felt warm and comforting on your skin. Damian lay beside you after changing and looked at you seriously.

“What is it,” you asked.

“I was so scared tonight. I have been doing this for years and I’ve never been so worried,” he said softly and you looked down and flushed. If you weren’t so freaking sensitive to Kryptonite this wouldn’t have happened. Damian gently lifted your chin and you looked at him.

“I was scared to lose you,” he said running his thumb across your cheek. “I’m going to drive you absolutely mad because I don’t want to take my eyes off of you.”

“Yeah?” You said with a little smile.

“Uh hm. But first sleep,” he said and your body certainly agreed. You curled into him and rest your head on his chest. His arms held you tightly before rubbing your back. You fell asleep to Damian staring at you. He stared at you all night, not even sleeping when Kon came in a few hours later.

———————————

“I have to know what all that was, Bruce,” you said at the Batcave the next day. “I was in there.”

He looked at you for a minute. “They were experimenting with meta DNA. All of those kids have gifts and they wanted to take you too. There were even plans to inject those kids with your blood to see if it would affect them.”

You shivered a little at the thought. Lex Luthor and his obsession with Kryptonian DNA.

“All the records were burned. Most of the warehouse too. Your brothers were.... thorough. And Clark will be home in a few days,” Bruce added.

“Really?”

“Yes. And he’s furious at Luthor. Probably will call soon. He wanted to let you sleep earlier. We’re just running programs here. Why don’t you and Damian go upstairs,” he suggested.

“Bruce Wayne,” came a stern voice behind you. You turned to see your mother, Lois Lane, looking like she was going to beat up Batman. “You put a tracker in my daughter without her permission?”

“You what?” You said.

“Actually that was Damian. Though I want to point out that it helped save her life,” Bruce added. Lois slapped him soundly across the cheek. Bruce just blinked and rubbed his cheek.

“Damian, you put a tracker in me?” You asked shocked. You’d assumed Jon had heard you or Damian’s detective work brought them to the warehouse. Not an invasive tracker in your body. “What the hell?”

“Well I can explain..”

#Damian Wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #robin x reader #Damian Wayne angst #valentine fic #batboy x reader #dc #fns

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halla-hunts-the-wolf · 3 years ago

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A short-story preview.

Set in a story where years down the line, Fen'harel has yet to destroy the Veil, but his plights are making all of Thedas weary of the modern elves.

Four Dalish elves band together to avenge a massacre. Will they inflict Justice or Vengeance on those responsible? And what secrets will they uncover along the way?

Warning: Violent acts & Character Death.

----

On the outskirts of Ansburg, a Dalish settlement had been destroyed.

They had been camping beside the coast, where a river drained off from the ocean.

They’d thought that the lack of freshwater would make the paths less favorable towards merchants or humans in general. Their aravels had been pitched and their halla let loose to graze.

They lasted three days.

On the fourth day, when two cloaked riders closed in on where the Dalish were meant to be, the stench of death still remained, carrion birds harvested bodies, and a started fire had laid waste to everything.

Blood ran the river red by the time the two riders reached the desolate camp.

Their movements became slow and they approached with caution; anticipating an ambush, but all they were met with was the silence that the massacre left behind.

“Maker,” one of the riders mumbled, bringing his arm up to cover his nose. “Who could have done this? Do you think it could’ve been Fen’harel?”

“No,” the other rider says, his voice somber and distant. “No, these elves were not his enemies and they did not deserve his wrath.” As he spoke, he would have abandoned his mount, an older Dracolisk, beside the river. Carrying on by foot, he would assess the carnage. Bodies lay to waste around him, many of which were missing their pointed ears. It was sickening, deplorable, and a byproduct of fear. “Even so, this act is unforgivable.” His voice would crack, overwhelmed by anger and grief. “There are so few of our people left, and the only thing they have done is chosen not to take a side in this foolish war.”

“The war that we are fighting.”

“Yes, because even though it is foolish, it can not be ignored. Not when innocent people are being slaughtered like this.” The second rider would crouch down, to close the eyes of an elf who was staring up at the sky. “Falon’Din enasal enaste.”

“What are we going to do now, carry on to Tevinter?”

“We are going to bury them, and find those responsible.”

The first rider lets out an exasperated sigh. “Lavellan, we don’t have the time-”

“- Then we make time.”

The first rider says nothing more, hanging his head in silent compliance.

They spend their evening in this way, gathering bodies and offering them final prayers. They didn’t have the means to do a proper ceremony, but they would do their best with heavy hearts.

Nightfall had soon come and gone, and as a new dawn broke across the sky, the two men sat across from each other, swallowing down their rations despite lacking a proper appetite.

“So you didn’t find your dalish contact amongst the dead?” The first rider would ask, his bright green eyes were growing red, as he fought the need to sleep. Only in his mid-twenties, and a recently freed slave of the Tevinter Imperium, he was not used to the constant traveling and combat he had to endure while shadowing the former Inquisitor. He rubs at his face, hands running across his mutilated vallaslin. The branches that spread over his cheeks had been cut into and burned by his former master, when he was only eighteen and freshly kidnapped from his own clan. “Perhaps he went after those responsible?”

“No,” Lavellan would shake his head. “Ryland would have waited for us, had he still been alive and of his own free will.” The older elf would be fiddling with a string around his neck. He clutched at the sending crystal as if it was his life line with one hand, while the other, a prosthetic, would be clutching a potion. “This group was made up of smaller dalish clans, ones that were left abandoned by their clanmates when they joined Solas. Ryland was traveling with them, to bring them to another encampment on the other side of Nevarra.”

“That was very noble of him.”

“Yes, and I’m the one who asked him to do it.”

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened, and drink your potion.”

Lavellan would stop fiddling with his necklace, taking to unscrewing the cork of the bottle in his hand. “If we had gotten here a day sooner Ma’hallian, we may have prevented this from happening entirely.” He would down the bottle in one go, guzzling it’s dark purple liquid, looking as if he’d just bit into a lemon afterwards. “This thing could be a poison.”

“A poison that keeps you from keeling over in pain.” Ma’hallian would remind him gently, before reaching out to take the empty bottle from the other man’s hands. “And we didn’t get here a day sooner, so we have to keep moving forward.”

“We will, as soon as the person responsible is brought to justice.”

The white-haired elf would lean forward, fixing the former Inquisitor with a narrowed gaze.

The older elf was on the cusp of fifty, with silver streaks in his long chestnut hair and wrinkles overtaking his darkened skin. These days, his hands shook whenever he lifted his sword, and his amber eyes always smoldered with conviction. “Is it justice you are after, or is it vengeance?”

“The two are not so different, when faced with a situation like this.”

“We both know that they are.”

Lavellan hated being shown up by his assistant, someone who could be so callous and shy towards the rest of the world. The boy had spent the majority of his life either in solitude or servitude and yet, he still managed to come out of it with a remarkable sense of responsibility and level headedness.

“I-” He does not get a proper sentence out, as a distant sound causes his ears to twitch. Ma’hallian hears it too and they rise to their feet.

Ma’hallian draws a dagger from his belt and Lavellan pulls free his sword from its sheath. They approach the source of the noise with silent steps, until they are looming over the site of a destroyed aravel. It’s red fabric and splintered wood had made a heavy pile, and something dared to move beneath it.

“Careful,” Lavellan murmurs, “it may be an abomination that’s risen.”

Leering forward with one foot, the elf would kick the debris away, his sword poised to strike down, but he would stop just short of skewering another elf.

An elf also nearing his fifties, with deep red hair that was coated in soot and streaked with soft greys. His face, while well defined, was covered in laugh lines and scars alike. They danced along his vallaslin for Ghilan’nain, etched in blue to match his eyes. This new elf stares up at them, as a cough rattles throughout his chest and past his lips. “Well, hello your highness. I survived then? Unless you managed to finally kick the bucket too.”

“No, Ry, you’re just that lucky.” Lavellan would put his sword away before holding out a hand, hauling his former partner from the aravel. Eyeing him wearily, in search of any wounds that could prove fatal.

“Ah well, what can I say? The universe loves me.” Ryland dusts himself off, wincing as he does so, but seemingly unharmed save for a few aches, bruises, and perhaps a concussion after being crushed beneath one of their landships. “How bad is it?”

“You’re the only survivor.”

The red-head takes in a sharp breath. “That can’t be right. Where are the bodies?”

They take him to the people who they had wrapped or covered, ready to be buried, as time permitted them. He looks them over, with blue eyes watering, before he shakes his head. “There were younger elves here, children, and a mage. None of them are with the dead.”

“Perhaps they perished in the fire that ravaged the camp?” Ma’hallain offers, supervising Ryland as Lavellan wanders off to their mounts. “Or animals picked off their remains?”

“You are a grim young man, Ma’hallain, but no. The only scavengers in this area are the birds, and they wouldn’t be able to devour a body within a day, let alone a dozen or so. The person responsible for the siege must have taken them.”

“And who was responsible?” Lavellan had rejoined them, bringing a fresh pair of clothes to Ryland from his carry on.

“There’s a human settlement nearby, Ansburg? They’ve recently come into new leadership and the man appears to be terrified of us knife-ears.” Ryland would strip there, pulling his otherwise tattered shirt over his head and tossing it to the ground. Lavellan would hand him the clean one and Ma’hallian would have the decency to look away as he took off his pants as well. “When the local militia arrived, I told them that we had no ties with Fen’Harel or the Qun. They said that they were under orders and at the end of the day, all elves were the same.”

“Yet they would never claim that all humans are murderers, would they?”

“Fear is bred by ignorance, highness. They’ll get what’s coming for them.”

Lavellan would grumble, “Did you at least scout Ansburg when you first made camp?”

“Course I did, seemed like a normal shemlen village. Smelt of rotten fish and wet dog. There weren’t any elves, but I didn’t find that odd. There aren’t many flat ears left in the smaller settlements.”

“Did you find where this new leader lived?”

“It was the first thing on my list, but something seemed off about it. The whole village was sort of dreary, but his estate was shimmery, almost. Like the stones were reflecting the light.”

Ma’hallian snaps back to attention, his ears drooping just so. “That sounds like warding, and a very obvious one. I bet he is using it to scare others away, people do that in the Magisterium. Either to scare the already fearful, or to make a spectacle out of something valuable.”

“So we’ll need a mage?” Lavellans asks.

“Unless warriors suddenly know how to dispel things? Rogues most certainly do not.”

“Oh,” Ryland would croon, “Do you know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like a call to Dorian. Tell him I said hello, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that I survived.”

Rolling his eyes, Lavellan would turn away from the other men. Knowing that Ma’hallian was glib due to his many years living in darkness and Ryland was only using humor to cope with the carnage around them.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dorian pavus #lavellan #original character #post trespasser #pavellan

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watchtower-feed · 5 years ago

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Until Death (Part 5)

SSA ✧ Red Hood ✧ 1 ✧ 2 ✧ 3 ✧ 4 ✧ 5 ✧

Jason frowns at the sound of his alias escaping your lips but don’t see it. You turn around and swallow a sob before you walked away.

“Damn, Jason! How heartless!” Roy has been giving Jason a hard time for the past half hour in Roy’s apartment since Jason told him what happened between the two of you. “The girl goes out of her way to search for you, gets chased by bad guys, falls off a roof, and then you just tell her you never wanted to meet her?”

“What?” Jason snaps back, “Should I have lied? Tell her I’ve been dreaming about the day when we’d meet?”

Roy rolls his eyes to the side, a small smirk playing on his lips, “Weeell…” Jason stares at him as he waits. “Before you, you know,” Roy makes a gesture of cutting his throat with his thumb, making Jason glare at him, “you did brag a lot about the day you’d meet your soulmate you know. When you were still a Titan--”

Jason physically shuts Roy up by covering his mouth with both of his hands. He glares at him with wide eyes and raised brows but Roy can see the blush covering his cheeks, “That was years ago.”

Roy removes his friend’s hands from his face, “That was three years ago and that was you. At least one type of Jason.”

Jason turns away from him, “I’m different now.”

Roy doesn’t believe him one bit. Three years is a good time to change a person but not enough to completely forget who they were. “And you’re scared she won’t like you?” Roy stares at Jason who stubbornly makes a show of lying down on the floor and staring at the ceiling instead of him. “How are you going to know if you never try~” Roy lets his sing-song voice echo in the room but Jason doesn’t budge.

Then Roy stops abruptly and Jason watches him close his eyes. He waits for a while before Roy opens his eyes again.

“Your soulmate?” Jason asks.

“Yeah, she’s done with class. Sorry, bro, duty calls.” Roy kicks himself off his bed and packs his last-minute-superhero-bag-disguised-as-an-ordinary-gym-bag. “She took military science this semester and I’m helping her write a paper on reconnaissance.”

Jason frowns, “Don’t tell me. You’re letting her experience it first hand?”

Roy chuckles, “You’re skeptical. I see that but once you meet her. Oh, boy. You’re going to wish you have her for backup.”

Jason watches as one of his closest friends hum while he packs away more gadgets for his trip. “How do you do it, Roy? Having somebody else’s thoughts in your head?”

Roy pauses at the sudden seriousness of Jason’s voice, more serious than usual. “It’s not all bad. You know when you’re thinking to yourself, trying to find answers to life’s dilemmas?” he asks and waits for Jason to respond but he doesn’t so Roy scoffs. “And then suddenly someone actually answers you. It’s like God answering your prayers or something. It feels good talking to somebody.”

“Sounds just like having comms on a mission.”

“Exactly. And life’s a mission, Jay.” Roy teases as he opens his door and steps out. He leans in gives Jason a goodbye kiss in the air. “And you better get on with yours.”

Roy shuts the door to his own apartment and leaves Jason lying on his floor feeling miserable and antsy.

Later that same evening, it doesn’t take long for Jason to track you down. No, not all because much to his displeasure, you are still looking for answers regarding his death. Now that you know he’s the Red Hood, it has lead you to even deeper shit than you can imagine.

“Lookie here, boss. One just came straight to our lap.” One of Black Mask’s goons drops you on the floor like a garbage bag and you land on your wrists tied behind your back.

You bite against the cloth wrapped along your jaw and you glare hard at the crime lord standing tall and menacing in his diamond-clad black suit. He squats down and stares at you with his face only a few inches away. You can smell the tobacco and scotch in his breath mixed with the stench of the black paint of his mask.

“Gutsy,” he turns back to one of his goons, “Definitely has enough spunk to be a soulmate of one of those do-gooders.” Black Mask looks you over from head to toe making you tense under his gaze. “What does she have?”

One of his men steps up and harshly grabs your wrists to show his boss the faded timer on your hand.

He frowns, “Timer link, huh. Luthor would have paid big money for you if your timer hadn’t run out.” He turns his eyes away from your wrist and looks back at you in the eye, “Seems you’ve met your soulmate then.”

“She was walking around asking people about the Red Hood.”

Black Mask’s eyes widen and fill in the sockets of his mask. He stands up quickly and smacks the man who spoke. “You idiots!” he bellows at them. “Get her out of here!”

The man holding you quickly let you go and backs away. You quickly stare in shock as you and the rest of the men in the warehouse watch the Black Mask trudge along the ends of the table spouting rushed instructions to his men. “Do you all want to die tonight?”

Then one loud bang of metal hitting the cement floor steals everyone’s attention. You turn your head away from the Black Mask and find the Red Hood with his knees bent, head down, and an AK-47 in his hands.

“Yes,” he says as he straightens his posture and rests the assault rifle on his shoulder, “It does seem like you want to die tonight.”

The men are inching away from the Red Hood and Black Masks grits his teeth as he tries to keep still against the table. “Here for your girl, Red?” Black Masks snarls at him. “It doesn’t look like you’re here to save anyone with that gun you’re carrying.”

You stare at Jason. Black Mask has a point. The rifle isn’t the best gun for a rescue mission so he must be here more for an assault. Less for you. Or not at all.

The Red Hood laughs with his chest, making the Black Mask flinch. “Oh,” he says as he straightens up and leans forward, “I’m just the appetizer.”

You feel the vibration of the whole warehouse before you heard the crash of the ceiling on the other side of the warehouse. You cower until all of the debris has fallen and then you quickly take a look and find Superman floating down from the gaping hole. Much faster, you see a familiar broad-shouldered silhouette glide in and land right onto Black Mask’s face.

You’re too busy watching the Justice League round up Black Mask and his men that you instantly flinch at the feel of someone touching your wrist. It’s the Red Hood. He raises his hands, “Are you hurt?”

You stare for a moment before you look down, “I-- I think one of my wrists is broken.” You hear him click his tongue and hear a switchblade slice through the ropes around your arm. Gently, he helps you take them off. You rub your wrists and confirm that one of them is definitely broken.

