#and that his temple cracking on the pavement was the sign of his death

[islanddboyy]

wow just read something that made me realise how that part of your head being called the temple has made the word so mundane to me. but if you think about it the most delicate part of your head being called the temple implies something holy about your mind.

[spacedoutman]

【𝕻𝖞𝖌𝖒𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖔𝖓 | 𝕬 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖆𝖚】

(𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 4)

Description: Kiss was the perfect name for the infamous bank robbers who kissed everything goodbye to go out in a blaze of glory. Wreaking havoc on 1930s America, what happens when the chase ends?

♥ Paul Stanley x Reader

Note: Paul thinks about you more than you know while doing his job as a farm hand. (He loves you a lot)

Warnings: PTSD, death | This chapter gets very dark! Please proceed with caution!

𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 5 / 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 3 / / 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 1 / 𝖆𝖔3

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECHHH!!!

Gene jumped, gasping sharply as his eyes widened. Paul shrunk. His brows stuck furrowed so tightly they’d crack. Maybe jerking the wheel that hard was a bad idea. It felt like Paul’s feet jetted off the ground. The truck swung into the gas station, slinging the two so hard Gene crashed into the dash. Paul held himself up by a string. The truck quit—or stopped.

Paul stomped the gas. It rattled before rolling on. Pitch black shimmered like a whole ass star against the moonlight. Paul’s jaw dropped. A sleek model T ford sat, parked criss-cross in one of the lots. Paul couldn’t help but to smile. Your face shimmered in the backs of his lids again. Your face.. Paul’s eyes smiled. His grip lightened.

“Careful—don’t scratch it!” Gene cried worriedly.

Paul’s vision blurred as the truck hobbled into the lot.

A job. Anything could be a job without being paid for it. Heat crawled onto the back of Paul’s neck. Paul scratched it. Gene took the wheel. The car jerked from side to side for a split second. Paul’s heart skipped in his chest like a kid over a jump rope. Rope. Sweat trickled down Paul’s face. Vomit crawled to the top of his throat like a million little spiders.

‘I am for sale! Will take any job! Unemployed five months, if any longer, family will starve!’

The sun drowned them like they were neck deep in the sea. One of the men hit the ground beside him. An old car rolled down the dirt road. The men pushed their signs out. Paul’s legs wobbled under him. He held himself up like there was a stick in his back. His stomach twisted and clenched as hot sweat poured down his face, shooting ice down his spine.

His arms fought him to give out. Another took his shoulder, pulling him up and rolling his sleeves.

Their solemn gazes followed the car as it drove off, leaving a cloud of dust which stung their lungs—if they could even breathe. The air was thick as pudding and muggy as the jungle Whoever was inside didn’t even glance. A couple pedestrians rushed through the small town, their chins clinging to their chests. The buildings looked as if they’d cling to the cracked pavement in a second.

‘Starving! Fought for three years, can speak French, Spanish! College educated, will take any job!’

The sign laid on the ground. One of the pedestrians stepped over it. The fallen man’s groans eventually faded. Paul swayed like a tree in the wind. His throbbing head was lighter than a cloud. His ribs pierced his lungs. His legs ached so badly they’d long went numb. The bottoms of his feet burnt like he stood on a stove on fire.

‘Wanted: A rope to hang myself’

He couldn’t squeeze a thought through his head.

“Paul.” Gene shook him gently. “Paul, please.. please come to.”

Gene’s voice cracked with worry. Paul’s eyes shot wide before relaxing. His head snapped to face Gene, whose brow wrinkled. His large eyes glimmered. “Are you okay?” He said softly, leaning close. Paul’s heart kicked up.

“We’re not going back.” He pushed Gene back. Gene sunk.

Paul rubbed his temple so hard it would break through to his skull. “There’s n-no fucking way we’re going back.” He muttered, his voice shattered like thin ice. His eyes hit the floor.

“Paul.” Gene murmured. Paul’s shoulders curled hard over his chest. He clutched his stomach. “Come on—we’ll deal with that later. Do you need a minute?”

Paul’s heart raced. “I-If I go in here and spend the rest of our money on gas and food, what will we have left?” His stomach turned like a twisted knife.

“Paul. I understand but you’ve got to calm down. If we don’t get gas, we’ll never get home. We’ll be walking for hours...”

Paul grit his teeth. A wildfire exploded deep inside. He stepped out. The car door swung so hard it almost smashed into the ford. “What’s that doing here anyway?” Gene forced lightheartedness into his voice, leaning out Paul’s door. His strained smile shone in the moonlight. Paul clenched his nose bridge and sighed deeply, looking down and away.

“We’re going to rot.” Paul said through a clenched jaw, shaking his fist sharply. “That’s it.”

“Paul. Please.”

Something about Gene’s voice itched him like a million mosquito bites. Paul tensed in the blink of an eye. The night chill settled around him—so why did his body still burn? Why was he trembling?

“Paul!”

Fog conquered Paul’s brain. Gene threw himself out of the car. Paul paced violently, yanking off his cap and sweeping his hands through his hair. “Paul, Paul!” Gene eased his hands onto his shoulders, stopping him. “If you keep this up, we’re going to get arrested!” Paul turned with ungodly wide eyes. His chest tightened. His breathing sped up.

“Inmates earn more god-damned money than we do.” He scoffed.

Gene shook him a bit. “D-Don’t think like that!” He almost whispered, horribly panicked. “Come on. Let’s go home. I’ll take care of gas-”

“-And if we break down?” Paul spoke over him, cocking his brow.

“Then we can take care of that later.”

“We came to the station, Gene. It would be stupid if we didn’t get gas.” Paul sarcastically snapped.

He reached into his pocket. “Hell, we could rob the place and still be better off than we are now!” He raved. Gene gasped.

“—Don’t say that so loudly!”

“What are those assholes gonna’ do? Arrest us for talk?” Paul said through a menacing chuckle.

“Paul. Stop. Please.” Gene was as firm as a pillow.

Paul’s brows furrowed. “I might as well do it now-” Gene grabbed his arm.

“No!”

Paul clasped Gene’s shoulders. Gene stumbled over. The two were almost nose to nose. Night birds whistled quietly. Crickets chirped. Paul’s eyes cut through his soul. Gene froze. “Tell me, Klein. Do you have the money to get gas?” Paul growled. “Cause’ I sure as hell don’t.” Paul’s lips pursed into a little smile.

Gene reached into his jean pocket and fiddled around. His head fell. “That’s what I thought.” Paul hissed. “And how low are we on gas?”

“Almost empty.”

“So..”

Paul’s eyes widened. His chest caved in, crushing his heart like glass. His voice choked. Tears stung his eyes.

The words sat in his mouth, nailed like boards over a window. Could he pry them out?

“… What are we going to do?” He faltered.

Paul’s gaze retreated. Gene’s expression turned firm. Paul’s breathed like ten thousand pound weights sat on his back. “What are we going to do?” A bit of anger kicked up in Gene. “How the hell are we gonna’ get home? Walk?”

Paul’s brows drew together. His eyes shot up. The ford sat like a five course meal in front of him.

“I have a better idea.”

[lunewell]

The Lunewell Saga - Natura: Chapter 2

Can also be read on ao3 by clicking here

First part is here (:

Third part is here

Book Sumary:

Zarifa Birch, an antique shop worker with an unusual past, has made a home for herself in the sleepy town of Lunewell. Though the shop she works at is not exactly ordinary, with cryptid items and odd occurrences, she has managed to carve the normal life she always desperately wished for out of it.

However, all that comes crumbling down, as a woman from Zarifa’s past throws everything into chaos. Faced with unimaginable horrors, seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and returning repressed feelings and memories, Zarifa along with her coworkers, must find a way to return the balance- and escape the cruel hands of death in this eldritch horror mystery

Chapter 2:

At 03:45 in the morning, under a night sky covered in a thick blanket of storm clouds, Zarifa was woken, not by any natural phenomena, or by her antique alarm clock, but by the sound of her phone screeching out what was effectively deafening trumpets. Though this had never happened before, Zarifa knew instantly what it was, and threw off her warm, cotton duvet immediately. 

 Grant, who frankly was the only one who had anything even close to technology related competence, had wired up an alarm system in the shop not too long ago, and connected it to Zarifa’s phone. He had also, of course, been the one to design the hideous sound. As she gripped her phone with a speed that almost made it go smashing to the ground, she turned it on to see that the alarm of Thorn’s Antiques had, in fact, just gone off.

 She rubbed her temples, shivering slightly. Neither the room nor the outside world were particularly warm, with a chilly wind seeping on through the wall and around the room. Her bed was a haven of heat, and a place that could soothe the ever-growing, tired ache in her bones, and her entire body protested when she turned on her heels and began walking towards the closet, shuddering.

 Zarifa threw on clothes at an impressive haste; a warm turtleneck and a pair of jeans that were just the slightest bit too small, then snatched her phone and purse, and put on her necklace, before rushing out the door. 

 She wasn’t all that worried about the robbery, not really. While they were an antique shop, they didn’t have anything really valuable, at least not that she was aware of. 

 Besides, if anything of value truly had been stolen, there was pretty much only one culprit, and lucky for them, Zarifa knew exactly where to go should that be the case.

 No, her haste came not from a place of fear of the robber, or worry over the supply, but from Valour’s reaction. Valour, though usually apathetic, had an overprotectiveness of the shop, and any damage to it, might lead to the new rising of a mass murderer. The butterfly over her turtleneck saw one last glimpse of the light, before it was covered in a thick, black coat, and slipped outside into the shadowy night.

 The breeze was particularly strong, fiery trees not so much swaying in the wind as almost being knocked down by it. Zarifa pulled her coat tighter, shivering as a cracking whip of gust slammed her face. The stars above, usually visible in the dimly lit dirt paths, were shielded behind towering, puffed-up storm clouds, almost menacing in their own way. 

 She walked onto the pavement, passing her small and worn car parked outside the small cottage. She debated on taking it, before deciding it really wasn’t worth it. Lunewell was so small anyway, and the shop hidden in the far corner was but a ten-minute walk. Though driving should technically have been faster, navigating her way around the roads and towards Lune Lake, where the shop lay, would take just as long as walking there. Even after living there for five years, Zarifa still found the roads and paths an absolute maze, like the village was purposefully trying to trap its inhabitants.

 As she rounded a corner, and headed towards what had become a very small street of other local shops and one bar, a wave of newly baked pastries broke through the ozone-scented air, sending yet another hard hit of a gust that pushed her back ever so slightly. She didn’t mind the wind though, as her tight expression morphed into a delighted smile and her body became infinitely more aware of how long it has been since she’d eaten.

 Zarifa relished in the smell for just a little longer, though she kept her pace up, before she froze in place at the edge of a lamppost light. Mr. and Mrs. Carr, both bundled up in striped, hand-knit scarves, were walking towards the bakery hand in hand, clearly preparing to open for the day. Zarifa stood almost inhumanly still in place, as though the Carrs were hunting predators and she was their prey, her breathing having grown shallower and tighter. 

 Taking a step back further into the shadows, she hoped the light was poor enough and their eyes old enough that she would slip under their senses. Or, at least, that was the plan, until her feet knocked against an empty can on the ground, sending a rattling sound that resonated through the street.

 Their heads snapped up, landing first on the can that had rolled into the light, and then on Zarifa herself, who was still holding her breath, even her heartbeat muted. Mrs. Carr, who had never particularly liked Zarifa for whatever reason, gave a wave and a slightly tight smile as her greyed hair blew haphazardly around her head.

 Her husband turned to see what she was looking at, lighting up when he saw Zarifa, who had edged herself into the event horizon of visibility. “Zarifa!” he greeted enthusiastically, but quietly, “Hello dear. What are you doing out here at this hour?”

 Zarifa rubbed the back of her neck, shuffling further forward. “Good morning Mrs. Carr, Mr. Carr-”

 “As I’ve said before, just Harold’s fine love.”

 “Apologies,” Zarifa said, hands moving from her neck to the gold that hung around it. “I’m not in the best mindset right now,” Mr. Carr sounded an ‘Oh?’, as Mrs. Carr headed inside slightly huffy, “you see, the alarm for Thorn’s Antiques just went off.” 

 Mr. Carr’s eyebrows shot up in concern, wrinkles bunched on his ever-balding forehead. “That’s dreadful,” he exclaimed, “not the kind of thing you’d expect to happen ‘round here. You better be off, Lilly and I’ll drop by with some of the baked goods later in the day.”

 “Oh, that’s very generous but you don’t have to,” Zarifa reassured in a slight panicky tone, “no point in dragging you two into this mess.”

 “Nonsense,” he said, “everyone needs some baked goods in situations like this. Besides,  I’m sure that young lad of yours with the glasses - Graham? Brant? - would be very appreciative.”

 “If you’re positively sure it isn’t an inconvenience, that would be lovely,” Zarifa said, finishing it off with a warm if anxious smile. Any lingering silence was broken by the sound of Mrs. Carr calling for her husband and co-worker in a way fit for a dictator. Mr. Carr turned towards the door 

 “Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming!” he shouted, back, a stark contrast to the gentle lull of his tone before. “I believe my wife needs me. We’ll stop by later. Good luck!”

 Zarifa took off like a jetfighter, sprinting away with a wave and footsteps that bounced into the streets. At her speed, it wasn’t long before she was no longer landing on cobbled streets but on overgrown dirt paths covered in damp leaves. The shop, a small stoney thing with dirty windows that practically looked abandoned, came into view, and her eyes moved to the door, which was in fact left just the slightest bit open.

 Sliding inside, she closed the door behind her, though the shop remained equally cold. It looked almost eerie at this time, the furniture remnant of old times, empty and abandoned, a few vases smashed on the floor from where someone had been in a rush, and a stillness so quiet that it was deafening to her ears.

 Picking up a blue floral patterned shard, she continued onwards, keeping her footsteps as light as a ghost. Well, as light as a ghost that could not sneak past a deaf person, but she digressed. Pushing open the door to the back, wincing as the door hinges made a shrieking creek, reminiscent of a whining child, she made her way in. 

 The employees’ lounge looked, as she had expected, fine. Everything was exactly as they had left it, slightly disjointed, except for Bruin’s desk that had been organised meticulously. She began heading for the downstairs, to see if any of the inventory had been stolen, when she heard a muffled thud from upstairs, releasing the pressured silence in her ear and exchanging it with dread.

  Thud, thud, thud , multiple slamming sounds, equally light, equally muffled, radiated from upstairs. She could track the being’s every movement from the sound alone, see the continuous patterns of thuds make their way through the upstairs rooms. Her eyes trailed them vigorously, pupils jumpy, as she tightened the grip on the shard. The fact that it dug into her hand, almost piercing through her thin bicoloured skin, didn’t register.

 The shop yet again went quiet, though any illusion of silence was broken by Zarifa’s hammering heart. She glanced around the room, gaze going to the cellar where she could take her hiding, to the second exit, and back up to Valour’s personal floor. She looked up, waiting for any more signs of life, before snailing sneakily up the stairs with the shard held out in front of her. 

 The steps, normal stairs instead of the never ending spiral leading to the basement, stayed as silent as herself throughout the ascent, as though they themselves were afraid of the intruder above. Zarifa tipped-toed up them, the yellow stained walls that the stairs were encased in almost suffocatingly tight, and ever closing in. 

 At the top of the carpeted steps sat a black door crested in a slightly lighter shade, with a pair of Bobby pins stuck in the lock. It was the only entrance Zarifa had never taken in the shop, looming above her and guarding a floor that even so much as seeing would lead to great punishment. 

 It was too dark to peek into the room, and there was no sound but her own swallowing and the wind that had picked up outside. She took another step up, and reached for the handle as though it was shatterable glass. With a prayer directed more towards the cosmic force of luck rather than anything specific, she gave one push of the door.

 Luck, it seemed, was on her side, as the hinges opened without the slightest squeak. She took the final stairs up, giving one last glance to where she came from, and stepped inside what was effectively Valour’s house.

 Even through the fog of darkness, she could see the layer of dust, and the sheer amount of things thrown astray on the floor. Outlines of books with unreadable titles spilling over the carpet, sheets of aged papers crumbled into what she assumed had once been a paper bin, and antique knick-knacks placed in tall piles, disfigured by the low lighting.

 At first glance, it seemed disorganised, but as her eyes adjusted more to the lightless room, it became clear that similar items were bundled together, and that there was some kind of system. She just hadn’t quite figured out what that system was.

 Looking away from the silhouettes of mess that seemed ever-shifting, she turned her eyes downward, looking at where a path had been cleared. Whether it had always been there, or whether the dear intruder had made it, she was unsure about. She walked across it like a minefield, eyes trained on the ground and not looking at the piles which were getting higher as she went along and spilling further towards her. 

 She stopped at a hallway, leading in two different directions, which was deserted compared to the room she had just arrived in, only containing a painting, a few near empty shelves, and a drawer. Though equally riddled with swirling, sand-like dust, it felt cleaner, and had a little bit of light poking through a curtained roof window. It shone on the portrait hanging large and proud above the wooden desk, enough so that she could see the illuminated face of a younger Valour with colour still in her hair and a rather androgynous person she couldn’t quite recognise. They invoked the same familiar feeling she had felt yesterday, albei more distant.

 She took a step closer, staring intently. The person, a sickly pale figure with light brown hair and odd, pink, heart shaped sunglasses, was almost entrancing, to the point she had barely realised just how close her hand was to the canvas. 

 The trance was broken not by the touch of the oil canvas, but by a sound that Zarifa, when asked at a later point, could only have described as bounding . It was the sound of a constrictor wrapping around its prey, of tight ropes encircling a wrist, of becoming trapped and helpless.

 A flash of light blue light, ever so faint and ever so quick that one couldn’t be scolded for mistaking it with a hallucination, appeared in the corner of her eye. Her head snapped towards one of the doors, hair on her arms rising, as she made her ways towards the source.

 From the outside door, she could hear whatever was making that sound wrap further, deeper, and for a second, her mind cleared. She considered walking out; walking safely home, telling Valour that she couldn’t find anything stolen, and not getting involved. Letting this, whatever this was, live its life or death peacefully. 

 After all, was that not why she had come to find herself here in the shop in the first place? Was that not why Grant, Bruin, or even to an extent Valour herself had found themselves in this antique shop? To escape a past of unexplainable events, whilst simultaneously saving others from having the same brush with the eldritch, the unexplainable?  To, for even just a split second, live in the illusion of normalcy, the lie that nothing had ever been wrong?

 Zarifa turned on her heels, sneaking past the portrait of Valour and Heart-Glasses, which almost seemed to be judging her choice. Valour wouldn’t have turned away, which perhaps explained the scars and bruises. She couldn’t, however, bring herself to care, as her ever growing frantic footsteps made their way down the hall.

 Now, what must be understood for the following sequence of events to make sense, is that Zarifa, deep down, was one thing; caring. She sees her fellow employees as great friends, always up to help or let them take breaks, she handles her books with delicate strokes and gloves hands, and she is always up to help.

 Whether Zarifa’s caring nature always outshined her cowardice and self preservation is debatable, and a subject she preferred not to dwell on. However, in the word always , lies a hidden, implied one; sometimes.

 Like when Zarifa, halfway down the hallway, heard a cry and groan of pain that was so distinctly Lottie , that she would have recognised it even if her ears got chopped off. As though someone had a pressed a button, she turned right back around, sprinted with loud thuds, and pushed the door with a speed that almost broke a whole in the wall.  She stood panting in the doorway, all fear evaporated into a feeling that was not quite protectiveness, not quite caring, not quite pity, and not quite anger, before the muddled emotion transformed back into fear as her eyes landed on the strawberry blonde. 

 Lottie sat on the floor, legs dug into by long vines dressed in a barrier of thorns, arms tightly pressed against her body in a twisted bend that no human should have been able to achieve, and a streaming, jet black smoke arising from the leaf engraved ornate box in front of her and travelling right into her deep green eyes. Zarifa moved towards her and the box without even thinking, making her jerk, digging the thorns even deeper into her skin. “Don’t… to-touch a thing,” Lottie commanded, voice unbelievably hoarse, as though she had been shouting for hours, and Scottish accent more intense.

 “I can’t sit by and watch… whatever’s happening!” Zarifa shouted frantically, panic stirring in her. She crouched down to the floor, even as Lottie made a sound of protest. “How can I stop this?”

 “Y-you can get the fuck out,” Lottie managed to gasp out meeting her eyes. Her brows were stern, but her expressive emerald eyes were scrunched and her face was in a grimace that drew at Zarifa’s heart strings like a wound bow. All the while, the black smoke from the box-

 The box. Of course. If she just closed it, Lottie would, theoretically, be fine. She began reaching for the moonlight-reflecting gold leaf, one of the only items visible in the otherwise almost pitch black room. She stopped as she heard her name called desperately from beside her, followed by a string of curses.

 “Don’t touch it!” Lottie pleaded with a tone laced in anger, voice teetering on the edge of death, “Just get out of here, butterfly!” And oh, if her heart didn’t skip at that slip-up, “Don’t want to…” she gasped again, not quite managing to bite down another whimper, “d-drag you into this shit again.”  

 Zarifa looked at Lottie, her pained glare, the arms that looked like they had been put on backwards, and the pierced legs. She took a breath; “I’m sorry,” she said, and before Lottie could say so much as a word, she snapped the lid shut with a snap that hit like an atom bomb.

 As soon as the bomb landed, everything went quiet. Zarifa moved quickly, as Lottie fell limp into her chest like a stuffless ragdoll, arms clicking back into the place with an audible sound, and eyes fluttering open to give one last angered, intense stare before shutting. The smoke, escaping Lottie’s eyes in a violent manner, balled itself up into the center of the room, the thorns vanishing and joining it to create a rotating, black and dark green, spiral-patterned sphere.

 Keeping a close eye on the orb, she scrambled further backwards, pulling Lottie along with her. Her mind raced as she scanned the thing, trying desperately to decipher what it was, what it could possibly be. Though she wanted to leave the room, to drag Lottie and herself outside and never enter again, her eyes were entranced in the beautiful, indescribable spiral. It was, Zarifa thought grimly,  a bit like the train incident all over again. Or the summer camp, for that matter, but she preferred to keep a lock on those memories. 