“Does she need medical attention?” the sudden presence of Wonder Woman startles you.

“Not critical, but her wrist is broken.”

“I-I’m fine,” you utter in sudden embarrassment. It’s not a feeling you’re used to, being fussed over. Especially by a whole league of heroes.

Batman approaches the three of you and he immediately kneels in front of you. He holds out his hand and tentatively you offer up your broken wrist. He takes out a makeshift wood splinter and lays it under your palm.

“I can do it,” both you and Batman quickly turn to the Red Hood. He’s already squatting down and holding out his hand. Batman hands you over and gives him a roll of medical tape. You watch as the Red Hood slowly aligns the wood along your forearm. He takes one end of the tape and presses your fingers down on it with his palm.

“I saw the look you gave me back there,” his voice suddenly jolts you and he has to align the wood again before he can start wrapping. When he spoke again, he sounded like he was pouting, “You didn’t actually think I would put you in harm’s way, right? That rifle was just in case I had to break my way through some of his guys but mostly it was just for show.”

You stare up at his mask and wonder what face he’s making underneath. You look back down and watch in awe at how gentle he’s treating your arm. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, making Jason stop.

After a moment he starts again, “What the hell do you have to be sorry for?”

You try to fake a laugh, “For putting myself in danger and then having to have you and the League get involved.”

“First of all, are you dense?” He uses his head to point towards the League escorting Black Mask and his men out of the warehouse and towards the incoming police lights. “This is exactly what heroes are supposed to do. I was looking for you and Batman told me Black Masks’ men had you. So he and the rest of the League got involved.”

You suddenly go quiet and sharply turn back to the Red Hood, making him flinch. You wanted to ask why he was looking for you but you’re thinking too much and all you got out was one word. “Why?”

The Red Hood sighs, bored as if he’s just de-briefing on a mission, “Someone’s been targeting superhero soulmates, kidnapping them, and then having their links stolen or broken. It’s what happened to Superman and his soulmate.”

Your fingers tense as he finishes up wrapping up your wrists. Would he want that? You wonder if Jason would have been happy if they had been successful. Your voice comes out as a whisper, “You said you never wanted to meet me. Do you wish they could have taken away our links before we met?”

You can tell he’s watching you under his mask.

“I doubt they could have. Not even death kept us apart.”

Quickly, he stands up and offers a hand, “Can you stand?”

You were completely phased by the sudden change of topic and his non-answer. You resorted to stubbornly staring at him and remaining rooted on the warehouse floor. The Red Hood groans under his mask and then squats back down, with his back facing you.

“I’ll take you home and then I’ll give you my answer, deal?”

Again that surprises you. He pretty much answered you, right? If he didn’t want to meet you he would have just said no right away like he did weeks ago. Slowly you climb onto his back. As soon as you secure your arms around his neck and his arms wrap around your thighs to hold you up, he says, “I’ve wanted to meet you for as long as I can remember, Y/N.”

✧ 1 ✧ 2 ✧ 3 ✧ 4 ✧ 5 ✧

#ssa #until death #DC reader insert #DC fanfiction #DC imagine #Jason Todd imagine #Jason Todd x Reader #Jason Todd fanfiction #Red Hood imagine #Red Hood fanfiction #Red Hood x Reader #watchtower-feed #atbucud #jason todd #red hood

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indiavolowetrust · 4 years ago

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THE OBEY ME BOYS AS RPG BOSSES: NEO-OSAKA

LEVEL 1-7 (YOU ARE HERE)

LEVEL 8-10

FINAL BOSS

ENDINGS

You are one of many modified humans in Neo-Osaka. A relic of your brief time in the criminal underbelly. Your adopted little brother, Luke, has been kidnapped by a criminal syndicate known only as The Devil Triad for unknown reasons. Simeon, his upperclassman, is the sole witness of his kidnapping. Armed with your trusty katana, the healing microbots in your blood, and the information Simeon has given you, you venture back into the underworld of Neo-Osaka to save your brother.

Word Count: 4,511

TW: Blood, Violence, Gore, Mention of Drug Use

LEVEL ONE -- BELPHEGOR, THE SLEEPING BULL

In the underbelly of Neo-Osaka, it is only natural that one would want to lose themselves for a little while. You pass by a number of pharmacies that act as black markets, street vendors that hawk anti-intoxicants, and children that run between the crowds. An exchange of secrets and yen, and a pair of shoji-playing women direct you to a shuttered pharmacy down the road. No one’s operated that store in years, they say, but there are always masked men that hang behind the lot. Masks in the shape of a devil.

Night falls. It doesn’t take long for you to subdue a masked man and rifle through his pockets. A hand-held radio tells you all that you need to know: the goods will be exchanged near the butcher’s shop, the password is sleeping bull, and that one is supposed to be there, so don’t fuck this up. The goods are headed towards the base of operations of The Devil Triad.

The underlings are easy enough to deal with. You take them out one by one in their own territory, leaving them alive for only sa long as necessary, and steal one of their masks and uniforms along the way. While it appears that none of the underlings have any information as to exactly where the goods are going – much less where your little brother is – you have more faith in what the lower boss should know. He goes by the Sleeping Bull, you gather.

For one named Sleeping Bull, however, he’s much faster than you had expected.

You can’t tell whether the shadows beneath his eyes are painted or tattooed there. If they’re real, then the Sleeping Bull's got one hell of a sleep schedule. He watches you through half-lidded eyes as he yawns, adjusts the oversized cleaver in his hands, and taps his foot in impatience. Even in the dark you can tell that the Sleeping Bull is planning the best way to butcher you, judging by the way he eyes the wound on your abdomen. Apparently the ruckus you’ve caused during your infiltration has interrupted his nap.

Your offense is a grave one, it seems.

“Do you think you could die a little faster?” he says through yet another yawn. “I’m kinda tired.”

LEVEL TWO -- BEELZEBUB, COOK OF THE HUNGRY BEETLE

The combination of cured meat and seasoning in the ramen is absolutely incredible, as is the addition of a perfectly poached egg. And it’s a chicken egg, of all things! A fresh chicken egg with a runny yolk, set whites, and a hint of soy sauce. You can’t remember the last time you were able to afford such a luxury, much less find it. The pork cutlet is perfectly fried as well. Each crispy bite balances out the nature of the curry it’s been served with. The rice is fluffy, delicate, and nowhere near overcooked. You find yourself nearly moaning with delight with each bite you take.

The cook – you haven’t quite caught his name – only smiles at you over the counter, encouraging you to have more. You did save his beetle-hound, after all. It’s the least he can do.

It’s not like he has any other customers at this time of day, anyway, so you’re free to take your time. While you do find yourself staring at him from time to time, finding his dyed orange hair and face oddly familiar, the thoughts are quickly dismissed by the fresh plate of gyoza that he places in front of you. The cook joins you a few minutes after, takes heaping plates of food for himself, and you ignore the nagging sense of paranoia.

It is only when you are hit with a sudden, overwhelming wave of nausea that you realize something is wrong.

You are barely able to stop yourself from collapsing onto the floor. A white-knuckled hand grips the table as your vision swirls, your stomach turning in on itself. An empty glass shatters onto the wooden floor of the restaurant. The cook only smiles pleasantly at you as you glare at him, demanding to know what he’s done to you. Why has he poisoned you? What would he even gain from doing that?

The cook only laughs. Don’t be silly – of course he hasn’t poisoned you! Only someone unimaginative and boring would do that, and he is neither of those things. The only reason why you’re still alive right now is because you went out of your way to save his beetle-dog. The cook hopes that your last meal was an enjoyable one. You only stare at him in disbelief as he explains that he only wanted to test a new ingredient, nothing more. You just so happened to be the lucky test subject. The first of many to try his new dishes.

The cook – Beelzebub, he introduces himself – asks if you enjoyed eating so many beetle eggs. A gift from The Devil Triad for his service. They’re genetically modified to a rather impressive degree, and they should be hatching right now in your stomach. The larvae are quite famous for their taste for human flesh.

Pain strikes your abdomen, forcing you to double over, and you use the sheath of your katana to keep your body upright. Beelzebub regards it with interest for a moment. Eyes it with curiosity. And then he is pulling a rounded metal container from his pocket, flourishing it before you.

“Let’s play a game,” he offers. “If I kill you, the larvae get to have you as their first meal of the day. If you kill me, you get to have these pills. They’re guaranteed to kill the larvae in no time – if you win, that is.”

You watch in horror as Beelzebub places the container into his mouth, swallows, and shoots you that same pleasant smile. You can already feel the sensation of something crackling and wriggling inside your belly.

LEVEL THREE -- ASMODEUS, KEEPER OF THE PINK SCORPION

You’re sure that the perfume acts as both an aphrodisiac and depressant. It would certainly make sense why all of the employees here have donned some sort of face mask. Masked women and men gyrate against golden poles, scorpion-faced bartenders invite patrons to try a various assortment of poisons, and many more employees work to keep the diffusers filled with perfume. A melange of insensate and intoxicated patrons are scattered throughout the space. Your limbs only grow heavier and heavier as you wander through The Pink Scorpion. The clamor of the crowd becomes distorted. The dim lighting, endless walls, and pink motifs of its animal mascot begin to blend with one another in your vision, and you are nearly rendered unconscious by the perfume.

Thankfully, you have just enough anti-intoxicant patches in your pocket to keep yourself from becoming too inebriated. A slip into the bathroom allows you to replace the patch on your tongue, and your head clears.

And so it is with a mostly unclouded mind that you are approached by a slender, pretty man. He’s one of their best workers, he claims, and it would only be fair for The Pink Scorpion to offer service of the highest quality to its new patrons. You are a new face, after all. Despite your obvious discomfort at the proposition, you had found yourself agreeing. It wouldn’t do any good to act out of line – especially not in a place like this. You’re too noticeable. The Devil Triad has its fingers in every operation here, you’re not sure if you can take on every employee and come out unscathed, and the man before you looks like very pleasant company. Besides, it’s possible that he knows information about The Devil Triad.

He leads you by the hand through pink-tinged halls, up wavering flights of steps, and into a private room. A clap of his hands, and you two are served steaming cups of tea. A single sip nearly burns off the anti-intoxicant patch on your tongue.

Time passes in a strange haze. The man twirls a strand of his blonde hair as he offers you yet another cup of tea, adjusts his bastardization of a kimono to be even more revealing, and shoots you a flirty wink. You dump the drugged tea into a nearby plant when he turns away.

The conversation is light and pleasant. You aren’t exactly lying when you remark that The Pink Scorpion is one of the most highbrow, exquisite establishments you’ve ever seen, despite being a brothel, and the man claps his hands in delight. The Pink Scorpion is his pride and joy, you see. Truly it is the jewel of Neo-Osaka’s underworld. He would hate for a patron to leave with an empty heart or otherwise unsatisfied ...

Just as much as he would hate for an intruder to interrupt their operations.

You roll back from the kotatsu just in time. The wood splinters as the blade of the kusarigama obliterates the table, sending shards flying, and you gasp in pain when a particularly sharp piece of wood strikes you in the shoulder. The anti-intoxicant patch on your tongue can only do so much it seems, judging by the weightiness of your limbs. You wrench the shard out of your shoulder and regard the man through a pink-tinged haze, the edges of your vision starting to blur once more.

The man introduces himself as Asmodeus. Asmodeus, Keeper of The Pink Scorpion. A quick undoing of his sash reveals a number of poison vials beneath his kimono, each one a violent, neon shade of pink. The shoji doors slam shut, and you find yourself coughing as the diffuser in the room begins spewing even more perfume into the space. Asmodeus, as it would seem, is completely immune to its effects.

“You’re pretty cute, you know,” Asmodeus says, shaking his head in disappointment. He readies his kusarigama. “It’s a shame I have to kill you.”

LEVEL FOUR -- SATAN, THE ARCHIVIST

Bookshelves line the walls, books line the shelves, and texts take up nearly every single increment of space possible in the massive library. Not that you’re sure if it can even be considered a library, considering the condition of the place. Most of the books seem to be piled up on one another in a nonsensical fashion, creating mountains against the shelves, and an array of ladders is strewn throughout the place. While you’re not sure where they lead, why they’ve been placed there, or if they’re even functional at all, you do know that someone must be using them. There isn’t enough dust in the library to suggest that it’s been abandoned. Not yet, anyway.

It’s difficult to believe that a place like this exists in the underbelly of Neo-Osaka. It’s even more difficult to believe that the fourth strongest of The Devil Triad spends his time here.

A number of librarians, archivists, and other employees are nestled in corners of the library, hunched over various spreads of literature and manuals. Given that you don’t possess the brand of The Devil Triad, however, convincing one of them to talk to you is nearly impossible. While the library is considered neutral territory, it appears that the triads still have considerable influence over the area and its inhabitants. You spend most of your time being glared at, turned away, and generally ignored – which you should have expected, really.

Thankfully, you manage to catch the attention of a blonde, bookish man. He smiles at you over his rather messy desk, pushes his silver-rimmed spectacles up his nose, and shoves all of his paperwork aside upon hearing the reason of your request. He’d be delighted to help someone in need, he tells you, disregarding the work strewn on the desk before. It isn’t every day that someone travels to the underworld of Neo-Osaka for such a valiant reason.

You follow the man down winding corridors, listening to him prattle at length on one topic or another. He’s more of a librarian than an archivist, he says. He likes his tea with three sugars. Dismemberment and decapitation are some of his most enjoyable methods of murder. The cafe down the street has amazing spinach pies that it serves on the weekends, although he could do without all the extra cream. Staying inside all day doesn’t lend itself to good health, after all.

The bookish man leads you to a massive archive beneath the library and begins searching through the folders. While most of the records are completely useless – in his opinion, that is – there are still a few that he considers worth keeping. The record on the wiles and weaknesses of modified organisms, for example. It is only when you mention off-hand your hatred for The Devil Triad that the bookish man pauses over a pile of folders. He removes his glasses carefully, tucks them somewhere beneath the papers, and smiles at you.

The pain is there before you can even register the impact.

Your body crashes through a number of rickety shelves in the archives, its path only stopped by a concrete pillar. The microbots in your blood work to repair your cracked ribs as soon as possible, mending the injuries as you force yourself to stand, and you blink away the dust to see the bookish man walking towards you.

His expression speaks only of wrath.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he growls, his face already half-formed into that of a devil. The green blaze and exposed pitch-black teeth click together as he speaks, the flesh burning away, and you watch with horror as he tears off more of his pseudo-skin. The inorganic strands of his hands flex and rearrange themselves into claws. “I’m impressed you managed to take out the others, but I promise you won’t achieve the same result here. They call me Satan the Archivist -- but I prefer being called Satan the Librarian. I’m more of a librarian than an archivist, really.”

He’s a cybernetic organism, you realize. There’s no way a human would have been able to survive so many body modifications.

“NOW LISTEN AND LISTEN WELL, HUMAN!” he roars, his voice distorting with the metamorphosis. YOUR INSOLENCE IN THE FACE OF THE DEVIL TRIAD ENDS HERE! YOUR NEXT AND LAST OPPONENT IS ME!”

LEVEL FIVE – LEVIATHAN, THE DOCKMASTER

Your lungs burn. Seawater fills your nostrils and throat as you are helplessly dragged into the black sea, your screams disappearing underneath the surface of the water. You struggle desperately, giving the leviathan-like monster a few choice kicks with the heel of your boot, but it’s no use. Its teeth have latched too deep into the flesh of your thigh. While your microbots can work fast enough to repair the wound, they’ll be of no use to you if you drown. Your eyes sting as you gaze upon the moon through the dark water, its image distancing itself further and further away. This may very well be the last time you see it.

And then it is gone. A lurch nearly knocks you unconscious.

Admittedly, you had been a little too confident. The dockmaster had been alone, strangely, and you had foolishly thought that it would be the perfect opportunity to corner one of The Devil Triad’s members. The devil-shaped brand on his neck had given him away. The only witness of his planned interrogation and murder would be the moon above, you had concluded. It would be too easy for you to take him out. A short distance closer, and you would have been able to subdue him. A moment earlier, and you would have been able drag him away from the docks, force him into one of the storage containers, and torture him until he told you everything you needed to know.

But how the hell were you supposed to expect a massive, monstrous sea serpent to bite into your leg? How the hell were you supposed to expect your night to end with you being dragged screaming into the sea?

A wave of nausea strikes you. Your body crashes through the surface of the water and is deposited roughly onto something solid. A smooth, solid stone. The salt still burns your eyes and nose. You collapse against the stone as you hack up seawater, your lungs grateful for the air. It takes a moment for you to realize that you have miraculously held onto the sheath of your katana.

It takes another moment to notice that you have been thrown into a sea cave.

The surface of the water breaks once more. The dockmaster emerges from the black water and steps onto the smooth stone before you. A flick of his hand, and a portion of seawater rises to attend to him. You watch as the sea forms itself into several pole arms, each one sharper than the last. The dockmaster peruses his options for a moment – and then he takes one of them into his hands, brandishes it, and regards you with irritation.

“Surprised?” he asks. “You’re not the only one who has microbots.”

Moonlight spills into the cave from above. The dockmaster steps into its embrace, still holding his weapon before him, and allows the light to catch onto his form.

Thousands of microbots have been embedded into the dockmaster’s skin, much like scales. The result of what must have been an extremely painful and risky operation. His eyes are double-lidded, allowing him to easily blink away the seawater. His hands – no, all four of his limbs have been modified beyond belief. You’re not sure if they’re even really his. You can’t imagine what could have made him stupid enough to force his body through so many procedures.

Then again, you think to yourself, it’s possible that he did it out of desperation. Only the strong survive in the underbelly of Neo-Osaka.

It is rare for one to be born with psychokinesis. It is even rarer for one to be born with psychokinesis that is strong enough to use in combat. While many undergo horrific, painful procedures in an attempt to enhance their abilities or even give one psychokinesis, the operations typically lead to the death of the subject. The ones that are lucky to survive are often crippled for life or rendered a vegetable.

This man must have had a hell of a reason to undergo such a risky operation.

“I’m not really sure why you’ve been killing us, but that isn’t really my business. An enemy of The Devil Triad is an enemy of mine.” The dockmaster levels his weapon at you. “I’ll feed whatever’s left of your body to Lotan once I’m done with you.”

LEVEL SIX – MAMMON, HEAD OF THE TREASURY

Despite the carnage – and there is plenty of that, considering the goons you’ve slaughtered on your way in – you can’t help but admire your surroundings. The walls are plastered with gold brocade, each golden strand woven skillfully into the material, and the endless corridors are furnished with priceless works of art. You almost feel guilty for tarnishing them with blood. Windows composed of stained glass stretch to lofty ceilings. Carved statues of crows greet you at every turn, their marble beaks and wings poised in warning. You pass by countless mahogany doors, each emblazoned with the insignia of The Devil Triad, and kick down just as many to interrogate the inhabitants within.

Much to your disappointment, however, it seems that even the threat of death isn’t enough to make them speak.

You pause in front of a particularly massive portrait . The frame of the portrait seems to have been cast from pure gold and embedded with precious stones, which is shocking enough – but it is the painted image that truly captures your attention. The man depicted within is surrounded with pelts of exotic animals. His fingers bear multiple rings on each digit, his ears bear piercings in the shape of crows and ravens, and the material of his suit suggests that it has been made from augment-weave. The man’s hair is so bleached that it appears white. His smile portrays a damning cockiness.

It is the very image of decadence and greed.

You travel into the highest reaches of the treasury. The guards are no match for you, of course. You behead one of them before they can even speak. One well-placed kick to the most exorbitant, elaborate door you’ve ever seen, and you stroll into a massive office.

A man – the very same man you had seen in the painting, you recognize – sits at the desk, swirling brandy in a glass. Mammon, the head of The Devil Triad’s treasury. He regards you with interest as you pass the threshold. Despite your bloody, battered state, you level your katana at him and demand to know the location of The Devil Triad’s main operations. They’ve taken the little brother you’ve cared for all your life, and you intend to get him back.

The treasurer sighs. “Hasty, aren’t ya?” he remarks, taking a sip out of his glass. “Least you can do is let me finish. Vintage stuff like this is pretty hard to come by in Neo-Osaka, ya know.”

Your katana knocks the glass from his hands. It shatters against the polished floor. He shouldn’t fuck with you, you recommend. You’ve fought too hard and suffered too much to be played with now. If he would be so kind as to tell you what you want to know, then you might let him --

A shot rings out. Your forearm burns as the bullet tears through it, searing through a bit of your clothing, and you are just barely able to dodge the second shot. You look up to see a very, very pissed off treasurer before you, one of his fancy shoes propped up onto the desk. His augment-weave suit rumples with the movement.

Except he isn’t looking at you. The treasurer, you realize, is staring at a stain from the brandy on his augment-weave suit. A stain that is entirely your fault. When he whirls around to look at you again, his expression only speaks of ire and hatred. Apparently the slaughtering of his underlings means nothing compared to his tailored suit.

“Thought you could pull a fast one on me, didn’t ya?” he barks. His multiple sets of rings click together as he reaches under the table. “Well, ya got another thing coming!”

Every crow statue in the massive office orients itself towards you, their beaks opening to reveal firearms within. Countless lights make themselves known against your body. The treasurer scowls as he grabs a golden plasma rifle from beneath his desk, powers it up, and hefts it over his shoulder. Aims it right at your head. The glare he shoots you nearly burns through his orange sunglasses.

“Come on, then!” the treasurer snarls. “I’ll show ya the power money can buy!”

LEVEL SEVEN – LUCIFER, THE RIGHT-HAND MAN

Something is wrong here. You’re all too aware of the emptiness of the compound. The corridors are unlit. No shadows linger behind the shoji doors and walls. There is only an eerie silence. You pass by gardens of stone and running water, arched bridges, and well-tended flowerbeds. You pass by dark alcoves, monochromatic passageways, and fragrant incense. Your eyes flicker to and fro as you explore the compound, expecting some enemy to come rushing at you from the darkness, but your efforts are wasted. You are alone.

For a while, that is.

A man in traditional garb kneels in the middle of a massive, otherwise empty washitsu. A sword sits at his side. Moonlight spills into the space as you open the door and pass the threshold. The man doesn’t flinch when you address him, nor does he bother to respond when you press him for information. The sound of your unsheathing katana doesn’t seem to faze him either, which infuriates you, and then you are pressing the tip of your weapon to the nape of his neck. You demand to know where your brother is.

The movement is too quick for your eyes to catch. You curse as you stagger backwards, clutching your abdomen in pain. The image of him before you blurs, despite the sufficient amount of light in the room, and your body sways unsteadily.

And then you realize exactly what the man has done to you.

Despite the brevity of the man’s attack, his blade has somehow made its way through a majority of your torso, disemboweling you. You watch in horror as your clothing blooms with the excessive blood. As your organs threaten to leave the cavity of your abdomen. As hands fail to keep most of your intestines in the right place. The man only looks at you with disdain as you fall to your knees, gasping in pain. The sensation burns like a fire through your veins, white-hot and excruciating, and for a few moments you see nothing but patches of shadow. For a few moments you waver in and out of consciousness.

But you won’t die. Not here, and certainly not now.

You slam your blade into the ground and force yourself back onto your feet. The microbots in your blood work to knit your flesh back together, reattaching your organs and skin back into the right places. With one trembling arm, you level your katana at him once more. A challenge.

“So it’s true,” the man muses, flicking his blade. Your blood splatters against the tatami. “I didn’t quite believe the rumors. Congratulations on surviving my first attack.”

You tell him quite thoroughly just how much of a fucking bastard he is.

Much to your surprise, however, the man bows towards you. He introduces himself as Lucifer, the right-hand man of The Devil Triad’s boss, and politely informs you that he has been sent to eliminate you. You bested the others because they were weak and relied on modifications, he explains with a disdainful tone. You bested the others because they were overconfident in their altered physiology. The others saw your modification as common and therefore useless, unlike theirs, and so you had used that to your advantage. It was only the factor of their underestimation that led to their defeat.

He, on the other hand, needs no such things. Altered physiology is nothing to the training and discipline that only a pure human can master.

Lucifer readies his blade. “I look forward to witnessing your skill.”

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creepingsharia · 4 years ago

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‘Tortured Beyond Recognition’: Muslim Persecution of Christians, December 2020

Christians executed by jihadis on Christmas Day in Nigeria.

by Raymond Ibrahim

The following are among the abuses inflicted on Christians by Muslims throughout the month of December, 2020:

The Slaughter of Christians

Nigeria: In a video that appeared on Dec. 29, Islamic terrorists executed five Christians. The footage showed five armed members of the Islamic State (West African province) standing behind five men dressed in orange suits with their arms tied behind their backs and on their knees. The terrorists order each of the men to say their names and the hostages oblige, each adding, “I am a Christian.” One of the terrorists then says “This is a warning to Christians in all parts of the world and those in Nigeria…. Use the heads of these five of your brethren to continue with your ungodly celebrations,” a reference to Christmas. The five Muslims then open fire into the back of the Christians’ heads and kill them.

A few days earlier, on Christmas Eve, and for several hours into the early morning of Christmas Day, Muslim raiders terrorized a Christian village, where they slaughtered between seven and 11 people, including a 5-year-old, and kidnapped 11 more (it is believed that the five Christians who were executed on video were from among these 11). Riding on trucks and motorcycles, the jihadis opened fire indiscriminately, torched 10 homes and one church, and plundered the food supplies meant to be distributed on Christmas Day. Although traumatized, some Christians remained defiant, as captured by a Christmas Day text by one Markus Bulus, a local:

Whatever Boko Haram planned against us has failed. Whatever it is, we shall still celebrate Christmas. Jesus, we’re so grateful this day even with the bad experience we had last night. We have nothing to offer as our thanksgiving, but we offer our hearts in deep supplication to your majesty on this Christmas Day.

Elsewhere throughout the month of December, Muslim Fulani herdsmen “killed 33 Christians, destroyed 18 homes and displaced more than 2,500 people.” Moreover, according to a report released by the International Society for Civil Liberties & the Rule of Law (“INTERSOCIETY”), Muslims have massacred at least 2,200 Nigerian Christians between Jan. 2020 and Dec. 13, 2020. Of this figure, “Jihadist Fulani Herdsmen,” it said, were responsible for about “1,300 Christian deaths, followed by Boko Haram and its splinter groups (ISWAP and Ansaru) with 500 Christian deaths…. In other words, Nigeria in 2020 has lost average of six Christians per day and 180 per month.”

Uganda: A Muslim mob attacked and killed a man “a few days after he renounced Islam to follow Christ.” On Nov. 30, Yusuf Kintu, 41, then an imam at a mosque, converted to Christianity. “We had been talking on several occasions,” Pastor Andrew Nyanma explained, “but he was so argumentative when we touched on matters related to faith. He was a brilliant Muslim Imam but also respected other people’s faith. On this day [of his conversion], he was calm and receptive.” Three days later, his wife divorced him and left the house with his two youngest children. On Dec. 6, one week after his conversion—or, in Muslim eyes, apostasy—an angry Muslim mob rose up against him. According to one source, “the local Muslim community was upset in [sic] Yusuf for leaving Islam and becoming a Christian. Yusuf was seriously beaten and left unconscious.” Pastor Andrew found him in the morning and took him to a hospital, where Yusuf succumbed to his injuries on Dec. 7.

Egypt: On Dec. 10, two Muslim brothers went on a stabbing spree targeting Christians in Alexandria; one man was killed and two others were severely injured and hospitalized. According to authorities, they went on their murderous rampage because they were “upset” that their mother had died earlier that day. “The matter began with insults and curses to the shopkeepers for being Christians,” explained Fr. Michael Gamil, whose nearby church was also targeted. “The Copts present responded with patience. Then, when one of them, Ramses, quietly went to close and lock his shop door, they lunged at and stabbed him with knives.” Ramses’ brother, who ran a grocery store nearby, saw what was happening, rushed to his brother’s aid, and was also stabbed. The Muslim brothers then barged into the clothing shop of another Christian man and stabbed him in the torso, near his heart. All three men were hospitalized with serious injuries in intensive care; Ramses died of his wounds. The rampaging Muslim brothers then entered Fr. Michael’s church and cursed at a partially blind priest. Discussing the alleged motive, Fr. Michael said: “They [Egyptian authorities] say they started cursing the Copts because their mother died; and two years earlier, they cursed the Copts because their brother died: what do [familial] death and the Copts have to do with each other?” He emphasized that the two brothers had been in the habit of verbally harassing and insulting Christians for years—though they clearly took their hate to another level on Dec. 10.

Artsakh: Muslim fighters tortured a 58-year-old Christian woman of Armenian descent by hacking off her ears, hands, and feet, before finally executing her. According to the Jan. 14 report,

On the same day of talks between Erdogan and Putin, when Turkey’s leader said he would like to create conditions of ‘coexistence’ between Armenians and Azeris, officials located the body of an Armenian woman today who had been reported missing.

The woman has been identified as 58-year-old Alvard Tovmasyan who was a resident of Karin Tak village, near the Shushi region of Artsakh currently occupied by Azerbaijani forces.

Tovmasyan was a second degree intellectually disabled person killed and ‘tortured beyond recognition’ outside of her home with her hands, ears, and feet cut off, according to her brother Samvel Tovmasyan who confirmed her identity by recognizing the clothes she was wearing.

As to why she was mutilated before being killed, jihadis often cite the Koran’s calls to cut off the hands, feet, and throats of infidels (e.g., Koran 5:33, 47:4).

According to a separate Dec. 15 Church Militant news report, “Armenians are being brutalized” and have “lost territory to their jihadist neighbors before agreeing to a cease-fire enforced by Russia…. Prior to violating the so-called peace agreement, the Turkish Muslims of Azerbaijan did as Muhammad commanded in beheading Christians.” The report linked to a video of camouflaged soldiers overpowering and forcing down a struggling, elderly Armenian man, and then casually carving at his throat with a knife: “Azerbaijan has accused Armenia of violating the peace deal first,” the report continues, “but observers note the only provocation Muslims need to attack Armenians is their continued existence.”

Democratic Republic of Congo: Members of the Allied Democratic Forces, widely acknowledged as “an insurgent jihadist group,” slaughtered at least 30 Christians and raped ten women and girls in five villages between Nov. 20 and Dec. 3. One of the survivors, Tony Longi, managed to escape his home in time and hide in the outside bathroom: “through the ventilator of the latrine he saw the rebels killing 4 members of his family including his wife and 3 children.” According to one local official, “We got information that as they killed the Christians the[y] were saying that they were killing them because they refused to convert to Islam.” Another report describing these raids said there were “scenes of terrified Christians flooding into the streets as the jihadists surrounded churches in each of the five villages armed with guns, machetes, clubs, swords and axes.”

Attacks on Muslim Converts and Christian Preachers

Uganda: A Muslim man beat and forced his wife to drink pesticide on learning that she had become Christian. Three months after Zubeda Nabirye, a 38-year-old mother of three, had secretly converted, her husband discovered Bibles in her possession and demanded if she had apostatized. She told him that “a friend had given me the Bibles, and I was using it to compare it with what is written in the Koran, and after all religion is a matter of personal choice”; she added that “I was convicted and decided to embrace Christianity.” In response, “My husband began reading verses in the Koran that allowed men to beat their wives if they disobey them, and after that he started beating me with slaps and sticks. As if this was not enough, he forced me to take Dithane M-45,” a toxic pesticide. He forced the poison into his wife’s mouth; though she managed not to swallow most of it, she “ingested some while he was trying to strangle her and hitting her leg with sticks… He also injured her chest, neck and thigh.” It was late in the night when “I regained consciousness and found myself surrounded by neighbors.” One of them later explained that “we heard groaning from a nearby banana plant, and there we found Zubeda Nabirye, who had just regained her consciousness but with vomit and blood all over her body.” They took her to a nearby hospital. According to the Dec. 17 report, “she suspects her husband took her to the banana plants expecting she would die there.” Even so, she did “not file charges with police over the assault as it could provoke further violence. She still looks very weak and asks about the wellbeing of her three children,” who at the time were staying with her husband’s mother due to COVID-19 travel restrictions: “I am worried about my children [aged 9, 13, and 16], who are under the care of my mother-in-law,” Zubeda said. “I know it will be very difficult for me to see them and reunite with them.”

In a separate incident in Uganda, on Dec. 21, Muslims gang-raped a female church pastor. The widowed mother of five was walking home from Christmas preparations at her church when she heard someone crying for help in the dark. “When I stopped,” explained the 50-year-old whose name is withheld for security reasons, “I was surprised to see people coming from the bush, and one of them shouted in the Arabic language, ‘Allah is greater—we have warned you several times to stop converting Muslims to Christianity. Today we shall teach you a lesson that you will not forget.’” One of the men covered her mouth with a chemical-doused handkerchief that caused her to lose consciousness. She awoke three hours later and was found by her nephew. “He saw blood on my torn skirt. He could not stop tears rolling from his cheeks, crying and shouting for help, and he took me to a nearby clinic for medical treatment.” Two months earlier, a Muslim neighbor had complained to her: “I am warning you not to come to our home. My children are now singing some Christian songs. I know soon they will come to your church. We as Muslims have no relations with infidels.” A church member said the rape victim remains traumatized: “Sometimes she is quiet for about one hour; … she is having severe headache[s], swelling at her neck and severe pain in her private parts.” “I am hurt,” confirmed the visibly emotional and tearful pastor from her hospital bed during an interview on Christmas Eve. “I will miss Christmas celebration with my church members…. I hope these Muslim rapists have not infected me with deadly diseases. I forgive them,” added the mother of five who was widowed five years earlier.