 The orb continued spiralling, room still quiet except for Zarifa’s heavy breathing, and the wind outside. It was then that she saw something in the spirals, something beyond the mist of black. She squinted, though in the light and with the colour it was hard to see much of anything except the swirling pattern. She began leaning in ever closer, though recoiled almost instantly as soon as the orb came to life.

 A hand, pink and fleshy and clearly human, pushed against the pattern, stretching the orb to translucency like a tight latex glove. It pushed against the swirls, followed by another, then three hands, then 10 hands, and then an uncountable number. Everywhere you looked where skin covered fingers, all trying to break the barrier that had slowly stopped swirling.

 Though they pushed and pushed, hands clawing with the ferocity of a starving lion, pounding with all the force of a hurricane, the barrier refused to move, just stretching to expose the arms further up. It had gotten to the point where Zarifa could clearly see knobbly elbows bending robotically, aimlessly through the cover. She regarded the arms from where she sat, eyes trailing their every movement, before she turned over, head still on them, and took a single, crawling movement towards the door.

 All the hands stopped pushing, falling limp into the orb as though their strings had been cut. They were dragged back jerkily into the core, pulled out of sight as quickly as they had appeared. Zarifa held her breath watching the orb move towards her and out of the moonlight, the colours fading to nothing but a monochrome silhouette, and the shape morphing into something reminiscent of a bald human, albeit with arms just the slightest bit too long. She could not see its face, or any details on its body, even as it took an unsteady tumble towards her.

 When Zarifa was twenty-one, and visiting Lunewell for the first time since the train incident, a seventeen year old girl, younger than herself, but already the owner of a shop, named Valour Thorn had taught her a very important lesson; When faced with the unexplainable, always close your eyes. At that time, Zarifa had yet to see what that would do. After all, simply ignoring danger when it was so close seemed like a sure fire way to get yourself killed, but a method of saviour.

 Now, however, faced with an ever-approaching, vaguely human-shaped blob, staggering towards her like a drunken man with a concussion, she realised that situations like this could only have two outcomes, and closed her eyes. She kept her breath and body stiff, even if she knew she had already been spotted by the sound of bagged, wet meat slapping against the ground. The sound stopped completely mere inches in front of her, and everything went quiet, on what could very well have been the last moment of her life.

 A breath, muffled as though it was coming through fabric, though no less warm and moist than what would have expected, blew against her cheek. It sounded strained, as though it’s lungs were thick as needles, but the breathing was rhythmic and distinctly alive. The breath inched closer, warming by the second as she squeezed her deep brown eyes tighter, mind caught in a loop of prayers to all the gods she could think off.

 Lottie, who had previously been nestled comfortably against Zarifa’s jacket, let out a slightly pained groan. Her heart stopped, as she felt the creature's breath pan over her face, and towards where the pigtailed girl rested. In a flurry of movements that made Zarifa flinch violently against the wall, she felt the weight of Lotie lifted off her in one sharp movement. A dazed whimper once again admitted it from her, but it sounded distant compared to the one that had been right against Zarifa’s ear. 

 She desperately wished to open her eyes, to see what was happening, to make even a singular heroic movement to save Lottie, but she stayed in her prey position; paralysed and blind. It was a grim but realistic reminder that she had and would never be a saviour, nor a survivor, just lucky. Regardless of prior experiences, she was no more competent or threatening than a shot deer.

 The squishy sound returned, just as the warmth where the creature had poised left her neck. There was a distinct dragging sound on the floor, a sharp leather and zippers scrapping on wood, as the wet splotches rounded around her. She still didn’t dare open her eyes, until the footsteps and dragging vanished. 

 As the house and flat quiet, her eyes opened slowly, the lids still recovering from the glued fear. She glanced down to her hands, and realised that somewhere along the way, they had reached up to grip the necklace, which she squeezed as she took a shuddering, shallow breath. She reminded herself that both she and Lottie would be okay, that they’d both been through far worse, but the comfort only resonated on a surface level. 

 Looking around the dark room, she noticed the outline of a light switch right by the door, which stood more ajar than she had previously thought. With a final, semi-deep breath, she flicked it on. The room burst harshly into a bright yellow lamp, her eyes burning at the harsh contrast. She blinked rapidly, trying to blink away the tears that at first came from brightness, but as her vision cleared, came from a true realisation of what had just happened.

 In the light, it became clear that this tiny room was a study. There was a dust laden desk with old, leather-bound journals, a desk light with a shattered bulb, and a computer just slightly more modern than the one downstairs, a corkboard with images connected by different coloured strings that looked like a conspiracy theorist's wet dream, and lots of shelves populated with antiques and books. However, Zarifa was not so much focusing on the small glimpse into Valour’s elusive personal life, as the floor where the encounter happened.

 Splattered across the planks were puddles of a black, tar-like liquid, intertwined with small specks of blood. The ornate box itself had at some point been knocked over, tilted on its side, spreading a few small, thin sheets of ancient looking paper out. Zarifa gently made her way over, stepping past the puddles with a scrunched up nose, before reaching the papers. She didn’t pick it up, nor touch it, instead tilting her head to read what the dull, brown ink said.

  To whom it may concern…

  In this letter lies the seal, which I fear must not be opened till The Dawn. If the time is not right, you must close this box, and ignore this. Do not read onwards, or you will bring upon yourself the cruelest of fates.

  In a worst case scenario, if the seal has been unsealed before The Dawn, if doors ideally locked stand open, you must be prepared to make a key. 

  A key is forged by fragments of Touched sanity eating a sight of one that Sees, dipped in water oh-so divine. Once the key has begun, the fragments must sew themselves between the fabric, letting all webbed light shine on them. As they are blessed by the minute, and after the final step of-

 Zarifa’s eyes widened, turning the page frantically looking for the continuation of where the text had been ripped off. She glanced around the room, looked once again inside the box, only to find it an empty chasm. With a shaky breath, she wiped away her tears, determaimly, and pulled up her phone.

 Zarifa furrowed her brows as the time, reading precisely 06:00, appeared onto the screen. Had it really been two hours already? Nevertheless, she decided to ignore it for now, opening up her contacts, and quickly clicking the one person who she knew would already be up at such an early hour.

 “Hey Grant? I need you and Bruin to come in as soon as possible. We have a slight… situation on our hands.”

[peachebunnys]

Pain, with love IX

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x reader

Summary: Arranged marriages are tough, but add that with having a drug lord on the loose? Horacio Carrillo can only imagine what’s coming for him. 

Warnings: mentions of blood, violence, angst, mentions of death, lots of crying 

a/n: Okay so I’m really sorry for being on hiatus for a loooong time and not posting fics </3 To those that still follow me and this series, thank you so much for waiting, it really does mean a lot. I hope you like this chapter as much as I liked writing it. 

6.1k words

Masterlist

Chapter 9;

The rain was pouring harder than before, masking the view of anything beyond four hundred feet, drowning out the gentle instrumental that played across the festival square. The air felt tense, holding an invisible burden that was no doubt weighing Horacio down - a silent reminder that death still awaited him. The breeze that came along with the rain was a stark contrast to the warmth in his arms, and as he pulled you closer, he reminded himself that anything he does after this moment would be done to save you. 

The night was far too gentle for what was about to happen and far too unforgiving to those that will no doubt fall victim to it. What would become of this night, Horacio couldn’t fathom - but all he knew that you were safe now in his arms. 

Still. 

Like a single piano note echoing in a large empty room. 

Though the rain was like a soothing melody on this cold night, there was a sense of dread that lurked in Horacio’s heart. 

What was to happen now?

It was him against who knows how many, with two soiled pistols to defend himself with. 

The risk. 

Was it worth it?

It felt like everything had come to a halt, and Horacio wondered if this was what it felt like when one was minutes away from their inevitable end. Time was moving slower than before, a funny situation that Horacio had always found himself in when danger lurked around the corner. Seconds was starting to feel like minutes, which was increasingly welcomed as he tightened his hold around you. 

The fact that you were here, with him, was a thought that comforted him amidst the chaos that would come sooner than he’d think. Never in his life had Horacio been so afraid to lose his life, now that he knew he truly had something to look forward to - you. 

The uncertainty of how the night would unfold was hanging above his head while the rain pitter-pattered against the granite grounds. Horacio found his mind muddled with thoughts on what was to come. 

If he died tonight, in a battle against the war on drugs, it’d be you he’ll last think of. 

Always you. 

Your cheek rested perfectly on his shoulder, finding comfort in the thick padding that was behind his uniform. The cool wind blew against your skin, a contrast to the blush that crept up your neck as Horacio continued staring into your eyes. His rough fingers grazed your soft cheeks, caressing the skin just under your eyes to wipe away the raindrops that ran down your temple. Your eyes were filled with utmost adoration that nearly broke his heart - how could you love a man like him, especially when his time was limited? 

Your love for him was unconditional, a bittersweet reminder that a man as broken as he was still worthy of love. Within the few months of knowing you, the pieces of him that had been left scattered around were put back together and mended - creating a person that Horacio was surprised had even existed. Your gentle smiles and big heart was what had made him whole, and damn anyone who would think that Horacio wasn’t willing to die for you at this point. 

On the night you tended to him, he had come home as a shell of a man - broken and vulnerable as he thought about how the war on drugs had taken more from him than imagined. The tough colonel facade wasn’t one he could uphold forever, and as you nursed him back to full health, he realized that he could finally be himself around you. 

The warmth from you changes me, he thinks, I am not afraid anymore because you’re by my side. 

The distinct sound of the tires against wet granite cracked, a noise that was no doubt getting louder as the vehicle sped faster towards the two of you.   

Horacio took one final glance at you, moving his large palm away from the small of your back to rest on his pistol. The smile shared between the two of you was genuine, and you marveled at the way his eyes were lit up from the streetlights that cast a gentle orange glow on his face. 

300 feet. 

Because you won’t let go of my hand, you’re saving my life. 

The fluorescent headlights pierced through the thick veil of rain, casting a beam that lit up Horacio’s body. He winced at the harsh lighting, instinctively coiling his other arm tightly around your back. Though the vehicle was barely visible in the heavy rain, Horacio could hear the engines roar, evidently picking up its pace towards him. 

150 feet. 

It was going to be too late if he didn’t act now. 

Without warning, Horacio held you firmly against his chest, diving towards the empty pavement that ran parallel to the road. Bullets whizzed past the back of his head as he collapsed onto the sidewalk, buzzing louder than the tires that slid on the wet floor. The shots were imprecise, with one grazing Horacio’s left bicep as he draped over your cowered body. 

Fuck!

Your heart was beating faster with each second that passed, unable to assess the situation that was happening so quickly. One minute, you were in the arms of your lover, confessing your love to each other, and the next - fearing for your lives. 

Was this how he felt whenever he left for work?

Did he feel the iciness in his blood overwhelm him, each time he was closer to death?

You averted your gaze to your husband, watching his jaw clench as he turned to look at the source of the gunshots. With his large palms carefully resting on your back, you managed to slip your arms out from his embrace, resting your hands gently on his arms. 

Despite the rain, your clothes hadn’t been soaked just yet, with only the back of your dress sticking against your skin. You felt an odd dampness that painted your fingers red, searing your skin as you gazed upon the liquid that smeared across your fingers. This was the telltale sign that whatever fight the two of you have been caught between, was no normal one. 

Your voice wavered, words choking as you barely got his attention, “H-Horacio, you- you’re bleeding.” You turned your right hand to study the blood that was now mixed with the raindrops. The thick liquid dripped down your palms and onto your wrist, imprinting the color onto your skin. Your heart rate spiked, and you could feel your head spin with whatever was happening. 

This wasn’t like that night. 

The two of you were crouching beside a red car that was parked along the walkway, and as your mind raced at what was to happen, the sound of tires came to a screeching halt. The high pitched sound was almost deafening, causing Horacio to instinctively tuck your head under his chin. His large palm covered your ear fully, and you could feel the warmth radiate off his skin. 

Amidst the rain that was visibly lessening, there were unintelligible shouts that came from the vehicle. The source of it was unknown to you, but from the look on Horacio’s face, you could only tell it wasn’t from someone good. 

Horacio’s hands were still wrapped around your back, eyes shifting quickly to assess his surroundings. His breaths were starting to get labored, with beads of sweat trickling down his temple. With each exhale he had let out, there was a cloud of mist that formed, illuminated by the streetlights.  

The rain had finally stopped, and the heat that remained was starting to get uncomfortable with each passing moment. You tried to regulate your breathing, taking short, deep breaths as your mind blocked out the continuous threats from behind. 

“You can’t run nor hide Colonel! You will pay for what you’ve done to me, I will kill you.”

Horacio could hear you suck in another breath, trembling in his arms as he thought of ways out of a situation like this. He moved his hand away from your face to gently hold your hand, pulling your attention away from the chaos around you. 

“Hey,” Horacio whispered, eyes filled with determination as he gently kissed your palms, "Whatever you do, I want you to promise me -”

Crash

The car windows above you shattered as the glass poured all over the two of you. 

Both of you ducked to escape the impact, finding tiny glass pieces littered all over your hair and shoulders. It glistened as the lights shined on them, creating a beautiful reflection that was a mixture of emerald green and tangerine. 

To find beauty in chaos; how ironic, seeing that this may ultimately lead to your untimely deaths. 

“Whatever you do, don’t leave this position,” Horacio’s eyes were now wide with fear, gripping your forearms roughly before moving over to fish out his pistol. You quickly brushed the loose strands out of your face and nodded, palms getting sweaty from the fear that engulfed you. Horacio leaned his back firmly against the wheel of the car, occasionally peeking out to check where the vehicle was parked. Each time his head turned to get a view of the truck, there was a shot fired soon after, accompanied by a peal of maniacal laughter that seemed to get louder with each gunshot. 

“Come out Colonel! I don’t want to hurt that pretty wife of yours, it’d be a shame if someone as weak as her were to be left defenseless.”

Horacio could feel his blood boil, fingers trembling as he loaded the ammunition into his pistol. His cheeks were now rosy, contrasting against his paling, sweaty skin as his anger heightened. The voice, low and croaky, was distinctively the man that Horacio had thrown in jail just a few months prior. As he took one last glance over his shoulder, he reminded himself that this fight was between the drug lord and him alone. 

His heart ached, and Horacio was once again reminded of the reasons he had turned away from your love the night you had confessed. 

Danger. Death. Blood. Fear. 

These were the things that inevitably followed behind him, like an inconceivable mass that floated around his being - sucking out the energy and joy from him. He didn’t want this for you, to shoulder his burden with him. He was a liability, he thought, that would create more pain than happiness. 

But that was never the case. 

Your presence in his life alone was like a beacon of hope, and he knew now that you were always his saving grace. How was it that one simple continuous act of kindness had saved him from himself? It dawned on him that on the very night he had come home from the raid, your stubbornness to treat and care for him was the first hit to the walls he had built over the years. 

Butterfly effect. 

Just as he was about to peek over the hood of the car, you forcefully yanked him back, feeling your heart hammer in your chest as you watched your husband eye you with surprise. “What are you doing?” Your panicked whisper had earned yet another gunshot through the window, missing you by a foot. You quickly let go of Horacio’s arm, covering your hands over your mouth to mask the surprised squeak that came after the loud blast. 

“Y/N, listen to me - please, I don’t want you getting hurt. I'll drive him away from this car, and I want you to run as far as you can, away from this place.”

“Where the fuck,” 

The car that was parked behind the one you sought refuge beside had its windscreen shot out and shattered. The impact alone had caused an explosion of glass pieces, some of which tore through your skin as it flew out. 

“- are you, Colonel? Didn’t take you for a coward that would hide in the face of danger!”

“Horacio, I won’t leave y-” The look on your face - the fear mixed with anxiety mirrored the feelings that were starting to manifest within him, but in a time like this, Horacio had to remind himself to be the stronger person for the both of you. Your fingers were once again wrapped around his forearm, fingertips becoming icy as the fear settled in you. 

You could lose him. 

“Please,” Horacio’s eyes were glassy, begging you to comply with his request as he made a plan to distract the drug lord behind him. “Please, my love.” 

“Just this once, I promise.”

You stared at the man you loved so dearly, feeling your heart break as you noticed a waiver in his voice. His Adam's apple bobbed as his eyes jumped around the features of your face. The man that you’ve always known to be fierce and courageous now kneeled beside you, begging for you to leave as he faced death once more. 

He could die today. 

And this would be the last time he’d see you. 

“Y/-”

His words were cut short by the kiss that practically took his breath away. You gently pressed your lips against his, feeling the plushness mold onto you. He tasted like mint, a candy you noticed he’d pop into his mouth whenever he was stressed or nervous. You cupped his warm face, brushing away the hairs that stuck against his forehead. 

Sweet. And far too short. 

Just like your time together. 

The tears in your eyes rolled down your cheek while your lips trembled as you pulled away from your husband. Your vision was clouded, with more tears dripping each time you blinked. You dropped your line of sight to look at Horacio’s large hands wrapping around your smaller ones, gently rubbing circles around your knuckles. With a soft chuckle, he moved closer to kiss your damp cheek, planting a soft peck before whispering in a hushed tone. 

“I love you.”

As soon as those words rolled out of his mouth, Horacio turned his back towards you, cocking his gun to point at the man before him. He had fired the first shot, which you could only assume was unsuccessful from the way he cursed under his breath. There was a series of bullets that came shortly after, firing through the empty car beside you. 

A faint smell of smoke was starting to fill the air, fueling the tension that was building up. Horacio tilts his head towards the end of the road, silently gesturing for you to run in that direction. The engines of the truck had started up again, with the loud vibrations from under the hood killing the silence. 

You took this opportunity to make a run for it, racing down the pavement as fast as you can. The streetlights were few and far in between, allowing you to hide in the dark and away from plain sight. The wind had caused the pooling beads of sweat to drip faster down your face, causing a slightly ticklish sensation while you ran away from the parked truck. 

“Wh-” 

The windscreen of the car beside you had shattered, naturally making you dodge as the loud shot echoed through the night. Your heart leaped out of your chest, catching itself in your throat as you fell against the wet cement sidewalk. The festival across the street was now deserted, for all the locals had fled the scene as soon as the first shot went off. The place was a complete ghost town, plagued by a sense of dread and eeriness and it was only heightened by the death that awaited you. 

Soft, up-beat instrumental music was playing on the speakers across the festival grounds, easing your nerves by a tinge as you scoured for a place to hide behind. A second gunshot was heard, accompanied by a piercing scream that rang in your ears. 

Horacio?

The screeching of tires came next, dragging across the wet roads to gain traction. There was no telling which direction the vehicle was moving, which led to you to hide behind the back of another car. Bullets were fired again, with the loud bang penetrating through the humidity. The truck had lost control of its back wheels, crashing straight into the wall next to the festival grounds. 

Smoke emitted from the hood of the truck, dancing with the wind that was a stark contrast to the scorching weather. There was a certain tension amidst the air, so thick that Horacio almost felt like it was suffocating him. The wound from his arm was bleeding out, soaking his uniform in a shade of dark red. The impact of the shot to his arm had led him to tumble backward, twisting his ankle in a manner that was less than pleasant. 

The sickening smell of death had lingered in the air, making him wonder if it was his that it was foreshadowing. With great grit and determination, Horacio hobbled across the road and towards the wrecked vehicle. With each step he took, there was a faint crunching sound that came with the pressure of his boots against the wet granite. 

Sweat trickled down his forehead, diluting the blood that painted the side of his face. He took a glance at you, studying the way you were crouched beside a car further down the street. Your breathing was regulated, as far as he could tell, and that gave him some peace of mind, knowing that you were okay. With trembling arms, he could vaguely see you hoist yourself up from the ground, staring straight back at him. 

The night had become eerily silent, save for the truck’s engine that gently hummed in a rhythmic beat. Horacio looked back at you, noticing the way your hair was in complete disarray. Your eyes were wide with fear, which barely subsided once you noticed the state of the truck after the accident. Horacio was a good 150 feet away from you, holding up his left palm as a gesture to stay back. You were now trembling from the cold rather than fear, watching the way your husband hobbled across the street towards the partially wrecked vehicle. 

You slowly crawled around the empty car next to you, kneeling just behind the boot to get a glimpse of what was to happen. Your dress was now completely ruined, with several holes and tears that littered along the hem and sleeves. You messily pushed the stray strands out of your face, leaning slightly to the side of the headlights to peek at the accident that had just happened. 

The back of the car was cold, further freezing up your fingertips as you positioned yourself properly so that only half your face was visible from the backlights of the car. With each step Horacio took, the next one came as a limp. It was clear that his right foot was injured, and you only prayed that it wouldn’t cost him his life at this moment. In his right hand was his pistol, cocked and ready to fire as he carefully stalked towards the vehicle. The truck was in your line of sight, giving you the ability to study the driver’s seat as Horacio continued moving towards it. There were faint movements that came from the dull figure, but as your husband crept next to the front door, you could slowly make out that the man was reaching out for something. 

Horacio propped himself up as he stepped on the mini step outside the door, peeking into the vehicle through the wind-down windows. Gacha, from a motionless state, had sprung alive - pointing a gun directly into Horacio’s face. Without a second to spare, he punched the drug lord’s wrists in an attempt to weaken the hold on the pistol. The action alone had caused the criminal to pull the trigger, firing a bullet mere inches away from Horacio’s face. 

The sound that emitted from the now piping hot weapon had momentarily caused Horacio to lose his hearing in his left ear. There was a constant and sharp ringing that stung, causing him to wince and throw his head back. This moment of vulnerability had allowed Gacha to butt the back of his weapon against Horacio’s right cheek. 

The flurry of emotions that evoked as soon as the pistol broke his skin had fuelled his wrath against the drug lord. The cut across his nasal bridge was long and deep, which had only come about after a soft crackling sound. Horacio’s nose started to bleed, painting his upper lip with red that saw no end. The anger that brewed from the pain had caused Horacio to retaliate - punching the other man right in the face. 