Attacks on Churches

Pakistan: On Christmas day, a mob consisting of as many as 60 Muslim men attacked a church during Christmas service. According to the Dec. 30 report, “They aimed to kidnap and assault the women in attendance.” However, the church’s security guards and male congregants “fought back with bare hands against the staff-wielding intruders, giving the women time to escape. Many Christian men suffered blunt trauma injuries and fractures in the fight.” Before things got violent, the Muslim invaders had made derogatory comments about the Christian women, adding that they were “looking dashing today. Let us have all of them in our beds.” When one of the Christian defenders angrily rose up, “The Muslims,” he said, “warned me never to stop them from doing whatever they wanted to do with Christian girls.” On arriving, the authorities “helped the defeated Muslims escape, and blamed Christians for fighting back.” According to a spokesman for the Christians,

They scolded and threatened the Christian community, the Christian church, saying it’s illegal to have their own security. Which is truly an unjustified and illegal action by the police, because it was announced by the government of Pakistan two years ago, that every church must have its own security. They must have their own CCTV cameras, barbed wires, and medical equipment.

Sudan: A temporary church structure of the Sudanese Church of Christ has been burned down five times by what one pastor described as “radical Muslims.” They also threatened to butcher the Christians if they dared erect another tent again. According to the Dec. 22 report, “Saying they didn’t want a Christian presence in the area, the extremists have burned down the structures on Jan. 19, 2019, and this year on Jan. 4, Jan. 19, Jan. 28, and Aug. 7…. The church decided to report the attacks to police after the Aug. 7 arson in spite of the threats.” The original church building, which had been in operation since 1993, was first torched in 2019; since then the 150-member congregation have been setting up and worshipping inside tents, though all five have been “reduced to ashes along with Bibles and prayer books.” Church members identified several of the assailants. Police initially refused to file a case until an attorney got involved. Five of nine suspects involved have been arrested.

Discrimination, Misogyny, and Violence against Christians

Egypt: In what human rights activists described as an “egregious miscarriage of justice,” a court acquitted three Muslim men charged with assaulting a Christian grandmother, including by spitting on and beating her, stripping her naked and parading her in the streets of their village, on the accusation that her son was romantically involved with a Muslim woman. Although this attack took place in 2016, and although video evidence and witnesses have identified the three Muslim men, the Egyptian courts refused to render a decision. As a Dec. 21 press release from Coptic Solidarity explains:

After multiple delay tactics, including judges ‘recusing’ themselves and retrials by different court circuits, the case reached this sad conclusion. The Egyptian judiciary has revealed their true face of Islamist fanaticism and blatant bias against Coptic victims. This is indeed shameful for a country that has employed some form of a ‘modern’ justice system for 150 years.

Upon hearing news of the court ruling, Mrs. Thabet [the victim], burst into tears, simply saying “What shall I do after being so humiliated! My right is in the hands of my Lord who shall render me His justice.”

Pakistan/China: Christian and Hindu women in Pakistan are being marketed to China as concubines and forced brides, a Dec. 9 report revealed. Due to China’s longstanding one-child only policy and cultural preference for boys, the nation suffers from an acute shortage of females, causing Chinese men to import women from abroad. Speaking on Dec. 8, the top U.S. diplomat for religious freedom, Samuel Brownback, said that “religious minorities, Christian and Hindu women” from Pakistan are “being marketed as concubines and as forced as brides [sic] into China.” This is because “there’s discrimination against religious minorities that make them more vulnerable” in Muslim Pakistan, he added.

France: “Handwritten letters were mailed to seven black African priests with their names and the address of the rectory where they live,” reported the Vicar General of the Diocese of Avignon Pascal Molemb Emock: “The mail only says ‘Allah Akbar’ in French and in Arabic.” Because violent Islamic attacks on clergymen and Christians in general have been escalating in France—five weeks earlier a Muslim man crying “Allahu Akbar” entered a church and slaughtered three Christians in Nice—an investigation was quickly opened. As a police source explained on Dec. 9, “These are not direct death threats, but in the context of a terrorist threat, this matter is taken very seriously.” “I am not afraid for myself,�� commented one of the priests. “I will continue to live alone in my rectory. But I am responsible for a community, I must be careful for the parishioners.”

Iraq: At least 14 shops that sell alcohol in Baghdad—most of which are owned by Christians—were firebombed throughout November and December. According to the Dec. 16 report, these escalating attacks have “terrified shop-owners who fear hardline Islamists are flexing their muscle against alcohol consumption.” Discussing the situation, Andre, an Iraqi Christian, said the recent bombing of his shop has cost him thousands of dollars in repairs. “These groups want the last of the Christians to leave the country,” he said of the attackers: “They’re targeting us.” He also blamed security forces for leaving their post for hours, thereby providing the attackers with “time to place the explosives, take pictures before and after and publish them on Facebook.” “Why doesn’t the government arrest them?” he added, pointing out that he had even provided authorities with the license plate number of the attacking vehicle as captured by the store’s surveillance camera.

Christmastime Terror

Spain: On Christmas day, a Muslim of Moroccan background, known only as Muhammad Q., stalked through a Christmas street celebration while brandishing a machete and crying out, “Allahu akbar, I’m going to kill you,” at random passersby. He lunged at police when they arrived and slightly injured them, though they managed to subdue and arrest him. Subsequent investigations revealed that the 45-year-old had a criminal record relating to the sexual abuse of a minor and ties to the Islamic State.

France: A group of Muslims thrashed another Muslim for participating in a Christmas Day dinner. After Nabil, 20, published pictures of the dinner online, a schoolmate expressed his “shock” via text that a fellow Muslim would celebrate Christmas, at one point texting, “I’ll show you what a real Arab is.” Nabil and his scandalized Muslim schoolmate then agreed to meet and discuss the matter; but when Nabil arrived, the schoolmate and four other men ambushed and beat him, leaving him with a bloodied and bruised face and a warning not to report the incident to police or else. Undeterred, he contacted local authorities who subsequently arrested the schoolmate. During his trial, he continued to assert his “shock” that Nabil had posted such pictures, adding “It is not Muslim to celebrate Christmas.”

Western Europe: Some Christians celebrated Christmas under threat in a few nations: According to a Dec. 3 report, British intelligence, relying on a former al-Qaeda bomb-maker, warned that “a senior Isis commander is plotting a Christmas terror campaign in European countries, including Britain.” The Muslim terrorists had reportedly “decided to try and use the lifting of lockdown restrictions during the Christmas period to launch attacks in Europe, in particular against the UK, France and Germany.”

Germany: In a video that appears embedded in a Dec. 19 article, a Muslim cleric living in Braunschweig declares that “Christmas is an insult to Allah”

About this Series

The persecution of Christians in the Islamic world has become endemic. Accordingly, “Muslim Persecution of Christians” was developed in 2011 to collate some—by no means all—of the instances of persecution that occur or are reported each month. It serves two purposes:

1) To document that which the mainstream media does not: the habitual, if not chronic, persecution of Christians.

2) To show that such persecution is not “random,” but systematic and interrelated—that it is rooted in a worldview inspired by Islamic Sharia.

Accordingly, whatever the anecdote of persecution, it typically fits under a specific theme, including hatred for churches and other Christian symbols; apostasy, blasphemy, and proselytism laws that criminalize and sometimes punish with death those who “offend” Islam; sexual abuse of Christian women; forced conversions to Islam; theft and plunder in lieu of jizya (financial tribute expected from non-Muslims); overall expectations for Christians to behave like cowed dhimmis, or second-class, “tolerated” citizens; and simple violence and murder. Sometimes it is a combination thereof.

Because these accounts of persecution span different ethnicities, languages, and locales—from Morocco in the West, to Indonesia in the East—it should be clear that one thing alone binds them: Islam—whether the strict application of Islamic Sharia law, or the supremacist culture born of it.

Previous Reports - monthly back to 2011

#Islam #Muslim #Jihad #Sharia #Terror #Immigration #Legal #Law #News #Media #politics #Religion #persecution

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frozenmiwa · 5 years ago

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Review: Rise of the Turtles part 1 (TMNT 2012)

I know, I know I promised to post this during summer but instead I ended up editing my TMNT 2012 fanfiction. I ended up having some technical difficulties with this post. I did watch the episode but somehow all the screen shots I took just vanished. My guess is some form of Windows update happened and poof, all screen shots were gone.

I actually just got the first season on DVD yesterday – I finally ordered it online three or so weeks ago, I’ve been looking for Finnish release of the show ever since 2014 when it started to air in Finland but we got nothing. Not that I minded, the dub was decent but definitely lot worser than the dub 2003 series got from the group called Dubberman. So I’m more than happy to have the UK release of the first season.

Firstly I’d like to address one thing: I was hesitant to watch this show because I don’t like CGI that much anymore since it’s everywhere these days, but I was interested in it after scrolling some Turtlepedia especially after I saw one of my absolute favorite character from the 2003 show, April. When I read about Donnie’s crush on her, I recalled their relationship in the 2003 series – seeing Donatello and April interact was one of my favorite things about the show so naturally I was interested to see how well 2012 series pulled that off. Then I had this boring weekend and I decided to give it a try. I did and absolutely loved the show, I loved the turtles, I loved what they did with Splinter, I even loved this one character I thought I wouldn’t, what I didn’t love however was April – instead Karai became my favorite character.

But we get to that when we get to that. Let’s start this thing!

Like with the previous post I’m not going to do full plot summary here, instead I’m doing this brief summary. If you are interested in full summary please go to sites like Turtlepedia for that!

Now this episode starts similarly to the 2003 series. We are introduced to our main characters as they are in training session. It turns out the turtles are celebrating their fifteenth birthday today and wish to go top side for the first time even though Splinter is hesitant to let them go. Eventually he does and the turtles get to see the what the world looks like outside sewers. It seems to be full of wonder… and dangers. Turtles witness a family of two, father and daughter getting kidnapped by a group of identical men, but are unable to rescue them due to their inability to work as a team. And Mikey finds out those men weren’t exactly human… but no one believes him. The group returns to the lair and they get scolded by Splinter for letting the kidnappers getting away because they couldn’t work as a team – then again, he does admit it’s partially his fault as he never trained them to fight as a team. While Splinter suggest they have another year to wait until their next visit to the top side, Donnie isn’t having it as he wants to save the poor kidnapped girl, he fell in love with at the first sight. After some convincing Splinter agrees to let them go and save her. Before they go however Splinter makes Leonardo their leader – the group does need a leader in order to function correctly after all, but as to why he chose Leo, isn’t clear. So, to the back side we go, after some time they manage to find one of the kidnappers and chase him until his car falls over. When Raph opens up the back door to the car a mysterious cannister filled with green ooze rolls over – looking a lot like the one broken cannister the turtles have in their lair, the one that had something to do with their current forms. And with that the first episode ends.

What I liked about the episode

+ Turtles actually acting like teenagers. I don’t think we have seen that in any other incarnation despite the show being called “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles”.

+ What they did with Leo’s personality. I was so used to Leo being this perfect serious leader who’d win any training session against Raph, seeing Leo actually losing against Raph not to mention having this kind of geeky awkward side to his character was refreshing to see.

+ Master Splinter. I liked how he looked nothing like his former counterparts, I loved how they brought up his personality and most of all now he actually felt like a caring father to the turtles instead of being just their teacher. Not to mention how cool his design looks in this show!

+ The plot in general. For a pilot episode it did good job at presenting our four main characters, showing they, each have different personalities without spending too much on that. It had this sense of wonder when we see the turtles discovering the world for the first time. And there was action included as well but not in a way that our heroes just swoop in and save the day, I liked the fact they messed it up on their first try. I also liked how the episode didn’t end with turtles saving the day but rather with a cliff hanger because that would get viewers to want to catch the next episode – unlike 2003 series where it just ended, personally I wouldn’t have waited to see the next episode, unlike with this 2012 show.

+ Interaction and comedy between the turtles was well done, I definitely did have some laughs here and there.

+ The way flashbacks and ending stills are done in this version. What can I say? I just love the comic book style they went with!

What I didn’t like about this episode

- Well in general I liked this episode fine; it really didn’t have much to complain about, characters were solid, their backstory was solid, story was solid and the action was solid. Over all I’d say it’s a good episode. But if I had to pick one thing I did not like; it would be the way April was presented. Unlike the turtles she didn’t seem like a character, just a pretty girl shown to our faces who needed to be saved. I know that’s how it was intended but if I’d have to pick one thing I didn’t like about the episode, this would be it.

And now let’s say few words about the dub my country eventually got...

When this series finally started to air in Finland you better believe I got up every Sunday to watch this show, not because I hadn’t seen it, it was January 2014, I had already seen the episodes couple of times in English but I wanted to check out the dubbed version especially after seeing the voice cast. Just by looking at the voices seemed like this dub would go either way. It could be good or really bad. Like with seasons 3-4 and 6-7 of TMNT 2003 a group called Dubberman. And I wasn’t completely trusting for the fact they would do the show justice. I mean they did skip over the season 5 in 2003 series – and later season 3 in 2012 series so…

The dub was decent, not great, not the worst we could have gotten but decent. There were some errors like they called Raphael “Rafaello” or “Rafa” for short like in the dubbed VHS/DVD release of 1980 series – luckily, they stopped doing that after few episodes because it bothered me a lot. Another thing was how those Japanese phases were pronounced – in this episode by Leo. They didn’t sound right at least when you compare to the original version.

The voice cast was okay. It consisted of some familiar and great voice actors like Jon-Jon Geitel as Leo who has also voiced characters like Jack Frost from the Rise of the guardians or Jake Long from American Dragon: Jake Long – I think this is where I first heard his voice acting. More recently he voiced Aladdin in the live action version from 2019. Another familiar voices we had were Aksu Palmén as Donatello who had voiced characters like Hiccup in How to train your dragon, and Markus Bäckman as Master Splinter – It’s better I won’t go in too much details on his voicing career because he has done a lot of good voice acting in TV and Disney movies. These two were probably the most suited for their roles. Especially Markus Bäckman as Splinter. He sounded just right for the part. Then there was Henri Piispanen who I hadn’t heard much voice acting from before TMNT. I think he was solid pick for Raph – not as good as Sean Astin but they could have gone for worse. Then there were couple unknown actors Miro Loopperi who voiced Mikey and Ella Jaakkola who voiced April.

Miro Looperi did fine job as Mikey but he didn’t really sound like him. This reminds me of 2003 series as Mikey had a voice actor in the Finnish dub that I liked, but one that didn’t sound like him when compared his original voice. This has the same feeling to it. And now Ella Jaakkola, she had this high-pitched kind of bitchy voice I found annoying but at the same time I thought it kind of worked for April’s character because I knew what would become of her character in season 2. I remember thinking: “I can’t wait to hear this voice in Mutation Situation!” – Too bad they changed her voice for season 2.

Now, don’t expect me to do this thing for all the episodes where I talk a little bit about the Finnish dub as I’ve only seen the first season dubbed – I don’t even know when season 2 aired. And I don’t have many notes about the dub. Nor do I remember much of it. I have notes for I think five or so episodes and very good memory for Karai’s debut episode but that’s about it. As I said earlier so far now DVD releases have been made in Finland so I would only have access through streaming services to seasons 4 and 5 – which I haven’t even watched completely yet. I can only hope Netflix or Viaplay would upload the dubbed versions of TMNT to their servers but as we lack DVD releases or reruns of seasons 1 and 2 and season 3 in general that’s very unlikely.

And now some screenshots!

Would you look at that? Leo actually lost to Raph.

Is that supposed to be Splinter? He looks kind of cool - were my first thoughts when he appeared on the screen.

Happy Mutation day! I just love their expressions here.

And it’s flashback time! I really love the way they did and animated the flashbacks in this version.

Splinter holding the broken mutagen canister.

...And Mikey giving it a hug.

They are finally able to go to the top side. Look at how happy they are - I mean even Raph is smiling.

Well I just like this shot of Splinter.

Leo and Space Heroes. I love how proud he looks here.

“Hai, sensei!” - This is probably one of my favorite scenes in this episode. It shows that over protective side of Splinter which is one of the many things I love about the show.

Turtles entering the top side for the first time.

Donnie geeking out at computer stuff while Raph is not interested. Personally being a geek myself, I see lot of myself in Donatello during this moment.

Turtles are about to find out what pizza is.

Oh, look at that it’s a love interest... I mean it’s my least favorite character... I mean it’s April.

And Donnie is in love with her. Just like that.

I know April is supposed to be scared here but I find her expression hilarious. It cracks me every time.

Fighting is not going too well here.

Or here.

Saving April.

I really like this shot of Donnie smiling. He looks kind of adorable. I mean who would scream after seeing that adorable face?

April of course!

I find Donnie’s reaction and posture here priceless, it’s like: “Oh my god, what did I just touch?”

April is being cornered by creepy men.

And Donnie’s offering to help her.

But that doesn’t really work out. Mikey looks adorable though!

I guess The Kraang didn’t fancy April’s screaming either.

And here’s Mikey, facing a suspicious man all by himself.

...That is not a man at all.

Okay what the hell is that thing?

You know what Mikey, I totally agree with you.

Turtles are having a conversation about the leader stuff. And they all can’t believe what they just heard.

Here is Leo facepalming. One of my favorite scenes in the episode.

“I thinking of something green. Green.” “Is it Raphael again?”

Cornering Snake.

Ending still.

Anyway, this was my review for the first episode of TMNT 2012. Next time I think I’m doing review for the second episode of 2003 series, so stay tuned for that. Or something.

#TMNT 2012 #tmnt2012review #tmnt2012season1

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yoolee · 6 years ago

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if lee wrote otome #7 | All good deeds get punished

PREMISE:

The heroine is a badass lady knight who tricked a faerie queen and as a result has been CURSED to do one hundred good deeds in one year or be turned into a newt (or something equally heinous, queenie was so ticked that the heroine isn’t totally sure what that last part was aside from an angry roar) Luckily, she was planning on doing that anyway but it’s definitely easier to accomplish when one is not four inches long and super squishy. She can’t do the same thing more than once, each deed must be greater than the one that preceded it, and the person she does it for can’t say thank you or the deed is undone. She has one hundred days and one epic good deed left.

HEROINE:

Errant Lady Knight. Puts up a bit of a façade (though it isn’t all an act) of being massively crass, blunt, reckless and but is also super dedicated to her cause. Has a quick temper but it goes cold before it goes hot. Massively sneaky (after all, she tricked a faerie queen into surrendering some of her power, and she didn’t even know that old lady in the woods was magical) and fully aware the world isn’t a rosy, easy place with clear black and white decisions. Can’t bear to sit around doing nothing, and while she considers her options, she doesn’t hesitate to fling herself into whichever one makes the most sense very quickly. Very, very paranoid about making bargains. Tough, unafraid to do bad things to help good people, or make hard, hurtful decisions when they have to be done, but there is still a part of her that believes in the best, and wants to be a part of it. Big fan of the ‘hit it with a sword until it stops’ option for problem-solving.

LOVE INTERESTS

PRINCESS CHARMING: An absolute rogue. Young, lovely, charming, dashing, brave, she runs around rescuing royalty and eliciting instantaneous wedding proposals. Sometimes is just in the right place at the right time – she’s lucky and has excellent timing. Longtime rival of Lady Knight because excuse you, she needs to rescue that royalty or become a newt. A genuine and absolute romantic, who really does believe in love at first sight, and goes along with those ‘kissed you and you woke up let’s get married’ proposals because she genuinely thinks it will work, but she falls out of love just as quickly. Incredibly poetic, always manages to find the perfect light to shine on her hair when she makes an entrance. Optimist who believes everything will work out, because it pretty much always does for her. To LK’s eternal frustration (one of LK’s good deeds was probably putting a stop to one of her weddings). Never given enough credit by LK for the stuff she actually does accomplish through skill and hard work.

MAGIC WISH FISH: Caught in an earlier good deed escapade, a magical being who accompanies the heroine and has for some time, because they owe her three wishes and she hasn’t taken advantage of them yet (mostly because MWF will absolutely twist them to their own purposes). Super duper crotchety and grouchy about being obligated to tag along as her page, but lbh is deep down an absolute sucker for her and her safety and well-being and will go down swinging if anyone comes after her. Master of deadpan snark. Acts like a grumpy teenager being dragged along on a road trip. Nothing nice to say. Tsun to the extreme. Stingy with the immense knowledge of magic that they have. Has some random but devastating weakness

FAERIE QUEEN: rival court ruler to the one who cursed the Lady Knight, the good deed she has requested is to take down the other Faerie Queen. Lady Knight’s not totally sure murder counts as a good deed, but, you say no to a FQ. Treacherous, wicked, tricky, wily, never lies but never gives the whole truth either. Has a grand plan and a lot of power and the creativity and ambition to make it happen. Weaves a lot of webs and has been for a very long time. Not great at relying on others, pretty ambivalent about the existence of humans unless they wander into her realm. Generally p’o’d because being a leader to a bunch of half-mad immortal creatures who get bored and destructive is a THANKLESS TASK. Has a very dark, cruel streak when tested.

FAILED QUESTOR: The second eldest son, whose older brother failed the quest before him and whose younger brother is about to set on it as well and he will do everything to stop little bro, who is just an awful person, and instead wants LK to help his little sister who has always had an adventurous heart, succeed. Super duper average and normal and boring according to himself, and it’s true he’s not the most exciting person in the world, but he’s very genuine. Patient, excellent teacher, good at details, good at explaining things in different ways. Cursed in some massively ridiculous way (like he turns into goldfish every full moon) or some tragic way (invisible to his family from now on) or maybe both? Totally rolls with it, because he doesn’t have a lot of confidence.

THE DEATHLESS SORCERER: Absolutely out of his mind, according to everyone, including himself. The sort of guy who keeps a flock of swans on his lake who transform back into their kidnapped maiden forms only at night. Except, plot twist - he actually rescued them, they can turn into people any time they want and can leave any time they wish, there’s only one or two maidens (or men, or kids) at any given time, the rest are ACTUAL swans covering for them. His ‘lair’ is actually very much a home for survivors of violence and horrible situations, and he cultivates his reputation very carefully to keep anyone away who would try to drag them back. All this isn’t to say he is a paragon of virtue - he is DEFINITELY vicious and evil and horrible, just not to anyone who is actually helpless. He’s also legitimately an a-hole. Never listens to anyone else, does whatever he wants. Has magic that doesn’t really act ‘normal’ which is partly how he gets away with it all. Executes his own form of justice.

THE WISHED FOR CHILD: Parents were elderly and childless and wished and wished and wished for a child and lo and behold WFC showed up one day. They aren’t exactly human, and they aren’t exactly sure what they are, but they do love their parents, and are on a quest to save them, which is how they hook up with LK. Grounded, even-keeled, steady-tempered (not the least because weird stuff happens when they lose their temper). Just wants to grow vegetables and take care of their family, never mind with all this magical destiny nonsense. Absolute master of making the totally insane seem absolutely normal and rational and reasonable. Detail-oriented and timely, hard to ruffle, likes schedules.

SUPPORTING CAST

Past good deeders: The good news about helping people is they want to help you, so various recipients of her prior good deeds are always popping into her life. The dragon whose stolen hoard she returned will offer a loan (with VERY strict repayment policies), the gingerbread witch whose house she rebuilt brings over baked goods. The little boy whose splinter she got out tells her the best hay for napping in (hay that is later spun into gold), the golden goose she freed from the giant flies by now and again etc and so forth.

The FQ’s court: Show up to keep tabs on LK. Varying degrees of unhelpful.

The Silent Cursebreaker: Has to stay silent for seven years to save their siblings, and this is only year six. LK doesn’t have enough time to break their curse as a good deed, but still wants to help.

The Swans: Deathless Sorcerer’s rescued group

See the rest here or if that doesn’t work, from my masterlist

#if lee wrote otome #tw: abuse

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pareidoliaonthemove · 3 years ago

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Whumptober Day 1

So earlier I threatened suggested that I might try participating in the Whumptober (for mental health reasons), and the couldn't think of a single idea for the whole month of September, when I was supposed to be doing at least half of the writing.

Typical.

But, I've finally thought of something, so for fans of the Thunderbirds (this probably best as TOS, rather than TAG, in my head, but hey, it can work for both!) I offer you: whump!

This night have further to go, but I've got to go catch a train, so enjoy!

* * *

No 1. ALL TRUSSED UP AND STILL NOWHERE TO GO

#2 Barbed Wire and #3 Bound

The fabric of the blindfold was soggy against his skin. It felt cold and clammy and gross. The tears that had squeezed from between his shut eyes no longer hot and angry, just cold and soggy and pathetic.

The fabric gag wasn’t much better, soaked through with the drool he couldn’t stop, and rubbing against the skin at the edges of his forced open mouth. The massive knot of fabric forced into his mouth squashing his tongue. It tasted disgusting.

And it was cold. Goose-pimple raising, shivery cold. The men that had pulled him into their car as he walked out of the carpark elevator, following his grandmother and brothers on a rare trip to the city, had taken away his warm jumper – his favourite, with the soft fluffy insides that tickled his arm when his shirt sleeves rode up – and his long-sleeved shirt, and his shoes and socks. He was sat in his almost-too-tight, used-to-be-Scott’s-and-were-wearing-thin jeans and undershirt, shivering in the cold.

Ten-year-old Virgil Tracy had only felt this cold once before, and he was resolutely not thinking about it. Nope, no way. The same way that he was not thinking about how long he had been here.

The way he wasn’t thinking – honest, he wasn’t – that although this was far from the first time a Tracy had been kidnapped in order to elicit a ransom from the newly rich businessman Jefferson Tracy (Entrepreneur, former Astronaut, reluctant Celebrity, Widower, and … Father of Five boys), it was the first time that Virgil had been taken.

And it was the longest time that any of them had been gone.

He also didn’t believe there was any relationship between these two facts. Nope. Not. At. All.

So Virgil did what he always did to avoid thinking about the big scary things. He focused on the little ones. Like the gross blindfold. And the disgusting gag. And the … cold. He would catch a cold, and Grandma would be annoyed … because … because, she wouldn’t be able to go her church meetings, or her bingo, or the hairdressers, or shopping, or … or whatever it was she would rather be doing than looking after a sick grandson.

And the chair was uncomfortable. All right angles and corners and splinters, and one leg was shorter than the others, so the chair rocked and tilted and wiggled.

Which was a problem for Virgil.

Because when his brothers had been taken, especially Scott, the media had made a fuss of the fact that there were things called ‘ligature marks’ – whatever they were – on his brothers; and the men who had taken him had discussed this at length as the car roared through traffic and across bumpy roads, declaring that it was those marks that had ‘got everyone in an uproar’ and that ‘to keep the heat off them once they had the money, there couldn’t be any marks on the kid’.

So they didn’t use rope to tie him into the chair. Which was unfortunate, because all five boys been sent to a special school last holidays, and they had been taught how to avoid being kidnapped – “Don’t walk next to vans with sliding doors, boys” (it was a carpark, how was he supposed to avoid any kind of car?) – and how to escape when tied up.

Virgil could have gotten out of ropes.

But instead, because ‘ropes leave marks’, they had chosen a method of keeping him in place that his ‘personal safety instructor’ hadn’t told him about. They had wrapped him up in barbed wire.

They had been careful doing it, the brand-new, sharp shiny coils of wire were pressed against his skin, but so long as he was very, very still, it didn’t stick into him; and the ends were tightly twitched up together, so it wouldn’t flex and let him get away. It was the good stuff, too, the same brand Grandpa Tracy had insisted he use at the farm, before he had died last year, and was buried near his parents, a little way from Virgil’s Mom.

And there was another reason to be mad: all those happy memories out in the fields with Grandpa, fixing fences, and – best of all – using barbed wire to hold various pieces of farm machinery together until they could limp it back to the barn and a proper fix were now ruined forever; because Virgil would always see reels of ‘the good wire’ and think of this stupid cold room, and this stupid splintery wiggly chair, and this stupid gross blindfold, and this stupid disgustinggag.

And this stupid stabby barbed wire.

Virgil was covered in small bleeding punctures. And had been for a long time. The chair was just too wiggly, and any ten-year-old boy, no matter how much their teachers and other grown ups praised them for being ‘calm’ and ‘well-behaved’ could not sit still for long. It was not in their nature.

So Virgil had decided, if he was going to be stabbed by the barbed wire anyway, he might as well earn them, and had started wiggling within the coils.

Luckily, he was only wrapped in the wire and sat on the chair, not wrapped in the wire with the chair.

First up he managed to free his forearms, myriad scratches and punctures formed as he wiggled, and then twisting his body down, he managed enough reach, earning some more really deep punctures in his arms and chest as he was forced to press his forearms tight to his body, to be able to push the blindfold free of his eyes, and throw it away.

He managed to stand, earning hundreds of bleeding spots on his front as he bent the wire to his new body shape, and managed to twist it around him so that the wire that had been at his front was now at his back.

He could now see where the ends of the wire had been twisted together.

Virgil frowned, considering. He didn’t think they had used pliers to twitch the ends together, so hopefully he would also be able to use his bare hands to untwist the ends.

He swayed where he stood, suddenly feeling very tired and dizzy, but not understanding why. It had been five days sat in the chair, with less food and water than the always ravenous ten-year-old was accustomed to, and the blood oozing from hundreds of scratches and punctures was adding up to significant blood loss.

Somehow he managed not to fall, and grasped the twisted ends of the wire. It was hard going, and his fingertips were bloodied by the time he finished, but he got the twist undone. The ends of the wire were free!

As quickly as he could manage, he unwound the wire coiled from his body wincing as he accidentally pulled various twists the wrong way, tightening the coils and stabbing himself, but eventually he was able to drop the wire and carefully step over it, before collapsing to his knees on the ground, shaking from the effort and cold and nerves.

His stomach spasmed ominously, and he managed to breathe it into stillness, before reaching for the gag. Long minutes passed, but the gag stayed in place. The knot holding it in place was too well tied for him to unpick, and the fabric was too tight, too deep in his mouth for him to push free.

The sooner he found help, the sooner he could get free of the gag.

Virgil took a moment to look around the room where he was for the first time. It reminded him of a small warehouse, or maybe even an emptied workshop. The van was parked a little way over and behind it …

A door.

A big, beautiful roller door, large enough to admit a semi. And next to it …

Electric door controls!

Virgil dashed over to it, stumbling as his legs protested the sudden movement, at one point falling, sprawling on his stomach on the cold, grimy concrete, scraping his hands and forearms further as he tried to catch himself and, then push himself up, all the while scrambling forward.

Finally, he was at the door. And he could reach the controls! Short for his age, Virgil still had to make humiliating using of a step stool for some of the light fixtures at home, not realising that they were deliberately placed high to deter kids accessing areas like the basement, or the attic.

Fingers poised to press the ‘up’ button, Virgil paused, and looked around, more than half expecting to see his captors bearing down on him to prevent an escape. There was no one in sight.

Virgil hit the button.

The electric motor kicked in, a deep grinding sound that indicated – to Virgil’s young but experienced ear – that it was in desperate need of maintenance, slipping and catching its load, and as the steel of the door flexed to retract on the roller, it screeched a high-pitched protest at flexing.

Too loud. Too slow.

Virgil looked around in a panic, and saw a haphazard pile of boxes on the far side of the door, and flung himself into its midst, hiding himself just as the small door on the far side of the room yanked open, and his two captors stormed in.

“What the fuck!” one screamed.

“Little shit’s escaped!” the other bellowed. “Get after him!”

The both tore across the room and flung themselves under the door, just barely a foot and a half from the ground, and disappeared, heavy footsteps crunching frosty grass into the distance.

Virgil waited until he couldn’t hear footsteps before erupting from his hiding place, sprinting to the door controls and slamming the down button.

They were out. He was staying in.

He ran for the door they had entered the room from, hurtling through it, and slamming it shut and jamming another wooden, splintery, straight lines and corners chair under the handle to keep it closed and running down the short corridor to the other door he could see, this one with a flickering ‘exit’ sign above. He dragged a third chair, and using it to stand on, reached the bolt lock at the top of the door and rammed it home, before jamming his chair under the handle to hold the door shut, before twisting the dead bolt lock to shut, and pushing up the toggle to keep set it for key only.

There were six doors leading off the sides of the corridor, three each side. One was marked with the picture sign for ‘bathroom’, next to it was labelled ‘kitchen’. Creeping down the corridor, he carefully checked each room for more exits, pushing the door slightly, and peeping in. Large windows with the shadows of robust security bars, filled the back wall of each room, the blinds mostly closed. Office furniture, dusty and disused filled the spaces.