The blow was a hard one, filled with all the might that Horacio could muster from his injured right hand. It had momentarily knocked Gacha out, which was the window that allowed Horacio to drag him out of the vehicle and throw him onto the cold hard ground. The other man had fallen face first, with his face grazing the uneven road harshly. 

You have never seen your husband in such a state before - with eyes that fired up with anger, along with a stance that you knew meant danger. You were still crouched behind the car across the deserted street, shivering as you watched the situation before you unfold. The drug lord’s back was turned towards you, slowly backing away as Horacio stalked towards him. The streetlight shined perfectly onto your husband’s face, illuminating the wounds littered across his cheeks and nose. 

The atmosphere was one that you weren’t familiar with - thick and heavy with tension, along with the faint smell of gasoline that hung above you. You carefully shifted your weight onto your other foot, popping your head out from behind the tail lights to get a better view. With a gun in one hand, and blood soaking the other, Horacio looked more like death himself. The sight was utterly terrifying, and as you studied the way he circled the criminal with his weapon drawn, you couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that came. 

This wasn’t the man you knew. 

This wasn’t the man you fell in love with. 

You think back to the night he had come stumbling home, covered in bruises and cuts. The raid that he had conducted was successful, but as you watched him grit his teeth towards the drug lord, you wondered how much blood had stained his hands that night. His shoulders were squared, standing upright while positioning the gun at the other man’s chest. You always knew that his work would demand him to do such heinous activities, but never once did it occur to you that you’d live to see it happening before your eyes. 

The very same hands that held you as you cried to sleep were now seconds away from taking a life. Sure, the man who was sprawled before him was a despicable one without a doubt, but the fact that he could comfort you as easily as he killed was something you couldn’t shake off. You opted to remain silent, realizing it was best to blend into the night as your husband fulfilled his vow to keep the city safe from these criminals. 

To fulfill the oath he had taken when he donned the uniform that symbolized the protection of this country. 

With slow, deliberate breaths, you managed to regulate your heartbeat, feeling it return to normal as opposed to the thunderous hammering against your chest. The night was starting to become warmer, with the stars sparkling to create a magnificent view. There was an exchange of muffled words, ones that had you straining yourself to get a better hearing. You could tell that Gacha’s breathing was starting to become unstable, coughing up blood every so often. 

Horacio’s voice was stern and hushed, warning the man in front of him before moving his index finger onto the trigger. There was a hearty chuckle that came soon after, broken and loud as the drug lord internalized Horacio’s threats. 

“This isn’t the end Colonel Carrillo, like they always say - death is only the beginning.”

The man, with his palms laid flat against the ground behind him, had quickly reached out to something kept firmly against the back of his pants. Everything happened too quickly, and the sound of a bullet being fired had involuntarily made you duck. You had barely caught sight of what had happened, as it moved within a split second. 

There was a shuffle of uneven footsteps, with no particular rhythm as the scraping of the shoes’ sole dragged against the pavement. As you slowly removed your cupped hands away from your ears, you glanced up to see Horacio standing as still as a statue. His eyes darted across the ground, blinking slowly - almost as if he was registering what had happened. His face was starting to lose its color, which was increasingly visible as the warm orange streetlight cast its glow onto him. 

The weapon in his right hand had dropped, clanking against the ground as his eyes widened in horror. His knees were bent by a fraction, no longer carrying that confident stance he had just moments prior. With unsteady hands, his arm had moved up towards his stomach, mouth gaping as he firmly held his palms against his body. 

He stumbled back again, locking eyes with the drug lord as his breathing became labored. The next thing you noticed was the chortle that came from the man that laid across him, holding a smoking gun directed at your husband gleefully.

“You’re regretting this, aren’t you?” The pistol was directed towards your husband’s chest. The two men were standing a few feet apart, with Horacio’s face filled with defeat. You could barely hold in your whimpers, studying the way your husband’s body was slowly collapsing against the cold ground. Your heart was thumping in your chest, with blood turning ice-cold as you continued watching the scene unfold before you. 

You could run in to help him, to tackle the drug lord while his back was still faced towards you. But what good would that do? You were defenseless and weak, with nothing to fend yourself against a vengeful criminal. The weather was starting to get warmer, leaving no traces of the rain that poured an hour before. Your vision was slowly getting blurry from the tears that welled in your eyes. 

It felt like there was barbed wire wrapped around your throat, hindering your ability to breathe. Everything felt like it was suffocating you, with each breath you took hurting. 

Was this it?

To watch your husband die minutes after he confessed his love?

It was twisted - cruel, sickening, and twisted. Your whole body trembled as you muffled the sobs that choked out. With eyes burning and bloodshot, you strained to look at your lover - for it may be the last time you could do so. 

“Not even the slightest.”

Horacio’s broken words rang in your ears, forcing you to look up at him through your blurred vision. He was looking right back at you, forming the barest smile on his face as he continued clutching his torso. His eyes were locked with yours, filled with utmost adoration even as he stared death in the face. 

“H-Horacio,” your voice cracked, choking as your throat felt tighter. “Please.” 

Bang. 

You watched as your husband flew back from the impact, body crashing against the wet ground as the shot fired straight into his chest. His back scraped against the uneven road, creating a crackling sound that seemed to echo in your ears. You could hear his gasps for air, chest heaving from the force of the shot. 

Still. 

Like a single piano note that echoed in an empty room. 

What this night had turned out to be, wasn’t what anyone had imagined. As you crouched behind a car, you watched as your husband lived his last few minutes before death. Your fingers dug into the bumper, scratching against the metal until the paint came off. 

You couldn’t bear to watch, not when the final gunshot would no doubt be through Horacio’s body. “I love you,” you turned your head away, staring at the wet granite. You clutched the bumper tighter, bracing the loud gunshot that would pierce through the night. 

“What are you looking a-” 

Crack. 

There it was. 

A loud pierce that destroyed the silence of the night. 

The heavy sound of a body falling slammed against the ground. Your head instinctively curled into your arm, coiling into a ball and you sobbed against your sleeves. Your whole body trembled, heart breaking into pieces that tore you apart. 

This was it, he was gone. 

You haphazardly wiped your nose and eyes, getting rid of the tears that stained your cheeks. You were still in the way of danger, with Gacha on the loose. With no one left to fend you with, your only hope was yourself - and you had to think fast. Without looking at the area where your husband once was, you quickly grabbed your purse, struggling to stand up and move. 

You softly cursed yourself for wearing heels, realizing it wasn’t the best footwear to run in, especially when you were escaping a notorious drug lord. The clasp of the heels had come off rather easily, and you tossed them under the car before moving to crawl away from the line of sight. 

As your knees met the hard road, you could feel your skin pierce with pain - feeling the coolness of the ground draw blood from your skin. You had let out a soft gasp, trembling as the thick red liquid coursed down your leg. The gentle breeze did nothing but alleviate the stress you felt, causing goosebumps in its wake. 

You had almost reached the side of the car until you heard a soft gasp for your name. Grief-stricken, you shrugged it off as a figment of your imagination - not wanting to delude yourself into things that may slow down your escape. You continued crawling down the street, parallel to the accident that had just taken place. 

Your breathing was a mess, with a mixture of short and deep breaths that were knocking more wind out of your lungs. You heard it again - the hushed cries for you, laced with worry and sadness. 

It sounded like Horacio. 

You quickly wiped the snot that dripped down your nose, turning to cast a wary look at the truck. You were directly across that road, giving you the ability to see the whole scene between the gap of two cars’ bumper. 

Your heart plummeted as you caught sight of Horacio’s outstretched hand, reaching out to you as he called your name once again. His voice was now broken and lost, trembling as your name rolled off his tongue. 

Across him was the now still drug lord, sprawled across the ground in a pool of blood. The sight itself was horrifying, choking a loud gasp as you internalized what had happened. 

Horacio was still alive. 

His drooping eyes were fixated on you, watching you from the distance as he continued moaning out your name into the night. The gears in your head were shifting, unable to comprehend the scene before you. 

The bullet didn’t kill Horacio.

The bullet came from him.

His chest rumbled as he coughed out blood, shoulders trembling from the force. He was laying on the hard ground, barely propping himself up with the arm that was injured. 

“Y/—“ 

You didn’t have time to think, only knowing that your feet had carried you to him. Your mind was a mess, with none of your thoughts comprehensible enough to understand. Your hands hadn’t stopped shaking, dripping with blood that you weren’t sure belonged to you. Horacio’s breathing was labored and slow, heaving every so often. His temples were painted red, with his blood dripping along his hairline as he smiled weakly at you. 

You leaned in close to him, gently clutching his shoulder as you continued sobbing into his chest. His warm hand rested against your head, gently running his fingers along the side of your face. The same hands that pulled the trigger, were now comforting you as you anticipated what was to come. 

The irony. 

Horacio was a strong man, and as you saw the series of events that had unfolded earlier, you wondered if the weight on his shoulders was more than he had led you to believe. Did it plague his mind, of the blood that stained his fingers, of the men he had killed? 

Was he ever afraid that he might never make it out of this job alive?

You thought back to the night you cried into his arms, similar to how it was now. With unsteady hands, you fished out your phone from your purse, unable to dial the right numbers as tears fell against the device. 

“It- It’s going to be,” you glanced up at Horacio, watching blood drip down the corner of his lips, “-okay.”

You dialed the number for the ambulance, sobbing unintelligibly into the phone. Horacio’s eyes were starting to droop, unable to maintain eye contact with you as you provided the details to where you were. As soon as the other end hung up, you dropped your phone and cupped his face, smiling hesitantly as your thumb brushed off the thick red liquid that oozed from the cuts on his face. 

Horacio reached out to your hand, bringing it closer to his cold lips before planting a gentle kiss. The tears on your face had now flowed freely, and you hiccupped your pleads as he continued kissing your knuckles. 

“H-Horacio please, you can’t die. Please, not now- not right now.” 

Your cries were masked with broken sobs and choked tears, running your hands along his dry canvas uniform. You subconsciously stopped at the bullet hole, circling the tear in the uniform with your index finger. Your vision was once again blurry, mind muddled with thoughts on how you’d lose him any second. 

The blood on your fingers tints the military green shirt, soaking the relatively clean clothing. 

“W-wait,” your voice breaks, and you quickly wipe the tears from your eyes. 

“You-you’re, you’re not bleeding.” 

Horacio lets out a soft chuckle that quickly turns into a pained groan. With his dirty, wounded hands, he slowly unbuttoned his top, gently pulling apart at the buttons to expose the bulletproof vest that was donned on him. 

“You--” Your mind spun, unable to register what was happening. 

What the fuck?

“You fucking idiot!” Your cries were now louder, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

You gently pushed his arm away from you, still recovering from everything that happened throughout the night. You ran your hand over his uniform again, smiling with glee as you realized that he was going to make it. 

The night was cool now, carrying a comforting breeze that dried your tears. The air no longer carried the smell of gasoline, but with the faint smell of damp grass. Crickets from nearby trees chirped, returning back the sanctuary of the night. There was no longer the imminent threat that lurked around you, giving you back that peace of mind. 

You glanced back at Horacio, watching him look back at you with love and adoration. His grip on your hands tightened, rubbing comforting circles on the back of your palm as support. How the two of you had made it out of this alive, you couldn’t fathom. 

But despite everything, it only proved that your love was stronger than any force that reckoned with it. As Horacio brought your palm up to his lips again, he thought back to how you were always his beacon of hope. His person that he wanted to come back to. 

“I promised you that I’ll come back to you, didn’t I?”

His eyes were once again glassy, and he kissed your thumb as you brushed across it. The love between the two of you, though barely spoken about, was immeasurable. Another tear spilled down your cheek, and you silently thanked the heavens that your lover managed to make it out alive. 

What was to happen next was unknown to both of you, but you knew that together, you’d be able to overcome anything. You slowly nodded, voice breaking again as you agreed with him. 

“Yes,” you smiled, “ you did.”

[whumpbby]

P1 Saw your Wolves of Gotham and raise you Treasured Omega of Crime Alley, everyone including low ranked criminals love and protect the sole omega who lost everything but continues to give his all for everyone else, sharing food he's stolen or dubiously obtained, giving extra cash to the criminals who are just working with what the got and trying to feed their own families. The Omega is the first to step into confrontations if it means saving the pups and younglings of the alley. All adore him.

P2 The Omega who will offer clothes for alphas whose rut is painful without the scent of an omega to ease it. Who with sit with the sick that are dying in the street, just so they know they’re not alone. People want to claim him, the police want to bring him in for questioning as he’s often seen on the arms of suspicious persons, Batfam wants the Omega to have a home and pack but. Crime Alley will not let them take away the brightest soul of their hell hole and they will fight to protect Jason. 

***************************

This is, Jay didn’t start out strongly, he started out as a terrified child that was suddenly motherless, with the landlord knocking on the doors and debt collectors closing in. He was taken in by the social services at first - but social services, when it came to omegas, were gunning for getting him an alpha asap to get him out of the system - the orphanages in the bad parts of the city were called omega mills for a reason, the foster families that got kids form them weren’t there to help poor kids… Jason escaped as soon as a foster parent tried to scruff him for the first time. Fuck that.

But that landed him on the streets, with no support and no idea how to survive. He made do. He stole and lied and pretended to be an alpha when necessary, because that was what worked - omegas on the streets didn’t live long. So, he crushed all of his budding soft instincts and carried on. 

And then, when he was fourteen, he saw a group of punks picking on a homeless kid, and stepped in - and that was the end. He was beaten to death and there was no Robin with a finny quip, there was no Batman to stop it from happening, there was only freezing pavement underneath and trash heaping all around, and the darkness slowly closing in… 

He comes back, though. He wakes up with a gasp, cold and pained, and he’s breathing again, he drags himself to his hideout and… It’s been two days an no one found his body - not surprising in Gotham. He doesn’t know hat to make of it. He could swear that he died… he knows what survivable pain feels like and this was way above it…

And there’s this thing inside of him now, this burning feeling warming him… this anger… this rage, unbidden, raising with every moment of remembering how he got there, with every memory of his crap life and this crap city ad he’s so angry!

He’s so done. Gotham killed him, so he has no more qualms about letting it get away with anything. 

He finds the punks that killed him - a pack of young bucks, alphas and betas that want to be alphas, juvie material that hunted poorest corners for omegas to use. And they seem - fine. They seem normal, acting like nothing, like they didn’t just beat a kid to death a few days ago in a dingy alleyway… If he saw regret in them, he might have reconsidered, the good parts of him might have stopped, but there is no regret. 

He gets his revenge - he’s not stronger than them, but if he catches them one on one, his rage wins. The old gas-pipe is the only thing he could find to use as a weapon and it turns out to be a fairly effective, so he keeps it. Killing doesn’t make him feel good, quite on the contrary, but it makes that burning inside of him settle somewhat, the knowledge that no one else will be hurt by these lowlifes gives him peace for a time. 

But it doesn’t last long before he’s faced with another atrocity - a kid omega, barely older than seven, and two adult alphas carrying it away, firmly scruffed, towards a nearby car.And maybe back in the day Jason would have turned his face away, knowing that he won;t be able to stop two adults, that he is too weak - but not now. He knows that he isn’t weak enough to let it happen, that burning inside roars into flames, he picks up his pipe and starts running. The first alpha doesn’t have a chance to turn around before Jason boosts himself on the fallen trashcan and the pipe swings, hits the man in the side of the head, the bent part on the end crushing his temple. He drops down like a wet rag. The other alpha shouts, turns, he drops the kid and his hand goes to his pocket to reach for a knife, but Jay is already standing on the top of the car swings. Headshot. Blood sprays into the air - he knows that head wounds bleed like hell, he knows… 

The baby (he’s just a baby, he’s so small, so thin, so bruised and smells of blood and terror) comes back to himself and, seeing the situation - the boy doesn’t run, doesn’t wail, he scrambles for the dropped knife and plunges it into the fallen alpha’s abdomen. And then again. And again. Whining and crying, frantic, he does what every omega in his place would do (that he presented this young makes disgust curl in Jay’s belly).

But the street is not safe, he knows that, soon enough someone will smell blood. He jumps down from the car and wrestles the knife from the kid’s hands, coaxes him to b quiet and get up, the little shaky legs barely hold him up. They need to run. Blood is blooming around, the two alphas will never be a danger to them, but the cops that arrive soon will. They need to go, they need to hide. 

Jay leads them into the tangle of streets, into the heart of abandonment, instincts pushing at him to go lower, to the ground, lower, out of the freezing air, dig, bunker down, nest where they won;t be able to find them. 

They end up going down - into the ruins of Old Gotham, a spiderweb of corridors and passages half crumbled and dark, but dry, safe from prying eyes, safe from the cops. They hunker down and nest, just the two of them. Jason patches the kid up as best as he can, washes him down with what little water he had, gives him his threadbare clothes that are dirty, but at least don’t smell like alpha spunk. 

He has no idea what to do now - the fired has died down, the power it gave him is dropping, he feels sick and scared, he’s just a kid, the kid is just a baby, they both have blood on their hands now, no one will take them in… they can’t hide in the tunnels forever, can they?

Can they?

*

Two days later Jason emerges from the tunnels into a snowy landscape of Gotham proper. His gas-pipe on the back, half hidden by his ratty backpack. He goes back to the streets he knows and put his ear to the ground, and there are whispers about two alphas snuffed out like nothing, left a bloody mess on the frozen pavement. Fingers point to Batman, but Batman doesn’t kill, does he? There’s no other vigilante in Gotham who would… and the alphas were traffickers, no great loss, is it? Cops wouldn’t touch them, and they were too small of fries for Batman, so really, it’s almost community service at this point. 

Sometime settles in Jay’s belly that day, the burning and the rage, the knowledge that if he didn’t do anything, the baby would be dead - that no one else was going to do anything to protect the kids on the streets… if he doesn’t do it, no one will. Who were they going to rely on, Robin? The little useless alpha running behind the Bat and throwing jokes as if it wasn’t serious, as if the lives the overlooked weren’t important, as if the victims were nothing!

If he doesn’t do anything, they will keep dying, being trafficked, being hurt… 

He has o do something.

*

Two years later, Batman is at the end of his rope. He can’t be more than sixteen, that kid, can he? He’s tall for his age, but malnutrition made his body awkward, all of it is lean muscle, poised and tense to strike at any moment, all of the energy stored for fighting, for running, for the gas-pipe seemingly welded to his hand. All of it poised to strike without warning at the barest provocation. 

It’s heartbreaking, to see what the city did to that child, what Gotham turned him into. For an omega to be - this. This coiled snake, this wild dog hungry for flesh of whoever crossed him - it’s unsettling, it’s wrong. His scent makes Batman’s stomach curl, harsh and heavy, and unfriendly. The kid makes no attempt at hiding it, it hangs heavy over the Old Gotham, a widening circle of LEAVE, GET OUT OR DIE. A scent of a monstrous omega underlined with a chorus of others, not as acute, but just as determined, just as dangerous - a hidden city of omegas circling like ants around their queen, a nest of hornets ready to swarm any perceived threat until it stops moving. 

He tried to crack it, he tried to - he tried to help them. Early on and even now, he will never stop trying to help them - but they made it clear that they don’t want his help. That Batman isn’t their savior. 

(“A sign of hope, my fuckin’ ass!” The girl couldn’t be more than fourteen and Bruce’s ears burn from hearing her casually swearing. She was scruffy and thin, smelled to be close to her cycle, she should be in a cosy family nest with her mother, not on the street with a bat in her hands, sneering at Robin with open contempt over a moaning man that used to be a prominent john at her feet and a group of more kids behind her back… “You appear and we do headcount, means enough people were murdered for the freaks to come out!“ 

It hurts to understand her point of view, but it’s not less true only because he wishes it wasn’t. 

They tried to take her in, take them all in, help them, put them somewhere where they could be taken care of… and learned the hard way that usual ways of dealing with omegas won’t work - Dick tried to come close, hoping that his own youth will be enough, that his calming alpha scent will be enough, that his friendly and open attitude will break the ice - he returned home with a broken wrist and a bruise on his face, taunts and sneers ringing in both of their ears.)

He tried many times since then, they both tried to crack the wall surrounding Old Gotham, but with no success. Every time they managed to get one child out, it wasn’t a week before it was taken back - until social services stopped accepting them, the damage caused by the rescuers too acute to be worth it. Ma Gunn’s school burning down was a loud and clear message. 

(He saw the boy for the first time then, framed by a wall of flames, and somehow still the brightest part of that image were his eyes - green and haunting. The wind and fire howled to the sky and the boy had to be waiting for them to show up, it was no coincidence. 

“Why?” Batman asked. It was an escalation of violence he didn’t expect, he didn’t think they’d move outside of the Old City…

“You ever check up on the kids you put here?” the boy asked, voice rougher than expected. “Or are you a part pimping them out, rich boy?”

The last stopped him for a second, fear griping him for a moment that he was found out, that… and the boy disappeared, washed out into the night like he was never there.)  

No, he never followed up on the orphans he left with the Ma, did he? He should, but he trusted the old omega. Later, he learned that he shouldn’t. That the kids that disappeared out of her ‘school’ were traded out. The guilt settled hard on his shoulders, one more error made in good stupidly faith that innocents paid for. One more reason for the children to resist his attempts at help - after that, how could they trust his help? 

Gotham learns quickly that the Old City is out of bounds for the criminal element - there were attempts to control it, of course, different mobs trying their hands at wrestling the power for themselves, gangs determined enough to ignore the blood-curling scent of danger hanging over the place. There was a time when bodies hung from the lamp-posts in the warehouse district, a message more than clear. 

Gordon stops sending out people to the Old City - too costly, no one wants to go, there’s no point. “May as well try to catch wind.” But Bruce feels that in truth, the Commissioner may be silently agreeing with the idea…

(“As long as no one interferes, they’re self-contained,” he says. “These kids are safer there then anywhere else, right now.”

“It won’t last,” Batman says. “These things never do. It will end badly.” And he can’t allow that.

“Well, then, better make sure no kids end up on the streets, right? They didn’t come form nothing, kid, there is a reason the Old City exists.”  Gordon’s eyes are pained and harsh as they look at him, straight into Bruce’s ones, as if the mas wasn’t there at all. “This isn’t an issue you solve by stuffing them back into a broken system that is the reason they’re there in the first place.”)

Leslie was even harder, her eyes pitiless as she stared Batman down one night in her office, after she came back form a house-visit, the harsh scent of the Old City still clinic to her clothes.  

(“They need help, Leslie.”

“They needed that help years ago, and that’s when we failed them.” Her voice is harsh, but hushed, her hands tremble as she unpacks her bag. There’s not much left in it. “Not every kid gets a manor and a butler to help them get through a tragedy, some get a flea-bitten mattress and a pimp that maybe won’t beat them too much!”

Se rears back, the words hitting him like a fist, the lack of remorse on her face startling, the child inside of him flinching at the remembered pain. How dare she.

“How dare you try and barge your way in there to ‘save them’!” She rounds on him, five feet five and harder than stone. “How dare you when it’s that ‘saving’ that got them there! They don’t need Batman, Bruce, they need an alpha that gives a damn about more than his own morals. An alpha to show them that the world outside won’t try to tear them to pieces!”

“I tried!” It was a weak defense to his own ears, but he had nothing else.

“Yes, you tried, and I had to preform six abortions on kids younger than Dick!”)

That silenced him. The reason for her anger, for her unflinching disregard for his own pain. He stepped back, left, mind grinding overtime to come up with a solution, with a way to fix this - because that’s what he always did, he fixed things. hat’s what he always wanted to do - to save people, to… to use his means to help others. So no more kids would be standing on a bloodied pavement, staring blankly into the night.

“We have to leave them alone.” These words form Dick were the least he expected. His partner, his Robin, wings clipped by the realization that there were people beyond his reach. “We have to stop trying to catch him. If we take him away, the place will crumble, the gangs will move in and the children will become easy pickings for any two-penny thug before we can even round them up. We can’t… I can’t let that happen. I can’t be a part of that, Bruce.” His son, bright eyes shaded with regret. “No matter how many people we can punch in the face, this isn’t what they need. We aren’t what they need.”

“I can’t let it go, Dick.” He was so tired. “They barely scrape by, I can’t…” A city of children - omega children - living off scraps, held together by a boy younger than his son, every winter grips his heart with terror for their lives.

“Then-then let’s help them. Let’s help them like that, make sure they have food and clothes, that someone out there cares enough…”

*

That’s how he comes to the moment.

Standing on the border of the Old City opposite the young wolf guarding its gates, a filthy street between them, dozens of eyes pinning him in place from windows and doors of the crumbling buildings.  He can’t see them, but he knows they’re there, a small army ready to tear him apart if he as much as breathes wrong at their pack leader. He never knew that ninjas would be easier to fight than enraged omegas barely taller than his waist.

“What do you want?” the boy’s voice carries well, he sounds like an alpha.

He grew since Bruce last saw him, a couple inches, maybe he’s even Dick’s height now. His face is sharp and jaw square, the only pretence of an omega being the barely noticeable width of the hips. The coiled strength is still there, but the violent light in his eyes is subdued, they’re filled with cold calculation instead. Nothing about him tells Bruce he considers Batman to be a threat – but everything speaks of wariness and willingness to do what needs to be done.

He’s an omega, but Bruce has never stood opposite a pack leader as evenly matched in will to him as that. Ra’s al Ghul was close, but he had an advantage of age and experience, while this was…

There were rumours The Omega couldn’t die thrown around. That The Omega got up every time. Rival gang threw him into the harbour. Three days later they were all gone and he was back. He was shot by a hitman hired by the Black Mask. Three days later the hitman was found dead and 3 of Roman’s warehouses were set aflame. Bullets and beatings, men and women trying to get a hit. Five years of violence and he was still standing, and they were not. Three days. Always three days.

Bruce doesn’t know if it’s truth or fabrication, but there is something to it, must be, because the last time he saw him, the boy’s eyes weren’t this bright.

“What do you want, rich boy?” The Omega repeats and this time Bruce can feel his voice in the soles of his feet.

A meta? Mystical? Something else? How has he never noticed before?

The tension in the air rises, the anticipation from the unseen observers grows.

God, if Ra’s ever hears about this, he will take the boy – rumour about immortality will be enough for him to chase. The League will ransack this place, leaving nothing behind.  

“For the last time, what do you want?”

Bruce has only one card to play here and it’s not as strong as he’d like it to be. One chance to get a foot in and hope they’ll accept his help. To show them that the world wasn’t going to tear them apart if they dare to trust it. It might be too late, but he has to hope it isn’t.

“What do you need?”

The questions barely stops the Omega from leaving. Angled away, distrust clear as day on his face and in the set of his body, he eyes the Batman with naked suspicion.

Bruce takes it as a chance it is. “What do you need? Food? Clothes? I can get you a steady supply of both.” Bargaining isn’t his forte, he grew so used to demanding.

A hiss sounds across the street, dozen small throats growling in warning. It’s humbling – he’s not a saviour here, he’s a potential threat and needs to step carefully.

“What for?” The Omega asks. “What do you want back, rich boy?”

Nothing -pushes at his lips, but he stops it. It will only ever be a lie to them, after so many alphas promised help and… He rethinks, recalibrates. Frankly, he didn’t expect to get that far.

“I want you to give Leslie health reports,” he says instead. “Monthly. Injuries, pregnancies, births. Deaths. She will keep it in confidentiality, as she did until now, I have no insight into them.” And he barely greed to that, but Leslie was unbent. “She will get the funds to help you more. Medication and vaccines, and pre-natal care…”

He wants to say more, he wants to tell them about the schooling he has planned, about possible stipends to get the kids out of the grip of poverty if they want to leave, of wanting to help this place become liveable and safe for them if they want to stay. But he’s aware this is already too much, that these are the most important things they lack (that an omega in charge of pups will instinctively respond to), that he has to move slow, that this all has a chance to blow up in his face.

The Omega is considering him now, aggression tuned down into barely distrust, but there’s a spark of interest there, a shade of the youth that should have been had the life not tried to squash it.

Bruce would give everything in that moment to know the boy’s name.

“That’s all?” It’s almost mocking, but not entirely.

“I want you to stop killing.” The next part is hard to voice, he has to force it, because Leslie was right, not everyone got a chance to cultivate unshaken morality after their life went up in flames. “Or don’t let them kill… if you have to.” He will work on it. He will try to help them overcome that, teach them how to keep their hands clean – hopefully, in time.

“And you will keep us safe from the lowlifes?” This time it’s a mockery. “We will shine a light in the sky and the Bat and his birdie will swoop down conveniently too late to save anyone, but the villain and the pretty, clean omega crying nicely for the reporters?”

He was right, this was too far, too much and too early. He has to backtrack. Fast.

“No, you have to defend yourself.” God, it’s hard to admit. “But the little ones…”

“Are always in danger.”

The Omega turns, fists clenched, steps off the sidewalk and crosses the street, and Bruce almost backs away, because the alleyway fills with growls and hisses, with danger, and he doesn’t want to set them off.

“We don’t go out to kill,” the Omega hisses, “they keep coming here to be killed. I made it clear, where the borders are, I made it simple.” He barely reaches Bruce’s chin, but it’s not important. “They come here armed, to murder children, to take them away to be sold, not one of them deserves to leave.”

The situation deteriorated, but at least now Bruce can scent him, can feel him up close, and underneath the tension and rage, there’s weariness and hunger, and underneath that there’s… something strange. Acrid and bitter, and alien, and hurt.

“How old were you?” He asks, maybe stupidly, but the alpha in him tears at the walls of restrain.

“When Gotham killed me for the first time?”  

He wasn’t asking about that, he thought… he hoped it was a metaphor, just rumours. The deadly shine in the green eyes told him otherwise.

“Fourteen. On the corner of Park Row. Went to bust some rims and got my head busted instead.”

Impossible. It was too much of a coincidence…

“I will think about your offer, Batman. Leslie will pass on the decision and I don’t want to see you here anymore.”

He turns away and leaves, washes out into the shadows and with him the presence of the pack watching Bruce try to gather himself back together.        

It was a small victory, but still one.  

[katsidhe]

Fic: games of skill; games of chance [14.17 coda]

Sam, and a head injury, and a car ride: one vessel considers another.

AO3

“You’re still looking green around the gills,” Dean tells him.

“I feel okay now,” says Sam. He is still nauseous, but it’s fading. Jack did a good job pasting his skull back together. Nick’s dead. Lucifer’s dead. Sam should be dead but, as usual, isn’t.

“We should have just ganked the guy,” Dean says. Dean is angry, of course he is. Sam doesn’t begrudge him. Sam is probably angry himself.

When Sam broke it to Dean, that Nick had survived and they’d been getting him back on his feet, Dean had told him that it wasn’t his responsibility. You don’t have to martyr yourself, Sam, he’d said, it doesn’t have to be you taking care of him, like Sam was making a sacrifice. But Sam hadn’t been. He really, really hadn’t been.

In fact, Sam’s pretty sure he was being fundamentally selfish.

Cas would have taken it on, if Sam had asked; Sam knows. Same with Mom. But Sam had been the one to bring Nick back, so Sam volunteered. He even told himself it was to spare the others. To spare Cas, who had spent months possessed; to spare Mom, who’d spent an uncertain amount of time in that other world one-on-one with Lucifer.

(When Sam had asked, vaguely, she’d been noncommittal with the details, said, oh, you know. Said, it wasn’t that bad, and hadn’t been long anyway. She’d smiled the way she often smiled, without her eyes, in a way which meant nothing at all.)

But he knows now it hadn’t been because of them, not really. Patching Nick up was—it felt good, like holding his breath and pressing on a bruise.

Dean deserves to enjoy an I-told-you-so, at this point.

***

The noise in his head is loud and long, strident, persistent, splitting him open. Sam tries to wedge himself upright on the wheel, lying across the horn: the noise is his lifeline.

Saving Nick’s life in that church was still the right thing to do, Sam knows that. He’d just about collapsed from the shock when Nick had tried to sit up, then crumbled back down, unconscious; but Nick so obviously wasn’t Lucifer. Not then, and not today either—not even when he’d been singing, goading Sam like a toddler, using familiar lines—there wasn’t ever really a moment that Sam got them mixed up. He’s sure it’s actually easier for him to see the difference than it was for Mary and Dean; even Cas, for some reason.

But everything that came after—the warning signs, of which there had assuredly been more than one; the mood swings, the harsh gestures and words. The obsession. Sam didn’t miss the signs. He was simply desperate not to see them. Desperate to believe that someone as indelibly ruined as Nick would manage to pull himself up out of that hole.

But he was wrong. He’d let himself think... it’s getting harder to think. He leans more heavily on the horn. The sound fractures his skull.

***

“So… what happened, how’d he get the drop on you?” Dean’s asking like he doesn’t actually want to poke at it, but he’s compelled to say something anyway.

Sam knows the feeling. The oppressive quiet is somehow too much like the drive up, with Nick in the backseat—even though Nick was anything but quiet; loud but benign, hallucination made solid. Intangible, until he wasn’t, until his human flesh crashed into Sam’s.

It was an odd slip in time, listening to that harmless off-key singing in the dead silence. It was funhouse-mirror strange to glance out of the corner of his eye and see that somehow Dean was grimacing at the off-color taunts—for a second, it was as if Dean could hear into Sam’s mind, or else that he’d taken up residence there too.

”I don’t know,” says Sam, several seconds too late. It’s not really a lie. It was stupid to think all that was behind him, and he’s not sure why he did it, why he assumed he could handle Nick in a fight.

Dean makes a noncommittal sound.

They drive in silence (actual silence, no sound in Sam’s head) for a few more minutes.

***

The car door rattles. Sam startles upright and falls off the horn; the noise in his head slackens.

“Dean,” says Sam. It’s Dean. Dean’s cursing, fumbling with the keys. Sam should help him. He fumbles for the handle, tries—

The door’s open. “Sam!”

“Nnngh,” he tries. He can’t make the words come out. “S’gone. He.”

“Sammy—you and your thick fucking head, come on, come on, big guy, you’re fine—”

“Lucifer,” Sam gasps. That one’s easier to get out.

“Not Lucifer,” says Dean, “Nick cold-cocked you good, but you’re fine, okay?”

“No,” says Sam, or he thinks he does. “Help.” Help, help, help. He’s being yanked out of the car, pulled out bodily. He struggles but not for long, the light cuts through his eyes, too sharp.

Dean’s pushed his arm under Sam’s, gripping Sam’s ribs. Sam blinks stupidly at the ground. He buckles forward and throws up, retching emptily onto the pavement.

***

“So, the blood I get, but where’d Nick get the grace? Is that something we need to be worried about now, secret fuckin’—horcruxes or whatever?”

Sam considers this briefly, with faint horror—thinks about vials of Lucifer stashed in his vaults like little phylacteries, contingency plans waiting for the wrong tripwire to spring. “I don’t think so,” he says. The possibility of his death hadn’t seemed to hit home for Lucifer even in the moment he was stabbed. “Nick must have extracted it himself.”

“Extracted?”

Sam suddenly remembers that Dean hadn’t been around when he and Cas had tried to get out Gadreel’s grace, for that spell. “Yeah. Remember Gadreel?”

Dean glances sharply at him, then looks away. “Right. Yeah, I remember now.”

The drive on in uncomfortable silence.

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “So. So, when Michael went through my psychic maintenance pipes—he left behind some grace, huh?”

“Probably,” Sam says. “That’s probably part of how he got back in.” He glances sideways at Dean, trying to gauge his expression. “I’m sorry,” he offers. It’s paltry next to the nausea of the realization, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to say anything else. Michael’s dead now. Lucifer, Nick, Gadreel—all dead now.

***

Dean says something. He’s shouting. There are hands in Sam’s hair, damp hot fabric pressing hard against his temple. The world does a dizzy loop and then he’s staring at the sky.

The air hurts, the gravel prickles on his skin like knives, he’s too stiff to move away. He’s going blind. Where did Lucifer go?

“The Empty,” says Dean. His face is blurry and worried, hovering.

“Lucifer, Lucifer’s, he’s gonna—”

Dean pinches him hard on the shoulder, Sam flinches away. “You seeing things? Hey. Stay with me, it’s just us. Okay. Donatello!”

Dean’s hands are a heavy, grounding weight. The world tilts on a nauseous axis.

***

“Wish I’d just let you kill him,” muses Dean, after another long minute.

“No, man, you were right,” says Sam. “I was out of line.” He’s looking out the window, at the dirty snow, broken through with patches of brown grass and scrub oak.

“You couldn’t have known,” insists Dean, apparently intent on easing Sam’s guilt.

Sam scoffs. Dean shouldn’t bother.

“Cmon,” Dean says, focusing in on his goal now, a dog with a bone, “you couldn’t have. How could you have guessed, huh? Everyone else on the planet, it takes two seconds of Lucifer’s smart mouth before they wanna shoot him in the face just so he shuts up. Who’d have guessed Nick’d be the one dick in existence to actually like the guy?”

Sam gives him a sharp glance. Shrugs. “He’s not the only one who does.”

“…What?” Dean stares at him.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Most of Hell? Plus a fair chunk of Heaven, plus who knows how many sects of human followers.”

“Oh.”

Dean’s still looking at him like he expected something else. It coils uneasy in Sam’s stomach.

“I really should have—figured, though,” says Sam, finally.

It’s a too-long, too-quiet drive, without anyone in the backseat.

***

It’s a slow-moving nightmare, this disconnect between his head and his mouth. The only thing preserved is the urgency, awful and bloody. But he can’t marshal it, can’t connect it, can’t remember how—he blinks dumbly at Dean, at the icy sky. “Nick’s getting him back, blood, grace, s’a ritual.”

Dean freezes. His hands go still. “Fuck. Shit, dammit—now? Where’d he go?”

“Dunno. He’s got—his grace—Jack’s blood—” The panic has him fighting, batting weakly against Dean’s tight grip. He can’t think through it, a molasses-thick dream where all he can do is writhe and struggle against the syrupy weight pinning him down, try vainly to push away the slimy stifling horror in time.

“Sam—focus, okay. Shit. Okay. We can handle—we’re on top of this—I’ll call—”

Dean knows.

Sam’s warned him.

He’s done it—Dean and Cas and Jack and Mom will—Sam lets his eyes slip closed, just for a second.

***

How long had Sam let Nick wander, unfettered, with a piece of Lucifer nestled in his soul? How well did Nick know Sam, how much had he seen? How well did he know Dean? How much did Sam let his stupid impulse to—to fix someone Lucifer broke, blind him to basic safety precautions?

And now that the damage is done, as always, Sam has the time and the hindsight to look back and see all the cracks in his intentions, the places where he’d thought his motives were pure and his actions were just, where he’d allowed self-delusion and selfish need to drive him onwards without caring about the fallout.

It’s that fucked up self-righteous part of himself, that need to be right, that need for something to go right, that lets him think that just because he has a worthy goal, he’s excusable.

It’s the reason for the near miss today. It’s the reason nearly everyone they saved from that other world is now dead, buried with too little ceremony in a mass grave in Kansas, far, far from their home. It’s the reason for a whole hell of a lot more, if Sam wants to go back a year or several.

He doesn’t know why he keeps wanting things like this for himself. The shame should be whittled to an unbreakable point by now, a mechanism to keep Sam from fucking things up irretrievably; and yet he keeps pushing through it anyway, and the blood keeps building up on his hands.

Nick flinching from his hands, glancing up at Sam from hooded eyes—how long did it take? How many of those times that Nick stared at him had been with twisted, insane jealousy and not deep unease, as Sam had assumed?

Sam noticed him looking; he couldn’t not. Sam was the one taking care of him, after all: feeding him, bandaging his wound, bringing him news and human contact that Nick had seemed to grasp at like a man drowning, his understandable awkwardness aside.

Sam asked after his nightmares. Sam asked him carefully if he remembered anything useful about Michael. Sam stitched together his flesh. Sam kept tabs on Nick, watching his human movements and his human posture. Nick ate, Nick slept, Nick hissed in pain under Sam’s hands, and Sam tried to keep his careful thrill quiet—he curled his toes and licked his lips and slowed his breathing.

Must be weird for you, helping me, Nick had said.

And it had been weird, Sam agreed. Just, not in any way that was quantifiable or straightforward. Being around him was like being suspended over knives, tense and perfect. Safe and unsafe. Proof that this wasn’t ten years ago, or seven, that Sam could inhabit his fear and come out unscathed and breathing hard and tingling—that Sam could shove all his issues into one box with one face, minimize and control whatever the world threw at him, lose sleep and come out the stronger for it.

Sam looked forward to visiting Nick, every time, with an anticipatory adrenaline like being ratcheted up the lift hill on a rollercoaster, waiting for that safe, sickening drop. Waiting to come out sane.

He’s a junkie, through and through—can he complain that it turned out the ride wasn’t up to code, after all, when he’s the one who tore through all the caution tape, who hotwired the car and ignored the brakes?

***

Everything’s dim and red like this. His pulse thunders sick and loud. No matter how many times Sam’s died, he can never shake the animal terror. There’s a point where mortal instinct takes over; the shift from pain-without-purpose to soul suffocation, the body’s last-ditch scream.

It’s okay, though. He’s done it.

“Stay with me, now. We’re just gonna play a little game.”

It’s happening. His brain’s clawing uselessly at life. It’s the last starbursts of agony.

Not so perfect now, Sam thinks. What he did to himself, what he would have done to himself. How many rocks, the ways he would have smashed his own bones apart if it would have changed a single thing.

“Just count with me,” Dean says.

[california-raccoon]

eye's on the sparrow

He just stares at her, like he’d been wishing for his mom but she appeared instead. This belief - in wishing, in divine intervention, in fate - is probably the reason why he chooses to believe in her. BLEACH / AU / ICHIRUKI • [PART 1/?]

A/N: It figures my first official attempt at fanfic is gonna be for this old ship in the wildest year 2020. Apologies in advance because I am no writer, but like a kid messing around in a kitchen, I hope you enjoy it anyway. Bone apple teeths, my dudes.

——————

I.

The first time she meets him, he’s by himself on the side of the road. He isn’t doing much of anything, just a lot of crying, same as that day his mother died. Rukia wasn’t there to see it happen, but she saw the officers and the cars all hovered around the scene in the aftermath, a pop of bright yellow about her height wailing like a siren. 

For all of her seven years of living, she is precocious enough to understand death and loss, but when she greets him weeks later, she has no kid gloves to treat him with, just her bare-knuckled fists knocking into his shoulders. He loses his balance among other things, face no longer crunched together in tears but spread wide with shock. 

“What’s wrong?” says she, without any hint of sympathy. The boy offers her nothing in response. His hand is on the pavement, catching himself.

He just stares at her, like he’d been wishing for his mom but she appeared instead. This belief - in wishing, in divine intervention, in fate - is probably the reason why he chooses to believe in her. He swallows his tears long enough to tell her “I lost my mom here,” with a glint of hope in his eyes as if she could find her for him.

“Was she pretty?” Is all Rukia asks, trying to imagine her, and the boy cracks a smile.

“The prettiest. She made the best blueberry pancakes for breakfast and held my hand while we walked. I was supposed to protect her… but,” The boy chokes, big drops forming on the sides of his eyes.

“Just… don’t forget her.”

The boy gulps at this, not really understanding but nodding anyway. Maybe it’s Rukia’s imagination of his mother now in her mind, as pretty and warm as the sunshine, smelling like pancakes and blueberries, that causes her to reflect. She squats down next to him with a frown on her face.

“You’re lucky, I don’t have a mother to remember.” Rukia says, “So whatever you do, don’t forget her.” 

He looks up at her then, eyes as big as saucers, and she helps him up to his feet. They say nothing else in the exchange, but he keeps looking at her, so she ruffles his hair to make him stop. She likes that she’s a little taller than him that she can do that; the other boys she knows are older and too tall for her fingers and fists to reach.