He was the only one in the building.

Loud swearing sounded at the exit door, and it rattled. Virgil flung himself into a random room and curled up under the desk, hiding as best he could. He barely breathed, not daring to make any kind of noise.

Footsteps crunched the window.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck!”

“How did the little shit get out of the wire?”

“Brat must have been hiding under the van.”

“Fucking hell, one of us should have stayed inside.”

“So fucking close!”

“FUCK!”

This last yell was louder, and angrier than others. Virgil trembled in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

“What the fuck!?”

“The keys. The FUCKING KEYS!”

“What about the fucking keys?”

“They’re only fucking inside!”

“FUCK!”

The footsteps retreated and the assault on the door restarted. Louder, angrier.

Virgil risked crawling out of his hiding spot. And looked around again. There, on the desk, sat a telephone. He grabbed it and dragged it into his hiding spot. It was an older style phone, with a handset, and voice-only, not like the videophones that almost all business, and most houses now had.

Not scarcely daring to hope, Virgil lifted the handset to his ear. There was a dial tone. Hand trembling again, Virgil reached for the keypad. 9. 1. 1.

The line rang.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

Virgil froze. The gag was still in place, he couldn’t talk.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” The voice was female, no-nonsense, and professional.

Virgil couldn’t talk. He couldn’t tell her what his emergency was.

“9-1-1.” The voice was clipped, staring to get annoyed at the lack of response.

Virgil did the only thing he could think of. Pulling the handset away from his useless mouth, he started tapping on the microphone.

Taptaptap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap.

“Hello? Is there someone there?” The voice was frowning now.

Taptaptap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap.

“I understand. Let’s try one tap for yes, two taps for no. Can you do that?”

Tap.

“Very good. Are you hurt?”’

Tap.

“Okay. Do you know where you are?”

Tap. Tap.

“Okay. I’m going to do a line trace, to find where the phone is that you’re calling from, okay?”

Tap.

“That’s good. It’ll just take a little while to do. Are you alone?”

Virgil considered. Was he alone? That wasn’t a yes or no answer.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There was a pause. “You don’t know if you’re alone?”

Tap.

A pause. “Are you hiding?”

Tap.

The voice was quieter. “Do you know where the people you are hiding from are?”

Tap. Tap.

A heavy exhale on the line. “Okay. Well, the good news is we now know where you are. And there are police and ambulance on their way to you. We just need you to stay with the phone as long as it is safe for you to do so, okay?”

Tap.

“I need you to listen very carefully, the most important thing is that you stay safe, okay?”

Tap.

“That means, if the people you are hiding from start to come back, and you need to move, you do that, okay? You don’t hesitate, you run, you hide. We know where you are, and people are coming to help you; they’re not going to stop coming because you stop answering me, okay?”

Tap.

“Okay. Now, we need to figure out some information about you. So we’ll play a guessing game, okay?”

Tap.

“Are you a girl?”

Taptap.

A soft chuckle. “A boy, then?”

Tap.

“Are you a grown up?”

He wished. A grown up wouldn’t be in this mess. Tap. Tap.

“Okay. How old are you? Tap out the number.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Ten? You’re ten years old?”

Tap.

A sucked in breath, and the sound of a rapid typing, like Dad’s secretary, Mrs Amos would do. Her fingers flying across her typewriter keyboard like Mom’s used to on the piano keyboard. Mumbled voices. “Ten-year-old male. Injured. Can’t talk. Hiding. Doesn’t know location.”

A rumbling male voice; no words, just a sound a little like a truck grumbling up the road.

More indistinct voices.

The lady spoke to him again. “Okay. I’m going to make a big guess what your name is, okay? Please don’t get upset if I’m wrong. We’re coming for you, no matter what, okay?”

Tap.

An indrawn breath, like Gordon did before he jumped off the high diving board. “Are you Virgil Tracy?”

Tap.

More mumbled voices. The phone handset was heavy, so Virgil placed it on the ground, with an arm wrapped around it, and his head positioned on his arm so his ear was above the speaker. The gag dug painfully into the side of his face. His other hand was positioned so he could still tap on the microphone.

“Okay, Virgil. I’ve told the police and ambulance who you are. You’re doing so well. They’re nearly there, but the police would like to know some things. Okay?”

Tap.

“Do you know how many people took you? Your family said there were two men? Is that right?”

Tap.

“That’s good. And you haven’t seen or heard anyone else?”

So tired. Tap … Tap.

“Okay, you’re doing great, Virgil. You’re doing such a good job. Did you see the men’s faces?”

Vigil thought for a minute. It was hard to remember. Tap … tap.

“No? Okay. What about their clothes? Did you see their clothes?”

Virgil frowned. He had been scared, and too busy hiding to notice. Tap … Tap.

An exhalation. More mumbled conversation. So, so tired. Somewhere in the distance, the assault on the door continued on, the sound of wood starting to splinter.

“Virgil? Did they take you somewhere and leave you? Did the men let you go?”

If only. They had said they would only let him go of Dad paid a lot of money. They hadn’t let him go, which meant Dad hadn’t paid.

Dad didn’t want him back.

Tap … … Tap.

Indistinct mumbled voices on the phone. Something that sounded like “Oh, God, we’re losing him,” before the lady was talking again.

“Virgil. You said you were hurt. Did the men hurt you?”

Did they hurt him? They hadn’t hit him, or cut him, or tied him with ropes to get … to get ‘ligature marks’. He had … hadn’t … been able to sit still and caused all the cuts with the barbed wire they had wrapped him up in. Was it hisfault?

He must have taken too long trying to figure out the answer, because they lady tried again. “Okay, Virgil, never mind that. Are you bleeding, Virgil?”

He lifted his head a little and considered his body. He was sticky with oozing red warmth. He lay his head back down.

Tap.

But it was warm, and warm was good.

Off in the distance sirens wailed.

With a resounding crash that had the 9-1-1 lady yelp, “Virgil, what was that?” the exit door burst open, its remains shattering against the wall and the splintery chair disintegrating in his minds eye.

Virgil blinked his eyes open, wondering when they had closed. He was so tired, and couldn’t muster the energy to care, let alone move, as the door slammed open, and the phone fell silent. There was a metallic scrape as something was lifted off the desk, and heavy footsteps rushed away.

Virgil and the phone handset listened as there was another crash of splintery wood as another chair was hurled away and then, an engine started up, echoing loud in the empty room.

There was the grumble grinding of the electric motor slipping and catching its load and the screech of the roller door, as sirens wailed to a stop amid the sound of skidding gravel.

The phone yelling, “Virgil, are you there? Can you hear me, Virgil?” was lost amidst the bellows of “Police! Freeze!” and “FBI! Stay where you are!”

More footsteps thundered down the corridor as with more authoritative yelled declarations of “Police!” and “FBI!” the room Virgil had been tied up in was invaded from the other entrance.

Virgil gave in to his tiredness just as grim-faced police officers snapped cuffs around his captors wrists, perfunctorily informed them of their rights, and started leading them away to police cars, and the snapping camera flashs of alert journalists who had been determinedly chasing the FBI for the last five days, determined to cash in on the moment when the kidnapped ‘Tracy kid’ was rescued.

#whumptober2021 #no.1 #barbed wire #bound #fanfiction #thunderbirds #trigger warning: blood #trigger warning: kidnapping

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all-these-ghosts · 7 years ago

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24.

#radio nowhere

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kingdoms-rp · 7 years ago

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Adara Ryker ❖ 29 ❖ Werewolf ❖ Loan Shark ❖ No Set Location ❖ FC: Crystal Reed ❖ OPEN

+ UTP

- UTP

Biography:

Adara Ryker has been vicious ever since she was a little girl. When you have a brother who likes to take stupid risks and you’re forever cleaning up his messes, you tend to store a lot of anger and she was furious with Maven. He liked to think he was living on the edge, but he was just living like a child in her opinion. Maven had been a risk-taker ever since they lost their parents, and nothing Adara nor their grandparents said could snap him out of it. But little did Adara know that she would be the one to make her brother snap out of it, although not in a way that she ever expected. She awoke one night with a hand clamped over her mouth, and the first thing she saw were the corpses of her grandparents. But unlike most other people, the first thing she felt was not sadness or fear, but blood-boiling anger. She didn’t have a strong enough hold on her magic yet, but the young witch had enough control that she was able to make her captor’s hands feel like they were on fire, and his grip loosened as his hands burned. The spell did not hold for long, but it lasted long enough that Adara had time to grab a kitchen knife and cut off two fingers from her kidnapper before his co-conspirator came in from outside and knocked her unconscious. When she awoke, she was tied to a chair and her mouth was gagged. She only had a few moments to collect her thoughts before a curtain was drawn back and she had to squint into the brightness until she realised her brother was pinned to the floor by two burly men and one of her kidnappers now had a knife pressed against her throat. There was another man sat in a chair who was addressing her brother, and from what Adara could understand, Maven had borrowed money from this man and had never paid it back which was why she had been kidnapped. He told Maven he had been given enough chances, and he had been so impressed with how ferocious Adara had been when trying to fight off her kidnappers that he was going to keep her alive and make her the loyal heir to his business. It was only when the man shifted into his wolf form that Adara realised they were dealing with werewolves and she was going to be turned into one to force her obedience to this loan shark - the alpha of the pack. All she remembers is screaming through her gag as his jaws clamped down on her arm and then blacking out.

Adara awoke the next morning feeling more ill than she ever had before in her young life. It was only three days until the next full moon and she felt so sick that she could barely move from the bed she had been put in, let alone put up a fight against her captors. She fluctuated between shivering and burning up, and her brief periods of lucidness were spent with two of the loan shark’s henchmen who explained that she would have to answer to Viago, the alpha of the pack and the loan shark when she transitioned into a werewolf. When they told her that she had to make a kill when she changed for the first time or she would be a slave to the moon, she decided that she would not. At least then she would only have to become a wolf once a month, but Viago had already suspected this would be her response and so when the full moon came, he put her into a locked cellar along with a rabbit in a wooden cage. Adara was unable to resist the urge to kill when she shifted into her wolf form for the first time, and when she awoke the next morning and found herself next to a splintered cage and a small pile of bones, she knew that she would be unable to stop herself from changing if Viago ordered it. As the alpha of the pack, she was forced to be obedient to him whether she liked it or not and trying to resist his orders made her feel physically sick. She was both a slave and a prisoner in this new pack, and she swore that day that she would have her revenge on Viago. She didn’t know how, as there was not much one girl could do, but one day she would have her revenge. She just had to bide her time.

For the next few years, Adara was forced to obey every whim of her alpha. Viago loaned out money to desperate people and gave them a deadline to pay it back with interest. If they didn’t, then his thugs would use violence and take anything even slightly of value. Viago kept her away from the violence at first, ironically trying to protect her innocence when she had already cut off a man’s fingers, been held at knife point and had been turned into a werewolf. But eventually, Viago started to let her in on the business. At first it was just helping to count up the money, but she gradually became more and more involved until she was finally allowed out with two of Viago’s henchmen to collect an owed debt. She was told to just stand on the sidelines and watch how it was done, and she obliged, watching how debt collection was conducted on Viago’s behalf. She looked like an interested heir to the business, but a plan for revenge had been forming in Adara’s mind for a long time. If standing on the sidelines was all she was allowed to do, then she would make the most of it. She stood by and listened, and when she wasn’t eavesdropping then she was training to become faster, stronger and harder. When she overheard that Viago had fallen ill, she knew her time for revenge had come. Over the years, she had carefully been testing the strength of her bond to the alpha and had discovered that she could resist it with practice. And when she heard that her alpha was ill, she challenged him for his position. It shocked the pack, as no one had ever dared to challenge Viago, especially not a young woman. But she did, and the challenge was accepted and everyone prepared for Adara’s death. But they didn’t know the things that she knew. Not only did she know that Viago’s illness was more severe than he was letting on, but she also knew that he cared enough about her that he would be hesitant to strike a killing blow, whereas she would not. The fight began and although the other wolves had initially expected Adara’s death in the first five minutes, it soon became clear that her years of training had paid off. Viago was older and weaker and hadn’t wanted to fight Adara in the first place, whereas she was young and strong and had years of anger bottled up inside her. The battle was vicious with fur and blood flying, and Adara did not escape injury, but she managed to pin Viago and tore out his throat without a second thought. With Viago dead, there was a shift in the air, and Adara let out a great howl as she became the new alpha of the pack.

She could have easily disbanded the pack and gone to find her brother, but Adara had different ideas. She was the new alpha and had access to Viago’s fortune, and so rather than leave, she decided to stick around and take over the business, becoming the youngest alpha ever. A year has passed since then, and Adara has proved herself to be an excellent alpha. She commands respect from every member of her pack and unlike Viago, she gave them the opportunity to leave the pack if they wished. Only two wolves actually left, the rest were so impressed with Adara’s leadership that they remained. Unlike Viago, Adara did not keep all the profits from the loan shark business, but divvied up the wealth among the pack as a sign of appreciation for their loyalty. As an alpha, she was firm but fair and they respected her for it. But as fair as she is, Adara can be terrifying when she wants to be and people have soon learned that when they come to her for a loan, she will not let them off their debts to her so easily just because she’s a young woman. As an alpha, she is better than Viago ever was, but as a loan shark, she is far more terrifying.

Connections:

Maven Ryker - Twin Brother. Although she could easily have sought out her brother when Viago was dead, she was still furious with him. She blames Maven and his gambling addiction for her kidnapping and transformation into a werewolf. She had been a promising young witch at one point and that was taken away because he refused to pay beck a debt he owed. She doesn’t know that Maven has turned his life around, all she knows is that she doesn’t ever want to see him again.

#rp #rpg #roleplay #crystal reed #teen wolf #werewolves #commoners #adara ryker #ao #of

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inevitableshott-aa · 5 years ago

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[ shove: push them ] of course buccellati was going to take the blow for him. between protecting himself and protecting his team, his team will always come first.

nonverbal starters (not accepting)

Of course, nothing ever went as planned. With how often things never went as constructed one would start to think the universe was eavesdropping to purposely go against what was discussed in private.

Like today for example.

It had been passed down the grapevine. Americans had fled across to sea to Nepal. Back home, the men of three had their own crime ring. It was the works: kidnapping, extortion, money laundering, and drugs. They’d done it for almost ten years before finally slipping up one good time. So with what strings they had left they managed to flee their life sentence to Nepal. Their plan was to slowly take over the turf and start their supposed empire once again. It’s funny, one normally doesn’t trade a life sentence for death.

The men had taken refuge in a pretty swank hotel. Top floor, room service at around noon and eight o’clock, they liked their sheets pressed at least once a day. It was interesting what housekeeping could tell the right ears. If they were any the wiser they might have studied their Italian a bit more. Perhaps they could have overheard the staff urging to contact those who protect them. It was a combination of Passione informants and this staff that lead Mista and his leader, Buccallati, outside the hotel room.

With a Stand like Sex Pistols, this should have been done the moment they took footing at the room door. But this couldn’t look like a simple hit, no. This had to be a message. Come into Passione with caution. Let the men meet eye to eye with their executioners, let them know why they were dying today.

It was seamless how Buccellati zipped the door open. Mista fired once each side fluttered to their sides giving them entrance. The first shot was in the man on the bed head. Second, in the chest of the man who attempted to reach for his gun. As for the third, two shots. One to his knee, the other to his shoulder, knocking him back against the window. Buccellati lead with Mista close behind, gun aimed and ready to fire. His leaders words dulled against sharp focus on his target. One move, one inch that he was up to something, the finger idle on the trigger would fire.

The man’s smirk nearly did it but it all happened so quick. Out of the corner of dark hues, he saw spikes. The wall itself transformed had jetted out forming the shape of razor-sharp iron spikes jetting out toward the gunman. By the time he noticed he was on his back. What he saw sitting up with streaks of scarlet flying across the room along with Buccellati. His arm was torn open, blood splattering across the room before his leader crashed into the bedside table. Laughter dulled with a ringing in his ears. Everything caught up in a harsh–

—BANG

Laughter stropped. Plastered across the window was the Amriacnas brains, brushing downward as his lifeless body slumped to the ground. There was never any joy in a kill but damn if Mista didn’t feel a ting of glee from the silence.

Not a moment was wasted. Revolver clanged to the floor long forgotten as Mista scrambled to his feet to his leaders body. “Buccellati—!!” he screamed, diving on his knees to scoop his body into his hands. Removing one he slid it across the tattered sleaves and, fuck, yeah that was a torn arm. Not a doctor by any means but it didn’t look sever just like it really hurt. The splinters sticking out of his raven hair aren’t doing any favors, either. God, there was so much blood. Quick thinking had him reaching for the bed and hastially wrapping his opened wound as tight as he could. Damn, he should have been just as quick with reacting, shouldn’t have frozen up like that.

It should be him laying and bleeding unconscious. Every blow meant for him was for him, every blow meant for Buccellati was his tenfold. The life he has would be nothing without Buccallati so it was only right that every instance his life should be forfeit to protect someone who saved him. But look at how terrible he failed and it made his insides twist with sheer guilt.

“Hey, come on. Buccellati, wake up!” the last attempt, a good jerk of his body, sturred a groan from the man in his hands. A soft gasp, a bit of relief, Mista breathed. “Holy shit…” Mista swallowed metting a hooded gaze, “Let’s get you to a doctor…” carefully, so very carefully, Mista wrapped the not bloodied arm around his shoulder, hoisted Buccellati up, and set a path to the exit.

@tradittore

#blood //#guns ///#idk if I need any more tags #it's a starter so you can reply but I just ran with this drabble OOPSIE #i feel like it could be better dfsklfjds #arcitraditore #[ answered ic ]#killing //

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for-dramas-sake · 7 years ago

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12 Monkeys: Mother Recap

Season 3 of 12 Monkeys was so good! I want to do something funny so here is my photo recap of Season 3, Episode 1 “Mother”. Enjoy.

This is my first recap in a while and my first full episode. Here we go. It's been several months since the team (Cole, Cassie, Deacon, Jennifer and her gang, and Ramse) entered Titan looking for the Witness. To sum up the last events of season 2: Cassie was kidnapped, Deacon was stabbed by cult members, Jennifer was zapped to the past and Titan vanished into thin air. All not good things, but perfect for a cliffhanger, am I right?

Since then Cole has been tirelessly searching for Titan. (At one point, Cassie asks, "Where are you right now?" which I think can be translated to "Why are taking this long to save me, Cole?") With technology provided by Dr. Jones, he's been placing sensors that can red Titan's specific tempural signature. They know at least that Titan is in the year 2163, but the where is unknown. Cole is not giving up even though Dr. Jones and the rest of her science squad don't see any progress at all.

Cole returns to 2046 after his latest mission with no luck or so he thinks.

Dr. Jones, as a person who cares about Cole, but more importantly a person who cares about wasting time, talks to Cole. She wants to stop chasing this mirage and actually do something productive like looking for the Witness instead. Cole isn't having it. His heart wants to look for Cassie, Ramse and Jennifer. It's very honorable to see how far Cole has come since Season 1. He has real friends and they matter to him more than the mission. And by this time, I think they all believe that Deacon is dead or they just forgot about him.

Dr. Jones is furious with this selfish act of Cole's. He's not thinking of a plan like he should, only reacting to loss of his friends. Cole is doing what he believes is the best option: looking forward, but Dr. Jones is apprehensive about the danger of the future. They just don't know what they are getting into. Their argument grows hotter and they both throw out hurtful words at each other.

Cole is going back to the sensor that was blinking red, because that is a sign of progress. He's not just a rabid dog, but a bull running towards a red flag. Dr. Jones, the one who always has a head on her shoulders (unlike Cole), decides to take extra precautions. She goes to her daughter, Hannah, who has gotten more bad ass since last season.

Hannah, who just kicked some big broad's ass, has learned to say 'no' to her mom. She has responsibilities of her own and they don't include babysitting Cole. Dr. Jones also has gotten more bad ass and calls Hannah a "little shit" who should be taking orders from her mother. Hannah to her credit takes it and accepts the mission because it's for Cole's sake. They both see that he is a danger to himself if he isn't careful. So the two travel to 2163 outside of Syracuse.

Hannah doesn't trust Cole, which he is smart enough to pick up on. She remarks that he's been drinking the red tea (which I totally can see as a meme) but it hasn't been working since the last time. Cole first drank the red tea so he could project his consciousness to his old self and prevent the paradox in 1957. It worked, but the paradox still occurred. Cole tells Hannah that she has no idea of the choices he's had to make and what he's lost as a result.

He's referring to the choice he had to make at the end of season 2. By drinking the tea, Cole lost those few years with Cassie, their love and their unborn baby. Cole and Hannah arrive at the sensor, but it isn't working. Turns out, it's a dead battery.

While Cole is freaking out, Hannah says they need to regroup with Jones at the facility. After seeing hope and it's now been dashed, Cole says no and they fight. Meaning, Hannah whips out the rod.

They both tussle around and Cole isn't afraid to fight a little girl, but Hannah dishes out plenty of pain. The fight seemingly goes Hannah's way when she snags Cole's gun and points it at him, but he managed to stick her with the tether back to the machine. Bye-bye Hannah. With the sensor working again, Cole sets off for Titan.

Meanwhile, Cassie has been holed up in Titan obviously pregnant and not happy at all. Would you be if you were pregnant, alone, no one to turn to and surrounded by members of this weird time traveling cult? Plus, she's wearing a red dress that's very reminiscent of those gothic lit movies.

Cassie attracts the attention of one of her maidens, Arianna, a sweet girl who actually is concerned with Cassie's wellbeing not just her health.

Then there's Miz Biatch... erm, I mean Magdalana. She is one of the leaders within Titan and heads the Babysitting Cassie department.

She joins Cassie for dinner then remarks on how much Cassie has changed in the months she's been in Titan. Cassie has become "domesticated" like a dog, to which Cassie gives a great glare at. As great villains do, Magdalana gives a monologue. She is envious of Cassie's training to be a mother, trained to bear the Witness. But then her tone switches. Cassie is not a real mother, as Cassie insists she is ("He is mine").

Magdalana points the dinner knife at Cassie with the reminder that it is SHE, not Cassie, who is the real mother. She will raise the Witness and love him for what he is not who he is. Tonight, Cassie will have to prove her love for the Witness at her Unveiling. Whatever it is it sounds horrible and invasive.

Hannah returns to 2046. Dr. Jones is furious that Cole has headed off to uncertain danger alone. Stupid, rabid dog.

That evening Arianna brushes Cassie's hair and they discuss families. Arianna reveals that she was taken from her family thus she never knew her mother for long, but she has a token of hers: an old piece of cloth.

Then Arianna asks about the child's father. Cassie has a remorseful look in her eye as she bends her head then says she wants to go home. I can bet she is thinking of those months at that house in 1959, when she and Cole were together and happy.

Cole rushes towards Titan at full speed. Cassie is closer than ever, Ramse and Jennifer are too. Suddenly, someone wearing mask is in his way. Cole tries to pass him, but it becomes quite clear that the mysterious man won't let him go without a fight. Cole and he tussle about. The vest that Mr. Mysterio is wearing is a kind of machine that he uses to teleport around with. Even with the vest, the two of them are evenly matched until Cole kicks Mr. Mysterio's balls. Ouch!

Pallid man is joined by Mallick, another new guy on the block. Mallick is all: Cole's on his way. And the Pallid man goes: Let's get a move on, then.

Arianna leads Cassie to the Red Theater for the Unveiling. For one night only, it's the Mother's Unveiling! Get your tickets now! But when they hear the horns go off, signifying the start of splinter, Cassie decides to act.

Action Cassie! She pulls out a butterfly hair pin (for those of us thinking back to last season, we know how important the butterfly means to Cassie) and attacks the two maidens behind her. Her skills are good enought that they go down in seconds. Arianna agrees to help her and they run off to escape Titan. I knew that Arianna was a good chick. Magdalana finds the bodies of the two maidens then instructs Mallick to go after Mother.

Mallick stops the two women before they can get to the exit. Arianna is injured by one of the cult members. Now it's confrontation time. Cassie versus Mallick. And who should come running up just at that exact time? It's Cole come to the rescue!

Cole and Cassie both see each other. Oh happy days! Cassie is going to saved and Cole is going to get his girl back!

Cole wastes no time and runs towards Cassie. He's going to save her. He really is!

Oh no! It's that guy again!

Cassie watches helplessly as Mr. Mysterio splinters Cole away. (But we all saw this coming.) Cole is once again separated from Cassie. Then Titan splinters away, leaving a gaping hole in the ground.

Mr. Mysterio takes Cole to the Emerson Hotel in 2163. It's completely destroyed, overrun with vines, dead leaves and dirt. Mr. Mysterio reveals himself to Cole and it's Cole himself from the future!

Future Cole warns Cole he can't save Cassie from Titan. She isn't the mission, Jennifer is. Cole is understandably furious. Why not save Cassie? Future Cole knows how important Cassie is to him--them. Future Cole says he must go back to save Jennifer who is in France in 1922. How is Jennifer doing there anyway? The last time we saw she landed in a trench in France in 1917 during World War 1. The Germans have invaded the trench and are now killing off the French.

Disturbed the horror and death surrounding her, Jennifer shuts her eyes, tries not to panic and does the one thing that comes to mind. She starts to sing "99 Luftballoons" by Nena. It's both ironic and because this song is an anti-war protest song originally sung in German.

In Jennifer's cooky mind, the whole scene turns into a music video. Instead of men's heads being shot, they are balloons filled with flitter. Yellow flowers are planted along the trench. Jennifer, dressed in yellow, then belts out the lyrics to the song as Germans dance along with her.

When Jennifer opens her eyes, the Germans are staying down at her. Uh-oh.

But as luck would have it, the German Commandant loves the song. He lets Jennifer live. And as Jennifer is breathing out a sigh of relief, she's hit with a vision. Four figures in the mist, wearing machine vests and bowler hats.

Jennifer understands immediately the danger they pose to the world. They are connected to Titan and the Witness. Jennifer does her special crazy-girl talk. "Horseman without horses. It's the Horseman of the Apocalypse!"

Back at Titan, the city has stopped splintering. Arianna gives Cassie a chance to escape by rushing towards the cult members. They attack her like they did to Deacon with knives. Cassie runs off. She somehow ends up at the Red Theater, where the Unveiling is to take place. Whether this is by design or intention, we dont' know. The Pallid Man is there addressing the other members of the cult. He gives the background of how the Witness came to be. Then he starts the members in a chant "The Witness is safe".

Jennifer threatens to jump to protect her son. Magdalana explains that it's not THEM that mold the Witness, HE makes them. Cassie says: "You can't have him."

Magdalana jumps into action. She hits a switch on her vest and splinters.

Rewind..... Jennifer opens her eyes and she's back at dinner with Arianna setting the table. This is very similar to "Lullaby" in which Cassie and Cole were stuck in loop in 2020. They kept trying to kill Dr. Jones without any luck over and over.

But this time it's not a time loop. Magdalana enters the room then kills Arianna. The Pallid Man explains to Cassie that Magdalan has the ability to splinter. She warned her earlier self of Cassie's suicide attempt and Arianna's betrayal. We then see there's a self-destruct button on the vest.

Back to the present... the Pallid Man says that Cassie's days of comfort are now numbered at Titan. Magdalana tells her to be careful, imitating what she had said to her earlier.

Back to the two Coles at the Emerson. Cole is unhappy with having to let Cassie go. For him, nothing really has changed. Every time he tries to change the future, things get worse. He believes he's in a kind of warped loop: over and over he tries a new method to stop the future, and again and again nothing changes. Future Cole reminds of the one time where things were good. Cole angrily replies, "That was the one timeline we actually managed to erase!"

Then Future Cole changes his tone. He sits down next to Cole then gives Cole some life advice. "Forgive yourself, for what you have done and will have to do." There is the beginning and there is the end. All Cole has is what is in between. He lifts cuff to reveal he's wearing Cassie's watch. The watch, he explains, means he will always have a way to get back to her. They WILL be reunited.

Cole is splintered back to Jones with the reminder to get Jennifer back from France. Once he's gone, Future Cassie walks in. She has silver strands in her hair. What this means I don't know. She sits down beside Cole. She says there has to be another way, but Future Cole says there isn't another way.

Cole returns to Jones and is immediately met with a big 'welcome back' punch from Hannah.

Cole gives the newspaper clip to Jones. She asks about Cassie, but all Cole says is she's not the mission.

Fast forward four months later to Cassie in a bathtub in labor. She is surrounded by the Pallid Man, Magdalana, Mallick and other members of the cult. She screams out in pain then out in horror when she sees a flash of the Witness, come to see his own birth.

Magdalana yells at her to push but Cassie doesn't want to. Cassie finally pushes and the Witness is born. Titan is filled with the cries of their baby prophet.

And that's "Mother"! I hope you guys enjoyed this. I binge-watched all 3 seasons of 12 Monkeys and I cannot wait for season 4.

I'll have a recap of the next episode "Guardians" by next week. Hopefully. Have a great week!

#12 monkeys #season 3 #photo recap #recap #james cole #cassandra railly #12monkeysedit #satire

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hey-i-wrote-a-story · 7 years ago

Text

Chapter 41 Visions of The Past

“You seem rather chipper”, Lydia observed of her riding companion.

“I had a really nice dinner”, she beamed.

“Hmm. I had leftover Chinese.”

That pretty much exhausted the small talk for the evening. It was difficult to chit-chat as the passing landscape grew darker and darker, and a gray feeling of desolation settled in around them. As they pulled into the driveway of the Willoughby farm, even the usually unshakable Malia had to shake off a chill. They got out of the car slowly. When Lydia stepped foot onto the rotten soil of the place, it was all too easy to sense the excess of death that originated from this place.

“Well, this is a charming spot for a picnic”, Malia remarked.

Lydia hadn’t heard her. She was too busy taking in, or rather resisting, the supernatural input that fought for her attention.

To her right, a ghostly vision of an angry man in a broad-shoulder and trim-waisted suit jacket stood his ground with two guns in hand behind a makeshift barricade, the dirt staining his wingtip shoes. A kidnapped child of ten was by his side, hands bound behind her back. Oncoming police officers in double-breasted brass-buttoned uniforms, their eyes wild with rage, opened fire on their target. Their bullets tore apart bits of the dead tree and riddled the child long before coming near the kidnapper. Six different officers were still standing over his corpse, firing into the lifeless body as the faint image faded.

On her left, a wild-haired woman in snug-fitting trousers that ended halfway down her calves with a wide-collared top that was saturated with something dark, stumbled through a drainage ditch. Racing ahead of her, frightened and spent, were two children, clearly siblings, who’d run out of places to run. The woman brandished an ax as she closed in, ranting about how they’d stolen the best years of her life. As she brought the ax down, the older child who’d been shielding the younger one, thrust the younger sibling in front to take the first strike.

Lyida turned away from that image to look ahead, but she found no relief there. Two men in their late twenties, in loud, loose-fitting shirts and long, overly-coiffed hair argued about the purchase of the land on which they stood to build some type of nightclub. The argument ended with the man in the bushy mustache holding his partner down in the dirt, choking the life out of him. Nothing good had ever come from this place.

“What is it?”, Malia asked.

Lydia closed her eyes, willing the images away, then opened them to the dismal but uneventful view of the desolate farm.

“Nothing”, she answered. “There’s nothing here we need to worry about now.”

“It doesn’t feel like it”, Malia said back, sensing death all around but unable to place its source. “The less time we spend here, the better.

Lydia looked around at the grove of graying trees nearby, the dilapidated barn up ahead, the long-dead fields that stretched out for a few acres. When her eyes settled on the ruins of the house, she felt something draw her there. Unlike the other ghosts of the past, this one wasn’t eager to tell its story. It was more like whatever dark history lay here, it wanted to stay hidden.

“There’s something here”, Lydia said, stepping onto the scorched foundation of the house.

Malia looked around, seeing the few beams still standing, the rubble, the burned bit and pieces of what used to be a family’s home. “I’m pretty sure there’s nothing here. At least not that I can see.”

“No”, Lydia said, her voice distant. “There is. I can feel it. It’s just not…”, she paused, turning slowly to her right, then looking ahead. “There. What’s that?” She pointed at the stony structure just beyond the house.

Malia looked too, but furrowed her brow in confusion. “Empty air. That’s what that is. What?”

Lydia moved forward, ignoring Malia’s remark, and stood before a large fallen beam, blackened and rotted, but still heavy, laying across the far corner of the house. “Here”, she announced.

“It’s a burned-up support beam”, Malia observed, unimpressed.

Lydia looked at her sternly. “Underneath the support beam.”

Malia needed no further prompting. With one hand, she grasped the large beam that had lain undisturbed for decades, hefted it up off the floor and threw it beyond the foundation to land in the dead grass, where bits of it flew apart upon impact. Malia now saw what Lydia had been sensing, or at least some small part of it. There on the floor was one clear spot untouched by the soot and ash, which had been concealed by the support beam above it since 1927. What at first seemed to be nothing more than more wooden planks in the floor revealed something more upon further inspection. A small metal ring was embedded inside a recess in one of the floorboards.