When she sees him the next day, he isn’t crying anymore but he talks. About little things, at first. A lot of stories about his mom, so he won’t forget. How she warmed the room with her presence, could peel apple skins in one long strip and loved reading books about funny English plays. As the days go on, it mixes with stories of things he’s learned in school, or his classmate in karate who he can never seem to beat. Rukia listens. They walk together down the road on his way home.

“Where do you live?” he asks one day, between showing her this new Pokemon card he’d traded Mizuiro during recess. It’s another rainy afternoon, but he’s okay, and they’re sharing his umbrella on the road home.

“Up that hill over there,” she says, pointing past the street they’re on. 

“That’s pretty far. You can take my umbrella with you; I live right here.” The boy exclaims, stopping right in front of a family clinic. There’s a chipper smile on his face as he hands her the umbrella to hold.

She doesn’t really know what to think, the gesture unusual to her, but she takes it with a small thanks before parting ways.

 -

II.

Ichigo is six the first time he invites a girl over to his house. He doesn’t really know her name, nor does he know much of anything about her, now that he thinks about it, but they somehow walk home together every day and he’s happy for the company of his new friend.

She doesn’t accept at first, but once she manages to sneak up to his window by climbing the adjacent tree, it’s as if she’s always been there. He shares his manga and his favorite snacks and teaches her how to play Pokemon among his growing collection of cards. She’ll stay over an hour after sunset, the pair of them reading and laughing until he has to head down for dinner, and she’ll leave the way she came. If his dad is wise to the situation, Ichigo doesn’t really know, but the man is all too happy to give him extra snacks to carry into his room whenever he asks.

On one weekend Ichigo finds himself packed in with his sisters in the car, dad behind the wheel with a list of things to buy and the promise of candy and ice cream at the end of the day if they behave. When they pass the hill, all he sees are lush forest greens and the Torii that pokes its head among the body of stairs. There are no houses, so he asks where they are.

“There are no houses there, son. Just the orphanage near the Shinto shrine.” His dad answers with unexpected gravity. 

Ichigo says nothing in response to this, but he looks up what an orphanage is later in the dictionary once they get home, remembers the girl with no mother and cries.

He notices it, seeing her again on his way home from karate. She usually comes up to meet him from the river, playing by herself. Her clothes are a little too big on her, waiting to grow into them like the hand-me-downs his sisters complain about.

He can’t really bring himself to say anything to her, though he really wants to. It’s on the tip of his tongue, to tell her that he knows, but he never gets the chance to because they’re home before he realizes it and the door bursts open just as soon as he gathers the courage to speak.

“Welcome home, Ichigo!” His dad surprises him outside their doors just as they’ve arrived. There’s a sly look on his eye that Ichigo is too young to decipher, but he feels as if some secret’s been found out when his dad turns to the person frozen in place next to him.

“And who is this young lady accompanying my son home today?” 

Ichigo’s mind is racing to respond but he can’t find a simple answer. Static bubbles out of him instead in stammers and incoherent half-words that only stop when she says her name.

“Rukia,” his dad repeats with gentlemanly charm. “Thank you for keeping an eye out for my son. Come in and stay for dinner.”

His dad figures out everything but he’s surprisingly lenient about it. She’s allowed to stay as she wishes, for snacks, for games, as long as she heads back before nightfall. The terms are fair, especially with the long summer days ahead of them, and sometimes his dad will leave work ahead of schedule so they can have earlier dinners with her as their guest.

It’s how most of Ichigo’s summer unfolds: him, his sisters, and Rukia eating dinners together, watching tv and playing video games. Her drawings of bears and rabbits mix with Yuzu and Karin’s on the refrigerator. The newness of having her over gives the family something to talk about, and they welcome her openly. The rest of the days are a haze of laughs and pixelated dungeons where they save princesses. 

“Why do you always play by the river?” Ichigo asks her one afternoon. The question stops her in her tracks, thrown off by the question. They’re on the way home, the usual babble of the river filling her sudden silence. She’d been talking to him about her strategy to defeat the boss at the Fire Temple. He’s a little guilty he wasn’t paying attention.

“My friend Renji was adopted a week before I met you,” she tells him. “We used to sneak out and play by the river all the time before he went away.”

“Will you go away too when you get adopted?” 

“I don’t know. Probably.” She shrugs, but her fingers are tightly wound like the first day they met.

Later that night after she leaves, Ichigo tugs on the bottom of his dads shirt as he’s putting away the last of the clean dishes and stares up at him.

“Can’t we adopt her?” He chokes out, vision wet and blurry as he says it because he already knows the answer.

His dad sighs, picking him up by his armpits, and suddenly he’s four years old again, crying on the kitchen counter. Ichigo is surprised to find himself tightly wound in his dads arms, a hug so warm and sincere he thinks he could choke if he doesn’t remember to breathe.

“Sorry, kiddo.” His dad ruffles his hair when they pull apart, and looking up at him, his eyes look wet too. 

The last of his summer is a countdown till it finally happens. It’s a normal sunny afternoon walking back from karate. He lingers over the view of the river before walking home alone for the first time in months. There’s a pit in his stomach that he ignores and he mostly sulks in his room the rest of the evening.

She shows up two days later with a big smile on her face that he’s never seen. He knows before she even says it.

Her smile is so big it eclipses the frown that threatens to show on his face because the more he listens to her, the happier he genuinely feels for her. A young couple from Tokyo, and the woman is warm and sunny just like any mother should be, she says. 

“The man isn’t as goofy as your dad, but he seems nice… I’m moving with them to Tokyo this week once the papers are signed.”

The mention of the move makes her nervous, the only other emotion she’s expressed in her retelling of the past two days. They spend the rest of the afternoon on his father’s computer looking up pictures of Tokyo, then find a map in the garage to see how far it is from Karakura.

On her last day, Ichigo and his dad go out to buy a small bouquet of flowers in congratulations, and they snap a photo together along with his sisters, who are hugging her in a fond embrace. 

“Write to me,” he says with a grin, hand stuffed in his pockets, suddenly feeling too cool for goodbyes. She ignores it completely and gives him a fierce hug.

“Of course.” She laughs at him, then punches him fondly on the shoulder for good measure. “Thanks, Ichigo.”

The words throw him off, the first time she’s ever called him by name, and he tries hers in kind. 

“See ya later, Rukia.”

They write to each other the way pen pals do, in a pattern of energetic bursts of conversation between the pauses of closing signatures that grow wider until their lives fill with classes, exams, friends and families. The letters stop coming at the end of the year.

[PART 2 → ]

[enccrypted]

@timerotted​  {

💖 from wraith !!

}       //  ⨳ — SEND 💖 TO HOLD MY MUSE’S HAND;  —  wraith .

he’d known from the start that he was in over his head.  But just how far had he sunken into this terrible mess with Mila and the algorithm? ... with his desperate turn to the black market augmentations in an impulsive, short-sighted effort to escape Syndicate eyes? ... and with his too-elaborate plan to topple the Repulsor Tower and to insert himself into the Games, right under the noses of the very people who want him dead? No, Crypto wasn’t in over his head — he’s practically dug his own grave. 

With every match he survived and with each moment he spent biding his time among the Legends, he could feel it: the beginnings of six feet worth of dirt trickling down on him and piling atop his skull. That same thickheaded skull to which Ms Tik often delivered a firm but gentle whack!, accompanied by rolling eyes and that exasperated sigh of ‘smarty-pants’ she gave whenever he got too cheeky with her.

She had been worried for him when he’d gotten into the Games’ database and when he took down the Tower. She understood his intentions, understood it was necessary if he wanted a chance of ever reclaiming his life and his innocence — but could he handle it? she’d asked him over a letter cleverly disguised across adverts in the Apex Games’ email service. He sensed that maternal distress even in split, discreetly coded messages: her covert plea for him to consider his life above the pursuit of justice.

‘Trust me,’ he’d written back the only time he was able, just before he departed to Talos. ‘This won’t be the last time you hear from me. I’ll be all right — I always am. Mila and I didn’t learn resourcefulness from just anyone, did we? You're not going to lose a son.’

(Not again.)

‘I’ll see you again soon... Family forever.’ He’d signed off then with a simple C, packaging the encoded letter into the innocuous survey response that Mystik had supplied him. (It had been linked in hex code, hidden away within the banner image on the advertised site that she’d set up for their temporary communications... Mystik’s strays had to get their cleverness from someone, indeed.)

He’d survived this long. There was nothing left for him to lose.

And yet, he finds himself wondering more and more if this was a mistake, after all. He’d known, when he first hatched his plan, that he had no chance to wrestle his way into the Apex Games through the qualifying tournaments. Even with fresh tech driven into his skin that would let him see anything in the arena, he’d had no interest in trying his luck against the likes of McCormick and Newcastle. And of course, he thinks to himself bitterly now as he grits his teeth, digging calloused fingers harder into the rock above. How the hell would he have survived qualifiers if it's a piece of loose pavement that's going to send him to a pitiful death?

He thought he’d become good at running, if nothing else. And run he did throughout this entire match, falling further and further behind Wraith and Pathfinder as he ducked into side paths and crammed himself into tight cracks in Lava City’s cave walls. (He nearly suffocated there as he waited with bated breath for Bloodhound to scurry past, hoping to God that his EMP had fried their trackers enough to mask his trail. But at least he’d escaped the fate of being speared on their knife.) His detour took him, once he’d squeezed himself out of the rock wall, next through what’s left of the crumbling Capitol City. In hindsight, he should’ve known better — Capitol is never empty. 

He’d swerved into the ruins of a nearby building to avoid coming under fire and clambered down into what he knew is a still-intact level bridging the west and east of Capitol over the rift that split the city in two, with bullets streaking narrowly past his head...

And he’d tripped over uneven cracked cement and tumbled down a sharp incline, straight down towards the molten pit below. By some luck, in his twisting and his clawing at the ground above, his fingers found purchase amongst the broken rock and metal. He was stupid, so stupid...! Of course sheer luck was the only reason he’s made it this far. It’s the only reason he’s still alive now, hanging on for dear life with bleeding hands as he curses his own idiocy.

Glass digs into his palms and the underside of his fingers, the heat rising from the magma below hot on the soles of his dangling feet. He’s not going to last much longer. Crypto clenches his jaw and screws his eyes shut as his grip, damp with sweat, loosens — and the block of cement gives in to his weight, crumbling away from where it attaches to steady ground.

He falls, screaming.

As it turns out, life isn’t what flashes before your eyes when gravity’s sending you hurtling, at 50 metres per second, down towards the molten rock bubbling thickly below. Unless life was nothing but regret: all the opportunities gained (too few) and all the countless more he’s lost; all the failures (too many) that haunted his restless dreams, those same dreams that blur nebulously into his early waking hours; Mystik’s smile and the warmth of her hand against the back of his neck; his mother’s face...

Something snatches at his hand, wrapping his wrist in a vice grip and wrenching him up against the inevitability of gravity. Crypto gasps, the air fleeing his lungs as his weight protests the impossible counter-force. His shoulder flares hot, threatening to pop his arm out from its socket, and he thinks he hears himself shouting as he swings to a stop in mid-air. There’s a roaring from somewhere above him, one that deafens even the blood that’s rushing through his head. Accompanying it is a strangeness — a potent and insidious energy unlike anything he knows in this world. As he sways dangerously above scalding heat, his mind shrieks with fear, thrashing helplessly against whatever’s opened up above him even more than it protested the fate that waits for him below.

But instinct surges above the blood surging hot in his veins and head. Crypto latches on without another thought, curling fingers tight around the sudden anchor and grasping hard.

As soon as he finds his grip, he’s jerked up towards that terrible potency, and something heavy and dark and cold swallows him whole. His stomach lurches as he’s dragged forward, up and down, thrown about, weighed down and crushed beneath the pressure of the space that’s devoured him, pulled in every direction all at once. He forces his eyes open, through the swelling tears, to flashes of blinding white and blue shimmering through the blackness. The dizzying reality around him swirls uncontrollably, familiar and yet shapeless, without form —

And then he topples face-down into cracked ground, his arm burning and chest heaving for air that won’t come. He pushes himself up with his uninjured arm, forcing himself up onto his back with a gasp as his lungs finally learn how to breathe again. He’s alive. He squints up into the sun, his eyes burning as they rekindle a briefly-lost acquaintance with light and colour.

He thinks he’s dreaming it at first. But as he lifts his head, his blurring vision shifting back into focus, he sees it clearly: a still-lingering void, murky and shimmering between his eyes and the skies. As soon as Crypto catches sight of it, the portal vanishes, leaving nothing but a cloudless afternoon blue above. He lets his head fall back, wincing as his skull hits the ground with a hard thud, and heaves a sigh.

Wraith.

There’s a stinging burn in his torso. Crypto looks down to see the jagged, dark tearing across the front of his shirt and the skin of his chest. He presses a metal-padded fingertip against the wound, wincing as it comes away slick with blood. At least a half a centimetre deep. The steel in the reinforced concrete must have caught onto flesh and sliced him through in his tumble. Teaches you to look where you’re going next time! a voice snickers in his hazy mind, tossing a mane of red hair in its wake as it retreats again to the back of his head.

It takes a minute or two. But the throbbing in his temples and the beat of his thundering heart finally slows as the adrenaline of near-death ebbs out of his system. As the thrill bleeds away, every scrape and ache flares to the forefront of his consciousness. His chest is on fire, his arms like lead and his right shoulder almost certainly dislocated. He tries, experimentally, to flex the fingers of his right hand... and realises he’s still clutching tightly to Wraith, his thumb and fingers encircling her wrist in a tight, still-trembling grip. Crypto’s eyes dart up to hers, mouth falling open as he searches, dumbly, for the words to form some sort of apology. 

Finding none, he glances away, loosening his fingers quickly and making to tug his hand out of her grasp. But, too caught between the fogginess of blood-loss and the agonising throb of his entire body, he doesn’t quite manage to free himself.

“S... sorry,”  he mumbles, turning away to peer dazedly towards the edge of the crevasse he’d narrowly avoided dropping into. He’s not so sure what it is that he’s apologising for. Finding himself separated from the squad when he’d spent too long easing his drone into unexplored territories, searching for some place or something that screamed ‘Syndicate secrets’? Nearly taking the most pathetic exit from the Games possible? Or making her chase him all the way out here to make sure he didn’t take that fall?

... Right.  “Thank you.”  He drags the back of his sleeve across his upper lip, wiping away the damp of sweat. Hopefully that, and his gratitude, will be enough to distract her from the shame burning red-hot in his cheeks. He lets out a hollow chuckle, squeezing her hand dazedly, and blinks over his sleeve and up into the skies.  “I was... I — I guess I was being an idiot, huh.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Summer of 89′ | 001

Read from the Start | Read on AO3

[A/N: Before anything else is said, I just want to give you guys another huge thank you. I have never put so much effort into a series before and I genuinely appreciate every single comment and interaction that you guys provide. Hopefully, you stick around for the rest of this crazy journey!]

JULY, 1989

The scent of burning rubber dominated the cab of the old El Dorado. It was barely noticeable against the dark backdrop of the ever-stretching pine trees. A full moon hung like a hole cut from velvet. It illuminated thick drops of rain that fell against a windshield. Beca found herself wishing for a cigar, a painkiller, something to dull the surroundings that were ever-present.

The seat belt cut into her skin as Chloe brought the car to a rapid stop. Smoke from the tires rose into the air and unmatching labored breath was the only thing that could be heard aside from the purring engine revving at the sudden halt.

There was a sizable dent in the hood. Beca Mitchell wasn’t one for cars, she had dragged her feet every moment until her father finally forced her to get her own license so he wouldn’t have to haul her everywhere she needed to go. But even she, in the near pitch night, could tell that whatever they had just hit left sizable damage on the left side of the car.

“Shit,” Chloe breathed out. She had her fingers against her throat, separating where the belt had assaulted too fresh wounds. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What the hell was that?” Beca asked.

Her eyes flicked towards the rear-view mirror. Even through the rain, she could see a dark figure curled into itself on the ground. A deer, maybe. She considered herself lucky in this moment. Two antlers could be piercing the seat on either side of her neck- instead, all she had was whiplash and an obnoxiously fast heartbeat. A relief short-lived.

Chloe started to unbuckle her seatbelt, the engine still running. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” Beca asked, shoving the lock back into place and holding it there. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Guys, we have to keep driving.” Aubrey’s timid voice came from the backseat. Her fingers were shaking and numb, covered in blood that wasn’t hers. She did her best to keep Emily awake, the younger camper staring blankly at the ceiling of the old car. Her breathing so soft and barely there. Beca was tempted to hold a mirror against her lips, just to watch it fog. “I don’t- she doesn’t have much time and the nearest hospital is still seventeen miles away. Please.”

Chloe stopped glaring at Beca, those sharpened blue eyes focusing instead on the mirror and the heap that bled freshly against asphalt, only to wash away with the present storm.  She moved her hands from the buckle to the ribbed steering wheel and white-knuckled it. “That was a person.”

“You don’t know that, Chloe,” Aubrey said. “Who the hell is out in the middle of nowhere like this?”

“We are.” She responded coolly “I’m getting out and checking.”

“Not alone-“ Beca protested.

Aubrey’s annoyance turned to outright frustration as she narrowed her green eyes in the innate moonlight. She ran her bloodied fingers lightly at Emily’s temple. Long ago having moved hair from her stare. Now it was an act of comfort, something to distract from the cold numb feeling that Beca couldn’t shake since the lake. Like she held the sun in her hands and Emily needed that light to hang onto in order to make it, to survive.

“Neither of you are going anywhere. Chloe if you step out of this car, I won’t hesitate to leave you on the side of the road, are we clear? Emily is dying. She needs to get to a hospital now and I won’t let her die in my arms because of your stubbornness to just drive.”

Chloe swallowed the thick feeling in her throat and looked back at Beca. The girl's own hands clenching the dashboard with anticipation to flip it open and light one of those gold-wrapped cigars. Wilkens probably died with them on him, just like his gun. Her palm still burned.

“Drive.”

It was a simple word, but it let Chloe release the hold on the brake. The car creaking back to life before she applied pressure to the gas. The tires turned more than once on the wet pavement before finally, the little black mass in the center of the road grew smaller and smaller. Beca pretended not to notice the tears streaming down Chloe’s reddened cheeks as she struggled to keep her own in check.

Her heart didn’t’ stop pounding until the road signs started to mention civilization. Norton Falls. It had a population of 1200 in total and was practically dwarfed by the city another 80 miles away. Beca remembers a fall festival that her parents brought her to a few years before their divorce.

The streets were lined with houses painted different colors and the mailboxes had prominent last names scrawled across in permanent paint. She faintly remembers the scent of kettle corn and the warm sun that countered the bitter October breeze. The way her mother told her that she would never see trees change like this in the city. The way they both laughed at stupid kitten face paint and cracked pumpkin carving contests.

Norton Falls looked different at night.

Its roads stretched on endlessly, streetlamps were staggered, and any hope of summer was starting to fade out into the beginning of a school year. Cars were parked and collecting frost, porch lights were shut off completely. The wind howled as Chloe slowed slightly to match the speed limit exiting the highway, though not too much.

There was a food joint that looked like it had sprung out of nowhere. A small diner with green neon lights to attract passing and tired drivers. The sign read Starlight Diner and had an all too tacky lit up star with a pink path behind it. A few blocks later, a taco place that had just gone dark, and next to that a 24-hour ATM.

Beca watched as the different landmarks passed, noticing the blue signs for the hospital that Chloe seemed to follow numbly. Aubrey had quieted in the backseat, not saying a word as they finally rolled up the quaint building- it was smaller than the one at home, lit up like a Christmas tree and almost blinding compared to the rest of the dead town.

She exited the car first before it even rolled to a stop in the medical bay. Beca felt like she forgot how to walk like everything was numb and her lungs were still submerged in murky lake water. The door hissed as it creaked open.

It was a quaint waiting room, nearly empty aside from a woman wrapped up in a few jackets as she coughed into a cloth towel. A man that was holding his bleeding thumb and his son carrying a manual for a nail gun. She ignored both of them as her wet shoes squeaked against the floor.

A stocky woman sat behind a counter that was painted puke green. Her scrubs were an abrasive shade of turquoise and she hunched behind her computer. Not bothered by the sound of someone approaching.

“Fill out these forms and a doctor will be right with you.” She shoved a clipboard across the counter. The woman didn’t’ look up from her screen. She was protected by a glass window. Beca didn’t’ know what she would do if she wasn’t. “Pens in the bucket.”

“I don’t have time for that.” Beca placed her hands on the counter “My friend is hurt and she’s dying.”

“Yeah, so is everyone else in the waiting room. Fill out the forms. A doctor will be right with you.”

Beca let out a distant sigh, glancing around at the two other people sitting in the tacky patterned chairs. She grasped the clipboard, lifting it slightly off the desk before slamming it back down with force strong enough to create a gun-shot pop. Her fingers shook at the sound, but the woman with the ghostly eyes snapped her attention to the girl. She leaned back in her chair, taking in the drowned mess of muck and blood that she was.

Her voice was hushed. “Someone tried to drown me tonight, lady. My friend is in the backseat of a car bleeding to death because a psycho bitch with daddy issues tried to kill her with a… a makeshift bomb in a watershed. I will not be stopped by a woman with a god complex who hates her life more than she hates her job.” She took a steadying breath. “Get me a doctor before I walk through those doors and get one myself.”

“What’s the problem here?”

Beca was met with another bout of forest green. A stoic woman who looked like she was fresh out of med school. Her auburn hair was thrown into a messy bun and a white lab coat was draped over her arm. In her other hand was a brown sacked lunch, Beca supposed. Her stomach clenched at the thought of food. Even the simple promise of a bologna sandwich on wonder bread was enough to stir the murky water that she was she had swallowed.

“Dr. Saxe, everything is fine.” The woman behind the desk stood, recollecting herself.

“No, it’s not.” Beca turned completely. “My friends hurt, she's in the backseat of a car and bleeding out-“

The doctor, Doctor Saxe, from what Beca could collect, set her items on the counter before walking towards the sliding glass doors that opened to the parking lot and the humming El Dorado. “Lead me to her. I can help.”

[mathiaskillmaster]

Rebirth of the Dragon (After GOT / Daenerys Targaryen) Part 2

The first thing Daenerys saw when she opened her eyes, her eyelids stuck a little, after her troubled sight was back to normal, was the ceiling of the little room she was in. A pleasant and light smell of incense permeated the air. She was lying in a comfortable single bed under a dark silk blanket. Her head was horribly painful, and she felt as if her whole body were suffering from aches and pains. Despite the pain, she managed to sit up, sitting in the bed and watching around the darkness of the room, lit simply by the rays of daylight filtering through the tile of the only window in the room. But a peculiar pain made her look down at her chest wound. Once again, she remembered .... Jon .... it was him who had done that .... she saw him again, in her mind, his face looking at her, and the stinging pain of the blade penetrating into her flesh ... the young woman's beating heart rose again, while without being able to prevent it, she shed tears, her lips trembling and plunging her face into her hands .... how was all of this possible? How could he do that to her? And above all, how could she come back? Why was she here? She also remembered Jon and his scars on the body, as well as the story of his return to the world of the living, brought back also by a priestess of R'hllor .... Had it happened for her too? Daenerys was more than lost, all mixing in her head, and the feeling of sadness invading her. The door of the room opened slowly in a squeak and the servant Athias entered, to find the young woman sitting under the blanket. _ "Ah, finally you're awake. You've slept for almost two days ... I'm bringing you something to eat, you need to regain your strength." The servant came to put down a small wooden tray containing a piece of bread, some cheese and a few pieces of dried meat, as well as a bronze water jug. Daenerys said nothing, staring at him suspiciously and retreated a little into the bed. Athias noticed it and smiled at her. _"Don't worry, you will not risk anything here." _ "B .... but ..... where am I?" she asked. _"In the temple of R'hllor, at Volantis. You are the high-priestess Kinvara's distinguished guest. We must take care of you, that is her will, as well as that of the master of light, who by a miracle as he alone can provoke them, has brought you back among the living." R'hllor? The master of light? Like many, Daenerys knew the worship devoted to this god and the many disciples who compose it. So, was it really him who had brought her back from the lands of death? But why? Feeling her stomach scolded fiercely, the young woman first chose to take the tray and eat timidly, which seemed reassured the young servant to see that she had kept the appetite. He also noticed the traces of dry tears on her cheeks. He would ask her why, but choose to leave her alone, knowing what she had already suffered. Feeling the food and the water running down her throat made Daenerys feel like she was really alive, literally. She watched as Athias came to lay clean and folded clothes on the bed, especially for her. _ "When you feel ready, you can get dressed and come to see the High Priestess." _"But ... how did I get to Volantis? I remember that ... I was in King's Landing when ...." She could not continue her sentence, her throat getting tied again because of the sorrow. _ "Your dragon has carried you so far ... He has even stood by you to protect your body, even starving himself of food and sleep. I must admit that I had never seen such devotion from an animal." replied Athias. At the mention of this dragon, Daenerys reacts immediately and seizes the servant by the collar. _ "Drogon! Where is he?! I have to see him!" _"Uh, he's in the backyard of the temple. He had to get some strength again ..." Athias replied. Daenerys did not wait any longer, spreading the blanket and getting up, her feet touching the cold pavement of the room. Athias, out of respect, looked away as the young woman, completely naked, seized the clothes on the bed and began to dress. A simple and modest dress of a dark green-gray color, short pants, as well as shoes. She did not even pay attention to Athias's presence as she put on the dress. She could see herself for a moment, in the small mirror resting on the wooden table in front of the bed. She could see her face dug by fatigue, doubt, her long silver hair undone and cascading over her shoulders ... Once ready, and without even the permission of the servant, Daenerys left the room hastily, pushing the door out of her way and closely followed by Athias who wanted to hold her. He held her by the wrist, which earned him a glare from her. _"Wait, wait, I know you're in a hurry, but you have to stay calm. You've just had a very violent shock and ..." _ "I have to see my dragon, do you understand?!" she insisted, releasing her wrist from his hand "... I want to make sure he's fine." At the woman's tone and stubborn gaze, Athias sighed heavily and then decided to accompany her, guiding her to the back yard. They crossed a large number of corridors and rooms, where Daenerys could see other servants at work, maintaining the temple, as well as red priests and priestesses working for their god. After a door, Daenerys finally found herself outside, feeling the fresh air come to caress her face and the light of the day come to greet her. And it is in the middle of this big space, that she saw him finally. Her dear child, her last still alive, his huge scaly body getting warm in the sunlight. Tears, of joy this time, flowed down Daenerys' cheeks as she walked unhesitatingly towards Drogon, who, noticing her, immediately rose with all his stature and came to her with affectionate grunts. Daenerys huddled against his muzzle, caressing him with all the love a mother could give to her son. Drogon seemed almost purring like a big cat. With the tip of his big tongue, the dragon came to lick her cheek gently in an emotional sign, which made a snort laughed from the young woman with the tickle. _ "Drogon ... I ... I'm so happy you're here .... you .... you saved me ..." she said in her tears of happiness. It is true. If she had been able to return, it was thanks to him, who, by taking her away from Westeros, had thus prevented anyone from getting rid of her body. Drogon listened to her, continuing to look at her and gently rub his muzzle against her as her hands caressed his black scales. Standing at the door, Athias stayed behind to let the young woman find her dragon in peace and returned to his temple duties. Daenerys, as an attentive mother, was looking all over Drogon's body to see the trace of some wound, but luckily he had nothing. He had regained strength and regained his appetite, judging by the many bones of animals that littered the backyard floor. R'hllor's servants had taken care of him, and inwardly she thanked them. At least he was still the dragon she knew, still letting his food scraps as a big child. Daenerys smiled, tenderly, seeing Drogon come to seize a half-eaten carcass of what was a goat and lay it in front of his mother, and looking at her with a childish air as if to offer her food. _ "I .... no thanks, Drogon, I've already eaten." she said with a little grimace at the smell of carrion and flies fluttering around. Drogon seemed to understand and did not deprive himself, enclosing his jaws on the carcass and swallowing it at once in a crack of bones and flesh. _ "Dragons are quite remarkable creatures." Suddenly, the voice of Kinvara, the high priestess, who came forward to meet the young Queen Targaryen. Drogon showed no sign of mistrust or aggression towards the red woman, knowing what she had done for his mother. Although still a little suspicious, Daenerys also knew that she owed her miraculous return to this priestess. _"Drogon is not only remarkable," said Daenerys, turning to her and looking at him with love and pride, "he is unique, and he is my child ... the only one I have in this world." Her thoughts returned for a moment to her two other sons, Viserion and Rhaegal, both dead during this infernal crusade to reconquer this accursed throne and the bloody war against the white walkers that had cost her a lot, whose life of her dearest and faithful friend, Ser Jorah. With a tight heart and a tight throat, Daenerys had a thought for him too, as well as her dear Missandei and Grey Worm. She hoped he was still alive, somewhere. She had lost everything .... everything. Sadness invaded her, but also anger, a bitter and disgusting mixture in her mouth. She saw the faces of Tyrion, her former hand that had let her down, and Jon, the man she loved, who had stuck a dagger into her heart ... Daenerys's fist was twitching, shaking softly. Seeing the young queen plunge back into her painful memories, Kinvara came to her. _ "If I understand correctly ...." said Daenerys turning to her "... I also have my return to your powers, red priestess." _"Oh, it's not my will in particular ..." Kinvara replied modestly as she joined her as the two women walked side by side on the pavement of the courtyard. "... I am only a humble servant." _ "So I have my return to the master of light, is that it?" questioned the young fallen queen again. Kinvara confirmed the question with a simple nod. Daenerys really had trouble conceiving it. _"Do you find that really so surprising? Did not you hear, like me, as we bring you back, that voice in the flames .... you heard it too, did not you?" Daenerys's face turned pale and Kinvara saw on her face the answer to the question. How could this priestess know? It was true. While she was almost dead, she did not really know how to describe the state in which she was, she had heard it ... that whisper, that disembodied voice in her ear while a powerful heat enveloped her ... Was it ..... him? _ "But ... but why me? Why have brought me back?" Kinvara understood this curiosity that devoured her, and invited the young Targaryen woman to follow her inside the temple. ********* Kinvara led Daenerys into the great room of the altar, where the queen of the dragons could finally contemplate with her eyes this imposing room, whose mystical appearance was matched only by the heavy aura that reigned there, almost wrenching a shudder from Dany's body. Her attention was focused on the altar ... she was convinced that she had already seen it .... in a dream, or maybe it was not .... a big fiery heart all carved stone, standing in the middle of a dark and giant room, surrounded by flames ..... Kinvara, as usual when she went to this sacred place, lit one by one a few candles on the candlesticks arranged on one side, causing small dancing flames on each wick. _ "Answer me now, what your master can expect from me?" asked Daenerys, losing some patience. Kinvara understood it quite well, contenting herself with blowing the rod used to light the candles and resumed her conversation with her. _ "You are the one who was promised, Daenerys stormborn. A great destiny awaits you, as the master of the light has wanted ...." _ "A great destiny?" Daenerys interrupted, raising an eyebrow "... I was betrayed by those I thought were my allies, I was murdered by the man I loved, I lost two of my children and all my army .... where do you see a great destiny in this disaster?!" The young fallen queen was getting carried away, but calmed down very quickly to avoid sinking, and feeling that she was not yet fully recovered, blew a big blow. Kinvara was very calm, not insulted by the tone Daenerys had used towards her. Dany pulled herself together, and sat down on the stone bench in the back of the room, running her face between her hands and trying to tidy up her confused mind. _ "What .... what happened when I was ......?" she could not even finish her sentence as it sounded impossible. _ "The northern kingdom has become independent, and the six crowns are now ruled by a new king named Bran the broken .... the iron throne, as for it, is no more." At this last mention, the heart of Daenerys jumped and she raised her head to the priestess, and guessed in her eyes, that she was telling the truth. _ "The ... the iron throne has disappeared?" _ "Yes ..." confirmed Kinvara "... your dragon destroyed it after he found you dead in the throne room ..... I saw it in the flames ... . " _ "Drogon? But why did he do that?" Daenerys asks, even more lost. _ "As you said yourself, majesty, your dragon is unique, with an extraordinary intelligence .... the iron throne was what caused your downfall, and Drogon, in his clairvoyance, therefore decided to eliminate once and for all what had brought about the death of his mother, to avenge you, but also to deliver you .... " _ "To deliver me?" replied Daenerys, raising an eyebrow, wary of the explanations of the high priestess who pursued. _"To deliver you from the legacy of your ancestors, this same legacy that not only cost you your life, but also your most faithful allies .... you were not made for sitting on that iron throne, as you were not made to reign in Westeros .... " Daenerys had a hard time accepting that. She who, all her life, had fought with all her strength to take back the inheritance of her dynasty ... With the disappearance of the iron throne, what remained of the symbolic legacy left by Aegon the conqueror had just fainted forever, putting a definitive end to the reign of the Targaryen dynasty on Westeros. Daenerys was once again divided between sadness and anger. She had just lost everything this time. Another usurper had seized power in Westeros, a waking nightmare for the fallen young queen.... _ "If what you say is true .... then, where is my true place?" Daenerys asked again, emptying her mind. Kinvara smiled at her, and with a gesture of the hand, invited her to get up and come near the stone pediestal in which was burning the flames of a brazier in a container of iron and bronze. _ "Come closer, Daenerys stormborn .... look in the flames and tell me what you see ...." Daenerys was beginning to be tired of all this mystery, but carried away by her curiosity and the belief that Kinvara was right, stepped shyly up to the brazier and stared her focused gaze on it. Standing behind her, Kinvara waited, watching intently. _ "What do you see?" said the high priestess. _ "I ..... nothing, only the flames ...." answered the young Targaryen, honestly, moderately convinced. Kinvara insisted that she continue to watch, more carefully. What Daenerys did. She could only see the dance of flames in front of her, nothing else, as if the world around her had faded away. There was only her and this brazier in front of her, nothing else. The pleasant heat came to caress her face, bringing her some moral comfort. This unique bond with fire, which she did not know how she could have gotten, had always been a way for her to feel alive. Long seconds passed during which Dany stared at the fire. The mystical aura became more and more felt as and when. Kinvara felt it too but did nothing, just showing a satisfied expression. Daenerys's expression also changed, looking astonished, voiceless, as if watching something in the midst of undulating flames. _ "I ... I see something ..." suddenly sighs the silver-haired young woman, without being able to look away from the brazier. "... dark lands, where the night never seems to end .... I see a city made of black stone ..... I hear .... yes, I hear cries .... cries of baby dragons! They come from this black mountain, shaped like ... a screaming skull ...... I ... there is a form in this mountain .... it ... it turns to me ... those eyes ... " fear grew in Daenerys's tone. Sudden, a crackling of the fire made Daenerys jump, who now could not see anything in the fire. Kinvara had not lost anything of the description made by the young woman, and did not seem really surprised either. Dazed by what she had just seen and heard, Daenerys came to sit on the stone bench. The cries of these baby dragons continued to resonate in her head, almost like calls. _ "I know what you've seen ...." Kinvara told her "... because I've seen it too." _ "But .... what does that mean?" _ "That your place is here, in Essos, Daenerys stormborn .... remember what you did for these lands, countless slaves that you have saved, lives that you have made better by your actions ... .. you are more than a queen ... you are a liberator, the one who was returned to us in fire and ashes, by the grace of the master of light." Was all this real? After all she could see, Daenerys could hardly question the intervention of a certain divine presence. But why her? The vision of these black mountains punctuated in this disturbing night, this city of black stone, came back to her mind. Kinvara guessed it as well, gently putting her hand on Dany's and kneeling in front of her. _"The master has shown you the way, it's up to you now to take it, and know that I, Kinvara, high priestess of Volantis, swears to follow you and serve you." Daenerys did not know how to react, but was still grateful to these priests for taking care of her and her dear Drogon. Although she could decide to ignore this vision, the latter could not detach from her mind. The cries of these baby dragons resonating in a distant echo obsessed her ... she had to discover what it was. _ "But ..... where should we go?" was the last question of the young queen. Kinvara gave her a clever look and a smirk, and gave a very special name that almost made Daenerys shudder. _ "Asshai."

[crystalroca]

On the evening of Wednesday, Sept. 6, 2006, the 51-year-old emergency room nurse ended her shift at Providence Portland Medical Center on Northeast Glisan Street and headed to Perfect Look hair salon on East Burnside Street.

As she waited for her turn, she picked up a copy of Oprah magazine and read a poem.

"I will not die an unlived life," it began. "I will not live in fear."

One hour later, rested and relaxed, she drove to her blue, one-story Cape Cod with a gray picket fence in the Montavilla neighborhood of Southeast Portland.

In the mudroom at the back of the house, Susan found a note by the microwave from her husband of almost 18 years, Mike. "Sue, haven't been sleeping. Had to get away—Went to the beach."

He added that he'd see her on Friday or Saturday. "Luv, ME," he signed off.

Unlocking the door to the kitchen, Susan heard the beeping of her security alarm. She disarmed it, walked through the house to the front door and then went back outside. It was clear and warm at 6:37 pm that day, and she stood for a minute or two in the front yard, flipping through her mail.

When she came back inside, she kicked off her Birkenstocks and noticed how dark it was in her bedroom on the first floor. Had she forgotten to open the curtains that morning?

Suddenly, from behind the bedroom door, a man lurched toward her.

At 5-foot-9, the 59-year-old stranger weighed 190 pounds. He wore Dockers, a blue-striped shirt and a tan baseball hat pulled down low over his eyes. His long hair was in a ponytail tucked into the cap. He wore yellow rubber gloves on his hands and carried a red and black claw hammer.

"One minute you think you're a regular person in the world," she says now, "and then you're not."

For many people, the presence of an intruder brandishing a hammer in a darkened bedroom would prompt an entirely understandable response. They'd run.

But Susan wasn't most people. An emergency room nurse for nearly 30 years, she had disarmed injured men, helped crack open people's chests to perform heart massages, and administered IVs in patients thrashing from drug withdrawal. She and all the other nurses at Providence trained regularly in self defense, learning how to slip out of headlocks and clutches.

Still, she had doubted herself: "Will I ever remember this stuff?"

Years of training steadied Susan, who was still wearing blue scrubs when she returned home that night. When her assailant came at her, Susan crowded him, knowing the swings of his weapon would have less force if she stayed close.

His first blow landed on her left temple.

"WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT?" she screamed as loudly as she could. But he didn't answer. And he didn't stop.

At 5-foot-4, Susan was 5 inches shorter than the man in the baseball cap. She had two bad knees from repeated injuries and excess weight. But she outweighed her attacker significantly.

Hoping to push him over, Susan says she slammed her body up against his.

He didn't fall. Instead, he pushed Susan's back against the pink-hued walls of her bedroom. He then uttered his only words that night: "You're strong," he told her.

The phrase sent surges of adrenaline through Susan—and a terrible awakening.

"He is here to kill me," she realized at that moment. "I don't know why. I don't know who he is. But his intent was clear."

Susan responded by pushing him again. "Who sent you?" she demanded.

She managed to wrestle the hammer from him, and she swung its claw three times, maybe four, into his skull.

He snatched the hammer back. So Susan grabbed his throat.

"WHO SENT YOU HERE?" she asked again, hands squeezing his airway.

The intruder's face turned red, then purple, then darker purple with a blue tinge. Susan spooked. She let go. Then she tried to flee.

"I don't know what I thought," she says, "I just had to get out of there."

The man, whom police later identified as Edward Dalton Haffey, caught her as she ran from her bedroom into a narrow hallway.

He spun her around again, punched her, splitting her lip. He punched her again. She fell to the floor. The image she saw next haunts her.

"He was standing over me with the hammer," she says. "I looked at the floor and I thought, I'm going to die today."

To this day she's not sure how, but she managed to pull the man to the floor, too. "I gotta get the hammer," she told herself then.

She started to bite Haffey, thinking that if she was going to die, her teeth marks might tie her death to him. Wrestling on the floor, she bit his arm, his flank, his thigh.

She even bit through his zipper to his genitals. At the same time, she tried to rifle through Haffey's pockets, looking for ID she could toss under a bed or chair or dresser that police would later find. "I was like a downed power line snapping on the pavement," she says.

The fight had now lasted about 14 minutes.

They were both wedged on their sides in the hallway outside Susan's bedroom. She threw her left leg over Haffey's body, climbed up on top of him, and hooked her left arm around his neck.

"TELL ME WHO SENT YOU HERE AND I WILL CALL YOU A FUCKING AMBULANCE!" she yelled in his face.

He said nothing. Instead, he growled.

Susan leaned forward, tightening her forearm against his throat. He stopped moving. Then she grabbed the hammer and fled outside to neighbors, who called 911.

"We have an intruder in the house next door.…The intruder was in the bedroom with a hammer. The woman who lives there thinks she may have strangled him. He was down when she left."

"Can you put her on the phone?"

"She's bleeding."

"Does she need an ambulance?"

"No, she's a nurse. She says call an ambulance for the guy. He may be dead."

There’s a LOT more to this story and you can read it HERE!

[namesnot-rick]

Johnson and Gilligan’s “Two Weeks in Hell”

(And Other Strange Purchases from the Dream Marketplace)

“Excuse me, is that a Boeing-737?”  I say, shuffling my feet toward the sun-bathed creature at my direct far-left.  She looks puzzlingly; examiningly, I may say.  The hiss and growl of machinery crawl in my ear and scream me deaf.  I point the ample-titted Mary toward the hulking plane which soars just overhead and nearly rips my head in two.

“I said- is that a Boeing-737!”

“I can’t hear you over this Boeing-737!”

“What!”

“I said-”  Useless.  The woman-species has proven futile in the quest for a simple inquiry; not the first, nor the last time.  The beastly idiot-mother - she which has denied the relinquishment of her youth for twenty years beyond her prime - those which should sag, perpetuated unnecessarily by the vanity of the grotesque, obscene, leech-brained Mother of the illiterate and the neurotic.  I dream of heaving those mammaries-in-denial straight into the sky - sending them through a jet engine, shredded upon contact, clogging the deafening mechanical beast with silicon and sending it spiraling into the Atlantic abyss!  What a glorious lark, what a plunge, what a-

“Excuse me, is that a Boeing-737!” says a blind fellow, whose grasp encompasses my shoulder.

“What!”

“I said, is that a-”

“Is that a Boeing-737!”  He shrugs and falls away.  Signs read, ‘Florida Man mauled to death poking alligator with stick down in the bayou’, and then flash green, and bathe under the sunlight for two hours, and then melt away.  It is silent now except for the radiating humidity and a hose attached to an extinguisher, whirling in the air and spouting ocean-water until the water goes back in the ocean.  The ocean is next to the road and the road is next to a highway and the highway is next to three buildings; one looks like Miami and the other looks like an airplane and the other looks like a hit disco nightclub, in bright blue neon script, “Havana.”  Vehicles zip through the interstate route, six lanes of terrifying speed and inhumanity, the road threatening to jump up and and strike my elbow bloody and pull me down; litter-infested industrial non-sentient rats screaming by at eighty miles an hour and blowing down palm trees as they go by,

All standing between myself and the hit disco nightclub, “Havana.”  Threat levels rise as I inch forward with a single-toe, testing the dangerous and rabid white-foaming waves, biting back, and

I close my eyes and hold my breath and plunge into the polychromatic midnight-indigo entrance of the hit disco nightclub, “Havana”; there’s another doorway and I’m in a dimly-lit waiting room.  A bouncer stands before me, an immovable palm tree of a man with laser-show pink stealing through the cracks and reflecting against his massive white shoes.

“Tell me the business,” I say.  He nods and steps aside.  The beat rises like heat from the pavement, the funk pours in as the doorway proceeds open, lights dazzle epileptically across the purple-checkered dance floor, littered with inflatable tube men embracing and assaulting each other; simultaneous and communal and chaotic, stuck in their single inflatable spot and reaching across and then up and falling down, to repeat the process.