“It’s a trap door”, Malia realized.

“Could you--?”, Lydia began, but Malia was way ahead of her. The werecoyote reached down and grabbed the ring, pried it up from its resting place, and pulled. With some resistance, the trap door began to rise with an unnerving creak. They didn’t have to endure the noise for long. As soon as the door was half an inch above the floorboards, Malia slid her fingers underneath, dug into the wood with her claws, and ripped the door out of the floor and tossed it aside. The trap door splintered badly when it was torn free, and came apart completely when Malia hurled it away. It took her about as much effort as it would anyone else to jimmy open a stuck screen door.

Both young women looked down the opening to see a small length of stairs leading down into a storm cellar. It looked incredibly foreboding and exuded a foul smell of stale air and decay. Malia stepped back immediately.

“After you”, she said.

Lydia activated the flashlight app on her phone and aimed it down the stairs. Other than the stench and general creepiness, the cellar didn’t appear to offer any real threat. Down they went.

The cellar was small and cramped, with a low ceiling. Dusty jars with long dried-up preserves and tomatoes lined a small shelf. Nearby were wooden boxes with a variety of miscellaneous supplies; candles, blankets, soap, and dry goods that had settled like concrete. A shelf separate from the others had a variety of odd objects—carefully carved or painted stones, twigs tied in an intricate manner, and leather pouches heavily coated with dust, tiny glass vials sealed with corks and beeswax whose contents had long since evaporated. There were a few pocket-sized hardcover books that began to crumble when Lydia touched them. Before she could lift her fingers from the dusty tomes, a harsh flash of memory ripped across her mind. People in the cellar, when it was new. A boy, young, relatively handsome, boasting of the benefits of the powders and potions, an older man speaking harshly against it. Then fire, everywhere. Not in the cellar, but everywhere else. Bright, orange eyes, with electricity arcing from them at every angle. A girl with claws, fangs, and glowing eyes ripped open the barred door of a cage, links of stout chain flying outward. A shriek, a roar, a cry of protest, then of agony. Then nothing. Lydia moved away from the shelf. It would take her a moment to recover from this vision. The vision, the memory, was not hers. It was from this place. Now uncovered, it felt stronger than all the others.

“Look at this.” Lydia turned to see what Malia had discovered. The farthest corned of the cellar had been sectioned off with a very sturdy homemade metal cage, built into the stone. Older and more worn than the one Lydia just saw in her mind, but undoubtedly the same small prison. Its door dented and bent, it looked to have once been secured with numerous locks, bolts, and chains. Even in their aged state, the restraints still looked formidable enough to hold back a wild elephant. Inside the enclosure, more chains were mounted into the wall, their moorings bolted almost to excess. At the end of the chains were stout metal manacles, which were bent and twisted just enough to indicate a terrible force had been applied by whomever was wearing them. In an open crate nearby the cage another two sets of chains and manacles could be seen, covered in dust and cobwebs, but still placed in such a way that they could still be retrieved at a moment’s notice if need be.

Near the crate of chains was an incredibly old, moth-eaten Farmer’s Almanac. A quick flip through its browned and fragile pages showed one day of every month circled in discolored and fading ink. Each of those days marked the night of the full moon.

Malia looked to Lydia. “I guess this pretty much confirms the idea that Marguerite was a werewolf.”

“I’d say so”, Lydia sighed. Lydia felt suddenly sad for this girl she never knew, who was gone long before Lydia was born. What she must have gone through…

Malia leaned against the door of the cage as she stooped over to sift through the crate of restraints. The mere touch of her hand caused the door to swing open with a sharp creak. Malia looked at it, surprised. “I would have thought it would still be locked.” As Malia stood up to examine the door more closely, she noticed something in the thick dust and soft soil at her feet. Covered by grit and time, she had not noticed them before. But now she could see they were bits of chain. Bent, broken, and snapped in two. She held one of the pieces up to Lydia. “Something strong went through these. What do you suppose did it? The girl, maybe?”

Lydia didn’t have time to dwell on it, however, as her senses drew her suddenly, sharply, back up to the surface. “This is only part of it”, she announced. “We need to get outside. There’s something by the barn.” She was topside and racing toward the barn before Malia could begin to climb the stairs. Halfway there, she skidded to a halt. The visions that had assailed her upon arriving were back, only this time they all showed the same scene. Harsh, fragmented jumbles of the same scene, from the same time in 1927. The vision shards surrounded her, barraging Lydia’s mind with pictures, smells, sounds, feelings of fear, pain, loss, horror, regret, grief, and guilt. It was impossible to make sense of it all. From what seemed like a great distance, Malia called out to her.

“Lydia? Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

Lydia began to double over, her fists held to the sides of her head, trying to shield herself from the sensory overload. Malia felt the hair stand up on her neck and knew at once what was about to happen.

Lydia screamed.

Her banshee wail tore through the air and cleared the mental chaos assailing her. Malia had leapt back to the trap door, safely away from the brunt of the scream, but still close enough to pain her heightened senses. Lydia stared off into space as her scream continued to echo in the still and heavy air. Malia then saw that rather than staring at nothing, Lydia’s gaze was fixed on something specific. Malia’s eyes flashed blue as she took in the scene with her werecoyote vision. She still saw nothing. Whatever Lydia now perceived, it was within the purview of the banshee alone.

Lydia breathed easier as the barrage of psychic input abated. As she breathed, the air around her seemed fresher. The light was clearer and brighter. The overhanging field of gray had been replaced by a blue sky. She heard the sound of birds chirping, and the wind rustling through lush fields and thick leafy canopies of green trees. She smelled a dozen different fragrances from flowers to animals, all blending together to create the full mélange of aromas that made up the scent of a farm. At the end of the long driveway was the unblemished sign proudly bearing the family name. She was still at the Willoughby farm in the exact same spot as before, but no longer at the exact same time. The thriving farm she beheld around her was the one from decades before.

A young couple approached, caught up in conversation. The young man was tall and lanky, with light hair tumbling over his ears and down the back of his neck, was clad in a freshly-laundered work shirt and crisp new bib overalls buckled smartly in place. His rubber knee boots had a sheen the indicated that just been hosed off and he wore a straw cowboy hat that could not have been more than a week old. He fiddled with something in his hands as the girl, pretty and perhaps a year younger with slightly darker hair and a lovely floral dress, followed quickly behind him.

“Maggie, I tell you, this is going to be great! I know exactly what I’m doing, you’ll see.”

“I think you only think you know what you’re doing. Horace, you need to slow down for a minute and think about this before you go gallivanting off on some new scheme--!”

“It’s not a scheme, it’s a plan. A very well thought-out plan at that.”

“Which some might call a half-assed inclination.”

Horace spun around to face her. “Mags, you worry too much.”

“I’d say that given that your madcap ideas, I worry just about enough.”

“Which I think we can agree is more than enough for both of us.”

They volleyed back and forth with jibes that indicated a certain level of irritation and no small amount of love. They were clearly brother and sister. They stood within a few feet of Lydia as they conversed, acting as if she wasn’t even there. To them, she wasn’t. Lydia knew who she was looking at. The boy was Horace Willoughby, who’d be about 17 at this point in time. The young lady at whom Lydia could not stop staring, was his sister, shorter in stature but still able to meet him eye to eye. Her presence gave off the same kind of inner strength as Malia. Never having seen a photo of this girl, and without ever seeing a vision of her looking so lovely and unspoiled, Lydia still knew at once who she was.

“Marguerite”, Lydia whispered, as if fearing they would hear her. They didn’t.

“Maggie, look. I’ve already done so much good already. Just think of this as an extension of that. A really big extension, I’ll grant you, but when this works—“

“If it works”, she countered, cutting him off. “Horace, you know I love you six ways to Sunday, but I worry for a reason. It’s bad enough that you’re—“ and she stopped herself. Horace had begun to walk on his way again, but he stopped then and turned back around.

“Go on.”

Marguerite sighed. “You already know what I meant.” Horace stared back at her, not giving her an easy out. She’d have to continue, so she did. “You’re known all over the county as That Willoughby Boy who plays around with divining rods and little offerings to elemental spirits and whatnot that make a lot of people think you’re…well, a little touched in the head.”

“So do you think that?”, Horace asked pointedly.

Marguerite opted not to take the bait. “If you keep up with latest undertaking, I’ll start to wonder.”

“Okay then”, he huffed. “I get that I’m not the most welcome guest at the local barn dance or ice cream social. So what. But you and I both know who folks around here come to when gardens start to wilt or sick animals need healing or trees get the rot.”

“Yes, I know. Not as if you’d let me forget it, of course.” Horace snorted an aborted laugh that made Marguerite smile. “But helping out with smaller problems is one thing. We’re talking something that could affect the entire community here.”

“Maggie, I know the signs. I have farming in my blood. I love this land and I can tell what’s coming. We are already looking at signs of a major drought setting in. Somebody’s got to do something now before the problem gets ahead of us.”

“And you’re so sure that if this works—“

“WHEN it works, you’ll see that I know exactly what I’m—“

“What are you two doing out here jawing when there’s work to be done?”

The new voice came from someone who was clearly the man of the household. An older gentleman with gray hair and features similar to Horace’s, he carried himself like a man who had worked hard and given more than his share. His weathered face and calloused hands made it difficult to guess his age. He could have been anywhere from his early forties to his late fifties. His overalls were older and faded, his boots more scuffed and his hat a trifle droopy, but both looked well-worn and of a perfect fit for the man inside them.

“Hey, Pa”, Horace said.

“Morning, Papa”, Marguerite offered.

“What is it you’ve got to chitchat about that’d take precedence over your chores?”

“First off, Pa, you’ll be happy to know I’m actually a bit ahead on my chores.”

The older farmer frowned. “Uh-huh. I’ve heard it all, now.”

“Papa”, Marguerite chimed in, “Horace has a simply marvelous idea for helping out with the oncoming drought.” Horace shot his sister a deadly glance.

“Is that so?”, their father asked. “I don’t suppose this involves building extra barrels for collecting rainwater or the like?”

Horace licked his lips and mentally scrambled to find the words. “Actually, Pa, I’ve found this whole new method that’ll—“

“Dammit, boy!”, the older man snarled. “Is this more of your backwards hoodoo you keep wasting your time on?”

“It’s not a waste of time, Pa.”

“The only reason I let you continue with that lunacy is ‘cause your momma, God rest her soul, thought it was a good focus for your mind. But she never said you should be allowed to pursue it willy-nilly at the cost of everything else. We already have enough to worry about with--” and he looked at his daughter, then held his tongue.

Horace wasted no time taking advantage of the pause. “Pa, I’m telling you, this is something that will help the farm and benefit the whole community--!”

“Young man, I will not get sucked into this conversation”, the farmer said, wagging a long finger. “I will not. Chores first. Chores now, y’hear me?”

Horace knew when he was beat. “Yessir.” He walked off toward the barn.

“And you can build a couple new barrels, while you’re at it!”

“Papa, where’s Roland?”, Marguerite asked, eager to change the subject.

“Your baby brother’s inside sleeping like a lamb. I moved his crib by the window to let him get a touch of son. And you wouldn’t need to ask about him if you were tending to him like you’re supposed to.”

“Yes, sir”, she smiled, heading back toward the house. As she passed her father, he put a gentle hand on her arm.

“Have you been taking your tea, Maggie?”

Looking suddenly sheepish, Marguerite nodded. “Yes I have, Papa.”

“Don’t look so glum, now. I don’t like it any better’n you do. But…it’s a help, you know that.”

She smiled. Her smile was beautiful. “I know, Papa.” She gave him a quick hug.

“I love you, sweetie”, he said. Then he ushered her on her way. “Oh, and dinner--!”

“Will be delicious and ready by sundown!” And she was gone.

Farmer Willoughby turned to his son. “You know I only ride you to keep you safe, boy.” Horace nodded. “Now where’d your little brother get to? We’re supposed to get the chopping done. If you’ve distracted him by filling his head with daydreams—“

“I already saw Bernard go out back with the ax. He wanted to get a head start, show you what a hard worker he is.”

Willoughby was off at a trot. “He’s gonna chop his fool arm off, is what he’s gonna do. Bernie! You wait for me, now!”

The image swirled and bled, like a watercolor left out in the rain, and Lydia found herself someplace new. It took her a moment to recognize that she was now by the barn. The wood of the barn was strong and straight and painted. It bore little resemblance to the one from where Lydia had come. Brother and sister were once again conspiring over an odd-looking pattern of Horace’s design. As he set leaves and rocks in place, Marguerite tilted her head sideways to look at it.

“Is it supposed to look like that?”

“Yes, it’s supposed to look like that.”

“I just thought it’d be…well, fancier, I guess.”

“That’s the beauty of it. It’s not at all complicated to put together if you know what to do.”

“You say that as if you actually know what you’re doing.”

The two looked at each other and laughed. The whole thing seemed silly now, but as long as they’d come this far, they might as well see it through. Horace looked at his sister and struck a pose of importance and pomposity. “Have you taken your tea, young lady?”

Marguerite burst out laughing at the horrible impression of their father. “He doesn’t say it like that.”

“He may as well have.” Horace stopped to consider the tea in question. “Making you drink that stuff. Wolfsbane tea, for the love of heaven.”

“Papa doesn’t like when you call it that.”

“Acontium tea makes it sound like a delicacy. He’s trying to suppress your gift.”

“Some would argue your definition of the word gift”, Marguerite pointed out.

“And it makes you feel sleepy, and weak, and sometimes just plain sick.”

“Not since you spiced it up with that blend you came up with. It doesn’t make me feel bad at all and it tastes world’s better, too.”

“I’ll bet it does”, Horace snickered.

“Horace…what did you do?” Then a thought came to her. “What have I really been drinking?”

“Peppermint, lavender, and hibiscus. Yummy, isn’t it?”

“You’re terrible! Papa’s only trying to protect me.”

“Pa is a good man, but he can’t see the wonders that are right in front of him. The world is changing. I can’t be the only one to be discovering that. We’re on the brink of a new age, Mags.”

“You make me feel as though I should have brought a big ribbon to cut.”

“I’m serious now”, Horace stressed. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “This is going to stop the drought before it gets any farther, and possibly prevent us from ever having another. People will hear about this from clear across Beacon Hills. You wait, I won’t be That Willoughby Boy everyone thinks is touched then.”

Horace referred to a book he’d kept hidden in the storm cellar, which he’d read and reread a dozen times over. He was checking his work. Everything looked good. He handed the book to his sister to hold on to. She opted to not just stand there holding it. Marguerite flipped through the old book. Its pages were old and crumbling at the edges. The binding stank. Notes and cross-outs by Horace covered the margins and were scribbled in between lines of text. “How can you even be sure you know what you’re doing here? I can’t even tell if I’m holding this the right way up.”

“I can tell”, Horace grinned.

Marguerite riffled the pages under her thumb, causing a few yellowed and brittle bits of pages to flutter down to the ground. She was about to hand it back to her brother when a passage near the end caught her eye. He’d covered it up with a small piece of cardboard. Why would he do that? Removing the cardboard, she read it. Her eyes widened. “Horace, did you see what you‘d have to do if this goes wrong? How to reverse it? You have to stop at onc--!”

Horace took the book away and tucked it behind his overalls bib. “I won’t have to do that because it’s not going to go wrong. Trust me.”

Unconvinced but beginning to feel more concerned, Marguerite found herself wanting to know more. “So what does this little dirt drawing do, exactly?”

“Better to show you”, he said proudly. “Stand over there.”

He spoke the words that made absolutely no sense to his sister. He spoke them with an intonation that implied they had great meaning. He then stepped back to join his sister.

Then nothing. Perhaps she needn’t worry after all. The whole thing seemed so fantastic anyway.

“I can see how this is truly something to take pride in”, Marguerite said. “Really, I’m impressed.”

“Wait for it.”

Still nothing.

“What’s supposed to be happening, Horace?”

“A spirit of growth and fertility will come and rejuvenate everything.”

Marguerite rolled her eyes. Maybe her brother really was touched in the head. “Look. It’s getting late and there’s till work to be done. You can always try again tomorrow—“

A flash of light burst up from the drawing in the ground. The earth around them began to rumble.

“Land’s sakes!”, Marguerite cried.

Horace took her in his arms, his face beaming with delight. “This is it! Hang on, Maggie. You’ve never seen ANYthing like this!”

That was when something began to rise from within the circle. Horace stared, first in excitement, then in confusion.

“I would have thought it’d be green.”

That’s when all hell broke loose.

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