“A sight to behold,” a voice comes over the PA.  I nod.  Four non-inflatable men, apparently Puerto-Rican or Dominican, donning green-striped zoot suits, dart their eyes my way.  Two drop their shades, like Risky Business; one spills his drink all over himself and blushes; the other, long and handsome, hair slicked all the way back, pulls me forth on an invisible rope, stringing me toward the floor and dancing away.  I feel my bones give way to the liquid-

“Feel your bones melt into the radioactive beat, my sweet child,” says the PA.  I am amid the chaos of dozens of inflatable men and four zoot-suited Dominicans, shoulders and waist in unison; the disco-flavor is ingestible, and open my eyes to see that I, too, am donning the slick-sly-livin’ green-striped zoot suit.  This is the moment; I am the moment; I am not me; I am- I am- I am-

“You are the child of a new funk,” says the PA; euphoria emanates from my core, stings my extremities; I feel alive and dead and passed on to a higher groove.

“Florida Man mauled to death,” says the PA, and a beat drop.  “Poking alligator,” the voice melts into the music, “down in the bayou.”

* * *

“We may have to commit violent crimes,” says the slick green zoot to his friends, over a radioactive yellow drink that spills over the side and melts through the wood floor.

“I don’t think.”

“We could, but the logistical processes are immense.”

“Is she prepared for-”

“Of course she-”

“The island is a horrible dangerous venue, complete with razor blades on all corners of the mountain, and such a trek could not possibly be expected of a mere-”

“Are you in?”  The zoots pause their quibbling; they shoot expecting glances toward me.  “Are you in,” he repeats.  Anticipation motors overhead, lingers in the air like silicon-shredded tits behind a malfunctioned jet engine.  The inflatable tube men lean closer.  The music ceases; the frogs no longer croak; the world is at a stand still.  “Are you-”

“Well, is this Havana?” I reply.  It remains still for a moment; the men then throw their collective arms up with all the inflatable tube men, and a ‘huzzah’ the size of Tampa overtakes the “Havana.”  I relish briefly in the sweet moment and three of the zoots melt into the floor; the remaining one follows me toward the backroom.  There stands another palm-tree bouncer with huge white shoes.

“It is Tuesday,” he tells me.

“Now it is Thursday,” I reply as Christ himself, shattering the previously accepted bounds of time and space.  He complies.  The zoot hurries alongside my epochal steps, which surpass thousands of documents in a mere instant.  The room we enter is dark, noir-esque; my zoot suit turns monochromatic.  The room is heated, dry like baked ceramic.  It pervades my lungs.  It smells of vast conspiracy.

“We’re looking for a book,” he says.  I slant my eyes and light a cigarette, and look about the room.  A small office, blinds drawn, entirely black and white.  A coat rack in the corner is bare; papers are strewn hectically across the desk in front of dozens of filing cabinets.  The door reads, backwards, ‘FITZGERALD, M.D.’  I remember being here before; scheming of some sort, and the overwhelming existential dread of a plan gone awry.  I clear my throat, compose myself, exhale smoke from my nose, and speak from the far corner of my mouth:

“What kind of book… fiction?”  The zoot falls silent and looks suspiciously at the oncoming shadow; he hides behind the coat rack.  A dame staggers in and falls drunkenly across the desk, failing to notice me standing there with a cigarette frozen to my lips.  An incoherent tune passes through her messy red lipstick in heaving, inebriated sighs.  Some sort of old jazzy standard, mixed with a cheap perversion of the Star Spangled Banner.  Her sweeping, bare leg knocks a stapler across the floor, and she looks up with the expression of a junkie whose stove has caught fire.

“Who are-” she burps, the words falling from her slacken jaw.  “You’re not supposed- this isn’t your office.”

“Dammit, Johnson, get this whore out of here!” the zoot exclaims fiercely, storming out from behind the wall with a ‘FITZGERALD, M.D.’ nametag sewn to his shirt.  “This is no time for games; I, the owner of this fine establishment, have pressing matters to attend to.”

“I don’t understand-”  the zoot knocks her unconscious with a swift and gruesome blow to her painted cheek; the whore goes flying into the back wall, and the zoot turns away with the look of a prize fighter, shaking his hand painfully.  He rips off the nametag, crushes it beneath his foot, and spits on the remains.

“My name’s not Fitzgerald, anyway.”

“Who’s Johnson?”

“We’re in too deep now, Johnson.”

“What about the book,” I reply.

“Yes, of course; nonfiction.  Island based.  Look for the volcano with razors,” says the zoot.  I drag the befallen whore across the floor to get to the ‘I’ filing terminal.  Behind her is a pool of dried blood; her lipstick has turned a shade of grey.  Sunlight, peering through the drawn shades, strikes obliquely across her exposed cleavage.

“What a mess,” I comment.  The zoot spins his detective hat around and removes a magnifying glass from the front of his pocket.

“We’re in too deep now,” he says.

“We haven’t much time.”

“We’ve committed a violent crime, Johnson.  Barbaric, illegal, striking at the very core of man’s depraved soul.  The question is: whether you, a capable man but surely one of a decent moral fibre, maybe a tinge of childhood innocence lurking in your soul - whether you are willing to confront those demons when the inevitable day comes.”

“Volcano with razors,” I reply.

“This is not a game.  The stakes have been raised infinitely.  This poor woman, probably a mother, certainly a daughter - her blood is on our hands.”

“Volcano with razors.  Volcano with razors.  Volcano with”

“That is the owner’s daughter which you’ve so ruthlessly struck down, Johnson.  Notice the dark-grey appearance about her; lifeless! just as every other god-forsaken item in this room.  Gone.  Dead.  Sunken into the earth, receded into a dark and timeless void beyond our solar system.  She, whose demise is a mere infinitesimal speck on the blood-stained shirt of humanity’s graveyard!”

“Volcano with razors.”

“Murder, Johnson; goddammit, it’s murder!”

“Got it!  Volcano with razors.”

“Delightful!”  The zoot rubs his fingers across my cheek affectionately, burns my temple with a wet kiss, and removes the book from my grasp.  He rotates it thrice, and sifts through the pages hastily.

“Aha!” he exclaims.  “This is it.  You’ve done it again, Johnson!”

“Volcano with razors.”

“Yes, Johnson, very good.”

“Volcano with razors.”

“We must first attain a million dollar boat; inflatable, preferably.  And then we may proceed to the next step of our plan.”

“What is the next step,” I inquire.

“We may have to commit more violent crimes, Johnson.”

“It’s Tuesday now,” I reply five days later.  The zoot has crowded himself into the back corner, five o’clock shadow stuck indelibly to his chin.  He gnaws hungrily at the cuff of his suit, struck by the vanity of it all.

“Johnson, we’ve killed the owner’s daughter.”

“Have we yet attained the million dollar boat.”

“I cannot stand to look anymore at these grey walls.  A man needs color in his life, Johnson.  A man needs sexual gratification.  Will you make love to me, Johnson?”

“It is Wednesday now.”

“Have you any idea what it is like to starve oneself of physical intimacy and nutritional sustenance for nearly a week, Johnson?  I could eat my own suit.”

“You already have,” I reply.

“That is correct, yes.  I remember yesterday quite clearly.  The pain is immense, but my memory is still sharp.  I say, Johnson, the digestion of that seersucker cotton has certainly been something of a struggle.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Oh, the defecation, don’t mind that.  Merely the sign of a healthy and functioning digestive system.  In the black and white you cannot make out the entrails quite so clearly.”

“It is Sunday now.”

“The Lord’s day on Earth, Johnson.  Perhaps this time he shall save us from this noir-influenced hellhole.  Johnson, are you going to eat that suit anytime soon?”

“I am quite full, courtesy of the dinners brought to us by the owner’s secretary.”

“May I have that suit?”

“It is Thursday now.”

“One week and nine days, Johnson.  An insufferable experience, surely; but there is no man I would have rather spent it with than you.”

“I’m a woman.”  The phone rings.

“Yes,” the zoot says.  “Killed the owner’s daughter, yes.  Banned from the club, you say?  The most expected route of action, undoubtedly.  I am truly sorry for going through your things, sir.  Yes, I will let Johnson know.  Yes, yes.  No, no.  Perhaps.  Well, I would not say I was discourteous in refusing the secretary’s dinners, but I was quite full from the suit; you could understand.  Mmhm.  Repulsive, you say?  Well, I have not exactly kept my body in peak physical condition, but that seems a bit harsh.  Get the Hell out?  Surely, sir.  Thank you for the extended stay.”

“Johnson.”

“Yes?”

“Check the phone, please.”

“But you’re holding the phone.”

“Not this phone; the computer… no, not that computer; the printer.”  There is a letter, in color, designed much in the way of a diploma.  It reads: ‘We hereby grant the deed of  ONE ONE-MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT  to a Mr. D. Gilligan, courtesy of the Avalanche Holding Company.’

“Who is D. Gilligan,” I inquire.

“Avalanche Holding Company… where do I know that name?”

“Who is D. Gilligan?”

* * *

“I tell you, I’ve had plenty of fine meals in my lifetime, but nothing in life compares to the pop! of the reds and blues and yellows after two weeks and two days in that monotonous hellhole.”  Gilligan has one hand on the steering wheel of his classic convertible sportcar, and the other is chomping on the blunt end of a thicket of seersucker cotton.  His teeth gnash expertly through the various tightly-wound fibers, and sit dryly at the back of his throat.

“Johnson, grab me a glass of water, will you?”

“You haven’t any water in here.”

“Grab it from the ocean, Johnson!  The coastline is your proverbial oyster!  Nothing can stop us now; ‘tis but a dreamland!”  I do exactly so, and he thanks me kindly while removing his other hand from the wheel to suck down the musty ocean water.  “Doesn’t it feel good to be alive once more, my friend?”  Johnson throws the glass across the interstate pavement, and places a pair of sunglasses at the tip of his nose.  “Miami Vice, Johnson!”

“I suppose it feels positively enlivening to be alive, Gilligan.”

“You know, Johnson, I’ve grown quite fond of you over these past two weeks in Hell.  You’ve danced with the inflatable, committed violent crimes, graciously surrendered your suit to my digestive tract, and then watched me strain and yank that very suit from my bloody asshole.”

“I suppose I have, Gilligan.  I’d like to think of us as partners; quick-thinking, detective types.  Struggling immensely through the hard times, and, as of now, enjoying the fresh and colorful breaths of a life on the run.”

“Indeed, Johnson, a positively liberating lifestyle.  That was very well put; have you considered writing the next great American novel?”

“I fancy a working class tale myself, Gilligan.  One which speaks to the fiercest plights of our downtrodden peoples; the chilling battle cry of a hundred million in unison, calling upon Marx’s inevitable ascent and ushering in the calm and slumbering twilight of man’s existence.”

“Yes; yes!  That which shall tickle furiously at the very pudenda of the working man’s discontented soul!”

“A tale of sound and fury, Gilligan, though told by an idiot it shall not be!  I envision the vanguard of a new and permanent order, under which our people shall at last flourish in material and intellectual prosperity.”

“I have always desired the stately mustache of an absolute ruler, Johnson.”

Perhaps I shall entitle it: Gilligan and Johnson’s ‘Two Weeks in Hell.’”

“Try this on for size: Johnson and Gilligan’s ‘Two Weeks in Hell.’”  The flattering sentiment hangs in the air, accompanied by a coastline peace and the low whirring of a well-functioning motor vehicle.  Before us, the sunset twists into deep blues and reds, the palette of God’s own improvised brush for the enjoyment of a few appreciative mortals.  The highway breeze spindles delicately about my bonneted hair; I feel like Elizabeth Taylor from the movies.  No - Thelma and Louise.  No - Bonnie and Clyde.  Outlaws on the run, mired in chaos; forced by our respective low upbringings to commit violent crimes, and finding in the process that we love the thrill of it all.  And what better place

“What better place,” I look over at Gilligan, “than sunny Miami, Florida.”

“I tell you, Johnson, I am not set at ease by this whole Avalanche Holding Company thing.  It feels like a classic ploy from the movies.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, what the hell would an avalanche be doing all the way out here in the sun and bayou?”

* * *

Feeling several miles beyond the civilisation of the metropolis, Gilligan and I look about the shipping yard with squinted eyes.  Silent apprehension creeps toward and festers under our fingernails.  It is thick with flour.  It pervades like bacterial mud-soup.  It leeches at the sides of our matching leather platforms; unties our premium polyester shoelaces; discolors the bottoms of our four-hundred dollar green-striped zoot suits.

“Tragedy strikes,” says Gilligan, “in the muddiest of crevices.”

“Vanity is not a luxury afforded to the working class,” I reply.

“Even Tony Montana had to dirty his shoes every once in a while.”

“Montana, you say?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t they have avalanches in Montana?”

“My God, Johnson!  Where is our  MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT????”  In pure shock and revulsion, I turn to see a strange man charge Gilligan with a crowbar and strike him twice across the skull!

“The zoot man is dead!” he exclaims in an Eastern European accent to his charging accomplice, a table-sized pizza box with eight menacing legs extending well over a foot into the air.

“O zoot está morto!” responds the beastly creation, its pizza-box mouth flapping triumphantly.

“You fucking bastard!” I shout, pulling a four-inch dagger from my green-striped zoot suit and promptly jabbing it several times into the side of the wicked Bulgarian swine.  He falls to his side wheezing, splattering mud across my green-striped zoot suit; he convulses erratically in the desperate fashion of an inflatable tube man.

“It is the tube man!” I respond horrifically, the full weight of this conspiracy before my disbelieving eyes.

“Ah, veja, ele é o cara do metrô, mas eu sou o Avalanche!”  The arachnid pizza box rears his back toward me, and reveals the letters upon it, spelled across the cardboard in faded ink: ‘COURTESY OF THE AVALANCHE HOLDING COMPANY.’

“It cannot- no, it cannot be!”  I fall back several steps as the table-board-eight-legged-freak inches toward me, cackling heinously, deafeningly, each leg stabbing inexorably into my predestined fate.  I hold to my dagger in trembling fear; the beast’s shrills grow nearer.

“A avalanche atinge o pior ao amanhecer!”  With a single crow-barred blow, the revived Gilligan collapses the monster in the stew-thickened mud.  The beasts transmutes immediately into a vile, Portuguese conquistador, whose twirling facial hair and fragile, South European frame are caked in the bayou earth.

“O sofrimento; O sofrimento,” he whispers despairingly.  Stimulated by the violent crime and the near death of my closest companion, I throw myself onto the useless conquistador and jab my dagger into his belly repeatedly.  Entrails spill out onto the tip, which I promptly wipe across his teary, dirt-plastered cheek.

The imperialist cunt cries aloud, pleading for mercy, claiming his innocence in the vain last breaths of the desperate and pathetic; in his infantile hysterics, I derive a cold and unfeeling pride, that of the unchallenged victor, forgetting the presence of my faithful companion for the briefest moment.  With a swift one-two, I pull his blood-suffocated tongue from his throat and cut horizontally, leaving a long gash which flows exceptionally across quivering lips.  Pulling the tongue apart, I peer in as one might at a piece of seared pork, to make sure it is of an acceptable internal temperature.

“O, ye sweet red-milk of the soon deceased, ye tender flesh of the befallen conquistador!”

“Johnson.”

“O, ye convulsing body of the sick Portuguese whore!  O, ye bloody triumph and arousal!”

“Johnson!”

“My Lord, Gilligan; when did you arrive?”

“Johnson, we must make it to the sea; the great pangs of our journey lie ahead yet.”

“A volcano with razors?”

“Indeed, my dearest friend.  Now, that  MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT has got to be around here somewhere.”

“Could it be near the sea?”

“Genius, Johnson!  Simply stupendous, on the ball, on top of one’s feet, thinking on the balls of your feet, Johnson!”

“It is Friday now.”

“That it is, Johnson, and the shallow Everglades are nearly behind us.  Phone for you, Johnson.”

“Hello?”

“This is your mother; when will you be coming back home to Nebraska?”

“Whenever; I have new a new friend now.”

“The meatloaf is almost cold,” she responds in a heaving sigh.

“I’ve committed serious violent crimes, Mother.”

“You’ve what?”

“And I’ll commit them against you if you’re not careful, you crustaceous, obscene, darling bovine cunt.”  I drop the phone in the water, and a stillness permeates the air.  Gilligan continues chewing on the sopping ends of a thin slice of seersucker cotton, stabbed through on the end by a wooden prod.

“Easier for bayou dipping,” Gilligan explains, to which I nod agreeably.

“Say, Gilligan?”

“What’s the word, Johnson.”

“I’ve been thinking.  We haven’t quite confronted the nature of our violent crimes, have we?”

“Death toll of three, Johnson.  Such is the life of crime-detectives on the run; we who’ve lived an extensive two weeks through the fiery plight of Hell, endured hardship and near starvation in the depths of a noir-influenced catatonia.”

“Well… what will I tell my kids?”

“Have you any children, Johnson?  This is pertinent information, you should’ve warned me sooner.  Kids carry diseases, Johnson.  Swampy diseases.  Dysentery, chlamydia, influenza, schizophrenia, the like.  Have you dysentery?”

“No; nothing of the sort.”

“Then get to the point, you sentimental bastard.”

“Well, provided I do.  How do I look them in the eye and tell them I murdered a table-sized, pizza-box, Portuguese, arachnid conquistador in cold blood?  That I truly enjoyed slicing open his tongue like a pan-seared pork fillet?”  Gilligan mulls over the question pensively for several moments, seeming quite perplexed by the potential moral quandary of our actions.  Looking ahead toward our destination, he responds:

“That is something you’ve got to confront, my dearest amigo.  In the meantime, we’ve a volcano with razors on our mind.”  Gilligan, finishing his piece of seersucker, looks about himself, and has tragically run dry of the digestible fabric.  He clutches impatiently at his stick, slaps it against the side of his boat to the tune of Smoke on the Water.  Smoke rises from the water; something sinister stirs beneath the surface.  “Say, could I get a slice of your shirt, Johnson?”

“Why, you’ve ate it all alread-”

“Johnson, look - a beastly gator; a dirty swamp-toothed reptilian of the sea!  Perhaps I shall poke it with this handy stick!”

“Gilligan, no!”

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

If you haven’t kept up with my redheaded OC’s escapades, I’d suggest not starting with this particular fic; if you have, well, my sincerest apologies are in order for ripping your guts out through your abdomen and feeding them directly into your mouth.

I don’t know what to say, really, other than this was always the natural conclusion I had in mind for her; there is something about bittersweet endings that seem to last longer in the minds of readers, and I daresay the strategist would never entangle himself with anyone who didn’t know when to leave a party before they overstayed their welcome.

[EDIT: Forgot to add the fic in its entirety under a cut. Graphic depictions of violence ahead, folks, so read on at your own risk.]

"Ready.”  

She can feel the cold bite of wet concrete hard against her kneecaps even through the leather of her raiment trousers; as the muzzle of an Imperial-issued subautomatic rifle hovers near her left temple, the only coherent thought the redhead is able to formulate in that moment is how utterly ridiculous it was of the Citadel to invest in uniforms that weren’t even fully waterproof.

Which is a ludicrous notion to entertain in and of itself, considering the present circumstances; the Magitek army that had infiltrated the royal estate during the peace accord was rounding up every last person on the premise—alive or otherwise—and the redhead is but one of three dozen palace occupants who have been forced to their knees on the front steps of the capital building in the pouring rain in preparation of their imminent execution, Niflheim-style.

The man kneeling beside her and dressed in the robes of a high councilman is sobbing so loudly she can hear his pitiful moans over the sound of raindrops pummeling the pavement. He likely had a front-row seat to Iedolas Aldercapt's treachery, she surmises, although how he even made it out of the signing with his life intact was another mystery entirely, unless he somehow managed to crawl over the dead and dying bodies of his fellow legislators in a desperate attempt to save himself.

Fool, she thinks. No one was ever going to make it out of that throne room alive.

She, on the other hand, might've escaped an untimely fate, had the Six shown more favor toward her; the redhead wasn’t even inside the building when the anarchy began, and was instead trolling the outside perimeter she and a fellow security guard had been assigned to when she first heard the sound of shots being fired. They were immediately caught up in a sea of pure pandemonium—confused staff and civilians alike had swarmed in a hundred different directions like a school of startled fish—and her colleague had twisted an ankle in a failed attempt at herding the human stampede. She was thus left with an impossible decision to make: leave him behind in the chaos, or stay by his side until help arrived.

Ignis would've never left one of his own behind, and neither did she.

Help never did arrive, however, so here she was, prone with her wrists bound and forced to listen to the sniveling of a politician who was likely as much at fault for the death of the king as the role Regis himself played in his own tragic downfall. Her thoughts turn toward the strategist, because what else was left for her to ponder besides the rifle aimed at her head and her own impending sense of doom; she thinks about the few brief moments of happiness she had with him, the passion and ecstasy and torment they shared that both delighted and haunted her each and every time she cried out his name, and of all the moments of happiness that had yet to come to pass. She never even got chance to tell him about her family—personal details were irrelevant within the confines of their agreement—from the parents she hoped were still alive and safe in the north, to the sister who had fallen in love with an Altissian merchant and had absconded with him to Lestallum years prior. No one would ever know what ultimately happened to her, she realizes, although if the whispers she had heard amongst her fellow prisoners on the march to meet the Draconian were true, and that Cor Leonis had indeed somehow made it out of the city alive, he might possibly be able to relay her destiny to bespectacled ears.

But the redhead never told her superior officer about her dalliance with Ignis Scientia, never broke her own promise of keeping their arrangement a secret, not even once; as the rain falls ever harder around her knees, and the cold soaks her nearly to the bone, she fears the strategist might not ever think to ask.

“Aim.”

The blood weeping out of the gash on her forehead she received when she was detained trickles down her cheek and mingles with the crimson locks of hair plastered to her face, but she doesn’t feel the pain; rather, an odd sense of calm envelopes her like a warm blanket as she remembers the last night she spent with him, when he spilled his seed inside of her mere moments after bringing her to her own climax, just as he had done a hundred times before. She wonders if perhaps Ignis had had a premonition, of sorts—it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least to discover the Scientia family line was graced with their own brand of Lucian magic—because it was the only time she could ever recall him being tender toward her in the aftermath of their relations, holding her tightly in his arms and running gentle fingers across her naked belly.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she loved him—even though she did, their arrangement be damned—because she thought there’d be time enough later to reconcile her true feelings for him, thought they could sit down objectively and redefine the boundaries of their accord upon his return, and she didn’t want to be a burden on his mind right before he set out on the road to Altissia with his three closest friends. But she’d gifted him a necklace with a pewter skull pendant as a lighthearted joke, teasingly saying it represented his desire for a swift death rather than to be caught wearing anything less that haute-couture fashion.

He’d given her little tangible to show for in return, other than a few pieces of designer lingerie and a plethora of love bites that turned into annoying bruises she’d nearly torn her hair out trying to conceal from more curious observers. But that was enough, she concedes, because the strategist had also given her a glimpse into the side of him few had ever witnessed, and the peace she feels knowing he was wasn’t in the crown city when the chaos ensued helps to stay the grief that threatens to suffocate her. Ignis might very well have gotten her with child, for all she knew—or perhaps the stress of the weeks leading up to the peace talks was simply to blame for the irregularity of her last menstrual cycle—but it doesn’t matter now, because the muzzle of the rifle is pressed hard up against her temple, and tears have begun to flow over the faint smile that touches her lips.  

“Fire.”

They say a person’s life flashes in front of their eyes the instant before death, but she doesn’t recall to mind the memories and milestones of her youth; instead, she sees the faces of the children they will never have together, a vision of a future that will never be.

Then the sharp crack of a bullet being fired pierces the air and enters her skull, and the redhead no longer sees anything at all.

[scepterofstardust]

to run, is to be bound to fall. (chapters 1 + 2)

Fandom: 방탄소년단 - BTS

External: AO3

Ratings/Warnings: Mentions of Drug Overdose, Non-Graphic Suicide, Major Character Death several times over

Summary: Yoongi's destiny, in the worlds that merged relentlessly together, was to lose. Lose, and remember. He watches, angelic shoulders low, as his other hearts slip through his fingers. He cries, and he waits.

Notes: Hello, everybody. This is my Wings story, pulled together as best I could from the films, VCRs, and MVs.

PROLOGUE.

This is Yoongi's story, as one of the seven hearts. As the one who fails and cannot forget.

Jungkook finds his death when he is hit by a car, and when they enter the maze, he finds it by corruption.

Jimin finds his death by freezing on a bathroom floor, and when they enter the maze, he finds it by gaining knowledge.

Hoseok finds his death by too many pills, and when they enter the maze, he finds his new purpose: to strike down the devil.

Taehyung causes the death of the man assaulting his mother, and it breaks him. When they enter the maze, the urge for destruction grows in him until he must be stopped.

Namjoon is left behind, isolated. When they enter the maze, he finds his duty as a teacher. Perhaps he will teach corruption, or perhaps he will lead into temptation.

Jin is forever doomed to be the last of them. When they enter the maze, he must watch his seven hearts be broken again and again, and he must never forget. He must never stop trying to save them from their fall.

Yoongi meets his end by fire, but just once. When they enter the maze, he has already failed to save them. His destiny is for them to continue to slip through his fingers, until Jin can find a way to keep them safe. His destiny is to lose, and to remember. He watches, angelic shoulders low, as his other hearts slip through his fingers. He cries, and he waits.

Together, they run down fragmented paths, into different worlds and different roles. There is no end in sight.

DREAM.

Would I be different, if I had chosen a different path, if I had stopped and looked back?

Yoongi's eyes slowly focused on the dark road ahead of him. It was nighttime, the occasional streetlamp pooling light on the asphalt. No cars came for a long time, and his footsteps were the only sound in the silence. They echoed eerily, bouncing into the forest that caged the road in on either side. Yoongi didn't bother to stay on the shoulder, knowing that if a car came he'd hear it long before it reached him. He sighed and reached into his pocket, fishing out his phone. He selected a contact that his bleary eyes couldn't quite read. The dull noise of the dial tone droned against his ear as he waited. There was a click as someone answered on the other end.

"Hello?" Yoongi heard himself say in a strained voice.

"Hyung," Jungkook breathed in his ear. "Oh, you called. I was afraid you wouldn't." Yoongi scrunched up his nose in confusion.

"You were waiting for me to call you? Why?"

"Hyung, don't you know?" Jungkook asked, disappointment coloring his tone. "It's almost the end. It's almost time for me. Weren't you going to come find me?"

"Time? Time for what?" Yoongi was at a loss, scratching his head as he walked. "What are you talking about, kid?"

"Hyung," Jungkook pleaded, his voice cracking. "You have to help me, please. Don't you know?" Yoongi's stomach tightened with dread.

"I...I'm sorry, Kook, I really don't know what you mean. What's going on?"

"Hyung..." Jungkook sobbed into the phone. Yoongi stopped dead in his tracks. "You...you can't let me go. You're g-gone and if you're not here, I'll never see you again. Please, you have to go now. Before it's too late."

"Jungkook," Yoongi started, alarmed. "Breathe, okay? Why don't you tell me what's wrong?" His head spun through all the possibilities, each more horrific than the last.

"No," Jungkook whispered. "You're going to be too late."

"I-I won't be," Yoongi insisted. "Tell me what I can do."

"You have to hurry and find me, hyung," Jungkook told him shakily. "Or I'll never come back. I warned you, remember that." Before Yoongi could ask any more questions, he heard the dial tone again. Jungkook had hung up. Yoongi stared at the screen, dumbfounded. Find him? But where was he? How was he supposed to know?

He let his hand, clutching his phone, fall to his side. His eyes darted around, observing the road and the trees beyond it. Where could Jungkook be from here? There were no signs, no bus stations, nothing. He began walking quickly, searching for some sort of clue. His phone, vibrating with an incoming call, startled him. He clicked the accept button without looking.

"Hyung?" Jungkook. "Where are you?"

"Kook, where the hell are you? I'm out in the middle of nowhere, are you at a diner or something? How am I supposed to find you if I don't-"

"Hyung," Jungkook interrupted, raising his voice. "Hyung, you have to run. Now. You'll find me if you keep running. Hurry."

"But-"

"Yoongi-hyung," Jungkook stammered. "I-I'm sorry."

"What? Jungkook-" The click on the other end said he'd hung up. Yoongi blinked, stunned. He'd never heard Jungkook sound so distraught.

He shoved his phone into his pocket and started running. Worry made breathing more difficult, and he fought off dizziness as he passed the streetlights one by one.

He hadn't made it far when he saw the headlights of a car, coming from the top of the hill. Yoongi hurried towards it.

Protesting tires shrieked into the still air, followed by the sickening crunch of glass shattering. Metal groaned as the car landed on its side.

Yoongi felt like someone had ripped his heart out of his chest. Getting up the hill hurt, core burning with the lack of oxygen. When he saw the wreck, he froze.

The car was tipped over, the front hood completely smashed and the windshield in pieces. The tires spun without traction. The headlights flashed.

But more importantly, there was a body a few feet from the front bumper. It was a young boy, splayed out face down on the pavement. Blood stained the asphalt beneath him.

"No," Yoongi gasped, stumbling towards the car. "No, no, no..." He thought he knew him, thought he knew the curve of his shoulders and that brown hair, but he wanted to be wrong. He needed to be wrong.

He wasn't.

Yoongi dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain as his knees scraped against the pavement. Shaking hands gripped the boy by his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Yoongi clamped down on the scream that tried to burst out of him.

Jungkook's face was marred, wrecked by deep cuts and burns from bare skin grinding against the asphalt. Red stains bloomed everywhere, blood running into his hair and down his neck. Bruising was beginning to appear on his mouth, probably from his teeth jarring when he hit the ground, and he'd bitten through his lip, crimson trickling from the wound. His body was limp, eyes shut as Yoongi tried shaking him awake.

"Jungkook," Yoongi called out, fear making his voice waver. "Jungkook! Can you hear me?" He got no response, and tears stung at Yoongi's eyes, spilling out before he could stop them. "I'm sorry," he croaked, leaning down and wrapping his arms around the other boy's torso. "I'm so sorry, you told me to hurry but, I wasn't fast enough, was I?" Ice splintered through his veins as the horror settled into him.

You have to hurry and find me, hyung.

I warned you, remember that.

"This is all my fault," he cried, clutching at Jungkook. "Please, please wake up, you're not dead, Jungkook, you can't be, please-" He leaned up, holding the boy closer to him. Jungkook's head lolled back, and Yoongi choked on a sob. "No, you can't be. You have to wake up, you can't be..." Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut, resting his head on Jungkook's chest. His head was ringing as he cried harder and begged, "This can't be my fault, Kook, you can't let it be, please don't make me live with this, please I'm so sorry-"

Yoongi jolted in shock when he heard a distant groan, and Jungkook lifted his head a tiny bit. His eyes were opening, just barely. "Jungkook?"

"Hyung," Jungkook murmured. "Hyung, I'm sorry." Yoongi pulled him close, embracing him tightly.

"No," he pleaded, "don't say that."

"I can't do anything," Jungkook said against his neck. "I'm sorry."

"S-Stop it," Yoongi bit out, gripping him harder. "Don't say you're sorry. This isn't your fault, it's mine."

"I'm...s-sorry hyung, I tried, I...I tried so hard..." Jungkook stuttered. "I didn't want this..."

"I know," Yoongi assured him. "You tried, kid, it's okay." It wasn't okay, it wasn't okay at all, but he felt the need to comfort him. The younger's eyes were clouded with pain, and he just wanted to make it easier.

"I didn't..." Jungkook shuddered, and he was crying against Yoongi's shirt. "I didn't see the car coming..."

Yoongi shushed him gently.

"Just breathe, Kook. Everything's gonna be okay."

"I-I don't think so," Jungkook mumbled. "Not here."

"Not here?"

"If you...if you protect us, it will be." Jungkook's hand tightened around the sleeve of Yoongi's hoodie, tugging it down off his shoulder. "I promise it'll be okay, one day."

Yoongi shut his eyes, warmth trickling down his face.

"Whatever you say," he answered hoarsely. "I'll believe you, just this once."

Jungkook carded blood-stained fingers through Yoongi's hair, a small smile on his lips.

"Good," he panted, and the sound that came out of Yoongi when he saw the blood filling the other boy's mouth was not human. Red was shining against his lips, between his teeth. Jungkook attempted to say something else, but he gagged, eyelids fluttering.

"Jungkook?" Yoongi rasped, holding him by his shoulders.

"Jungkook?!"

Yoongi's body jolted as he woke, eyes flying open. He sat up too fast, regretting it immediately as his aching limbs protested. His head was pounding painfully as he steadied himself against the furniture.

"Ah. There you are." Hoseok's voice came from across the room. Yoongi grimaced and put a hand to his temple, squinting and trying to focus his blurry vision. "I was wondering if I would have to kick you like last time."

"What?" His voice was jagged, a foreign sound to his own ears. Hoseok stared down at him, seeming amused. Yoongi wasn't coherent enough to be offended.

"Don't "what" me. What on Earth were you thinking, coming home and getting into a fight with Jungkook? He said he was trying to talk you down but you snapped and started breaking stuff."

"What?" The other boy repeated breathlessly.

Hoseok gave a pointed glance at the wall closest to him, where the shattered remains of furniture were piled.

"I don't..." Yoongi slowly turned his head, taking in his surroundings. The sunlight coming in the narrow window glared directly into his vision, and he winced.

The light burning his eyes seemed a lot like a car's headlights.

He rushed to stand, clutching the couch behind him for balance. He remembered, bit by horrifying bit, a horror film on fast forward.

He swayed on his feet, hearing the crunch of broken glass and feeling phantom fingers grabbing at his clothes. He clutched at his chest, feeling a pain sitting there at his core.

He knew failure too well, knew how it felt it in his bones, how it manifested in a tightness in his heart that was making it hard to breathe. He had failed. Someone, somewhere.

"Jungkook," he demanded. "Where's Jungkook?" He had to know, had to see Jungkook's face intact and whole and here. The possibility of Jungkook's fragile head cracking against the pavement, blood running down his face, lips turning blue, was enough to make him feel like vomiting. He shoved the thought away, praying it was his mind playing tricks.

"What? Oh, he's playing cards with Jimin." Yoongi ignored the ringing in his ears as he pushed past Hoseok.

"Jungkook!" He called hoarsely. Hoseok sighed.

"You're still drunk, Yoongi. Sit down. Jungkook will still be there tomorrow." He gave a sunny smile, meant to coax Yoongi into obeying. He grabbed Yoongi's sleeve. "Stop it, you're gonna make yourself puke." The look Yoongi shot him was pure venom.

"No." His tone was edged with a violent promise, and Hoseok's eyes widened in trepidation.

"Yoongi?" He asked, alarmed. Yoongi wrenched out of his grip and pushed the door open clumsily. His footsteps echoed heavily on the wood floors as he hurried into the front room. He stopped in his tracks in the doorway.

Jungkook and Jimin were sprawled on the couch, holding cards in their hands. Jimin pouted in dismay at his draw, making Jungkook laugh. Yoongi watched his friend's eyes crinkle as he leaned forward, trying to poke Jimin's cheeks to tease him. His vision swayed, blurring the image. He sighed in relief.

It must have been louder than he imagined, because they both turned to look.

Jimin was smiling brightly, carelessly, and Yoongi felt like he'd been sucker punched. It faded quickly, though. He lowered his cards and studied Yoongi.

"Yoongi? Are you okay? You look sick." Yoongi couldn't make himself answer, knowing his voice would waver and betray him. Jungkook twisted around and saw him. He grinned cheekily.

"Good morning, hyung. Over your Incredible Hulk phase yet?" Normally, Yoongi would have snorted at him or fired back something about him being a brat, but he was too focused on looking Jungkook over. There was no blood, no injury at all except a small band-aid on his face.

"I'm sorry," Yoongi offered weakly. He distantly recalled wrestling with Jungkook, shoving him over and yelling, furniture breaking against the wall. His throat closed up, and he stiffened. If he started to cry, they would definitely know something was off. His friend stood up and walked over to punch him in the arm playfully.

"It's okay," Jungkook assured him. "Something's gotta keep me on my toes, right?" He didn't fool Yoongi, not really; he saw the underlying worry in his face, the caution. Yoongi tilted his head to the side, checking for more bandages. When he found none, he let out a long breath.

"It's not," Yoongi whispered, and his voice cracked. Both Jungkook and Jimin blinked at him in astonishment. They'd rarely ever seen Yoongi look truly upset, he usually hid it or pushed the feelings away so they wouldn't see. He couldn't do that, not today.

Jungkook, taken aback, hugged him gingerly.

"Hey, hyung, it's really okay. Don't be sad. I'm not angry or anything, it's okay," he insisted. Yoongi gave a delayed nod before pulling back. Jungkook smiled uncertainly.

Looking at his white t-shirt, Yoongi imagined it covered in blood. He sucked on his teeth and pulled his eyes away.

Jimin was watching him, forehead creased in concern.

"Hey, Kook," he heard Jimin say over his head. "How about we say the game's paused for today?" Jungkook swallowed, eyes flitting between Jimin and Yoongi, and then left, shutting the door behind him. Yoongi thought about following, but Jimin had put his cards down and was looking at him with clear anxiety. Instead, he crossed the room and fell to his knees next to the couch, biting down on his lip. After a moment's hesitation, Yoongi laid his head on Jimin's lap, letting out a sigh. "Hey," Jimin said softly. "What's the matter?" Yoongi screwed his eyes shut, trying to contain the burning tears that surfaced. "You don't feel well?" Jimin's hand carded through his hair. Yoongi shook his head silently. "What is it, then? Tell me."

"I couldn't sleep," Yoongi rasped. It was the truth, mostly. He thought it was. Jimin hummed in sympathy, continuing to stroke his hair. Yoongi swallowed against the lump in his throat, flinching when he felt tears spilling down his cheeks. He wiped them away quickly with trembling hands.

Jimin tugged gently on the shoulder of Yoongi's shirt, trying to get him to turn towards him. At last he complied and lifted his head to look up at Jimin. Jimin was frowning in worry as he brushed Yoongi's bangs out of his eyes.

"What's going on, Yoongi? You're really upset, I can tell."

"Told you," Yoongi said quietly, and it stung, because he didn't have a better explanation. "Couldn't sleep."

"Why not?" Yoongi lowered his head, resting his cheek on Jimin's leg again.

"I kept dreaming."

"About what?" Yoongi barely had the strength in him to meet Jimin's gaze. He debated refusing to tell him, but he knew after all these years if he could trust anyone, it was Jimin. He had always known how to comfort all of them, had always known them better than they had known themselves. There were no ramifications, when it came to Jimin. If he told him, he would accept it as it was.

"It, was um," he whispered. "It was Jungkook..." He saw it all behind his eyes, saw glass shards flying, a car's headlights coming too fast, tires losing their traction, a distant road that should have been empty. Jungkook's battered face under the dim street lamps.

"I-I couldn't find him," Yoongi croaked, a sob threatening to claw its way out of his chest. "I couldn't get to him in time, I couldn't..."

"What do you mean?" Jimin murmured.

"He-" Yoongi's hands fisted the fabric on Jimin's legs as he fought not to completely lose his composure. "He was dead, Jiminie, he was dead and it was all my fault because I couldn't find him-" Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. Jimin rubbed his back comfortingly.

"It's just a dream, Yoongi. He's here, isn't he?" Yoongi cautiously looked up, finding Jimin smiling at him so gently, and it felt so much like home. Like safety.

"He's here," Yoongi said reluctantly as Jimin kept tracing circles on his back. Why did that not sound convincing? It was true.

"Of course he is." Jimin stroked his thumb across Yoongi's forehead, covered in sweat, and paused before leaning back on the couch. "You have to rest, you've barely shut your eyes all week. Do you want to sleep out here with me, maybe?" Normally, Yoongi would say no. But the fact was, he wanted to. If he tried sleeping alone, without another presence, he would just fall back into his fears. So Yoongi nodded wordlessly, and Jimin patted the space beside him. "Come here, then." Yoongi clambered up beside him, resting his arms across his chest and closing his eyes. Jimin scooted over a bit more, letting Yoongi's head fall onto his shoulder. The proximity was nothing new, after all, all the boys shared the trailer and as people came and went they had all fallen asleep beside each other, on top of each other sometimes, after long nights. But there was a new comfort, Yoongi found, in feeling Jimin's warmth soaking through his shirt and creeping onto his skin. In distantly feeling Jimin's pulse in his ribs. In Jimin's breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The consistency, the undeniable quality of it was reassuring when he didn't feel certain of everything else. Yoongi was exhausted, he realized now, and he really hadn't closed his eyes all week. He was already drifting off, convinced that it was safe enough, when Jimin spoke, the vibrations a pleasant hum in Yoongi's chest. "Hey." Yoongi grunted in response, and Jimin chuckled softly. "Yoongi."

"What."

"You know none of us are going anywhere, right?" Yoongi shuddered as he inhaled, feeling nauseous.

"You...don't know that."

"Sure I do."

"No, you don't, Jiminie." Yoongi didn't understand why he felt the need to fight back. "You don't, I-"

"I trust you, Yoongi." Jimin interrupted defiantly. "All of us do. You're strong. You wouldn't fail, and even if you did, I know you would have done everything you could. You like to front like you're lazy, but you're not. You fight until you can't anymore, always. I know you wouldn't do any less for us. Don't feel guilty, if a day comes that you can't succeed. I don't ever want that burden on your shoulders, understand?" Yoongi opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first.

"I'll try not to," he replied shakily. "If that's really what you think of me."

"It is," Jimin murmured. "Promise."

Yoongi fell asleep that night easily, to the feeling of the other boy's heartbeat and the assurance of Jungkook's toothy smile on the back of his eyelids.

Yoongi woke eventually in the morning, a tad irritable from the sun insistently shining into his eyes, making it impossible to ignore the light and sleep later into the day. He drowsily stretched his arms over his head, arching his back like a cat. He'd forgotten that he was nearly on top of Jimin, and accidentally smacked him in the face. He looked down at the offended grunt Jimin let out, eyes still closed. His hair, dyed orange, looked like wildfire in the sunshine.

"Ah, sorry," he said, frowning at the dry discomfort in his throat. His head still hurt, although he'd slept most of it off. Jimin sleepily giggled at his clumsiness.

"S'fine," the other boy slurred, sitting up against the back of the couch. Yoongi scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and turned his head, sniffing.

"Is that coffee?" Jimin squinted in the direction of the kitchen.

"Probably, I heard somebody in there a while ago." Yoongi wobbled to his feet and headed towards the smell, cursing under his breath when he banged his hip on the doorframe. Jimin, right behind him, hid a laugh behind his hand.

When the two of them shuffled into the tiny kitchenette, Namjoon was already pouring coffee into a styrofoam cup, dressed lazily with a beanie pulled over his disheveled hair. He raised an eyebrow in their direction, lips curling into a teasing smirk.

"Up before noon today, Yoongi? I didn't think man could change his ways so quickly." He got a snort in response as Yoongi took the coffeepot from him.

"It was only because he assaulted me," Jimin put in, watching him unceremoniously dump black liquid into a cup. Yoongi fixed him with an affronted glare.

"You said it was fine."

"I did," Jimin answered, eyes crinkling into half-moons as he grinned, holding out a cup of his own. Yoongi pressed his lips into a fine line and reluctantly filled it before dumping the empty pot in the sink. Namjoon chuckled fondly at them and shook his head.

"Be back before lunch," he said by way of farewell, raising his cup in a toast before striding out the door. Yoongi and Jimin watched him go before sitting at the beaten up wood table they all used for eating. Soon after, they heard someone else trudging into the kitchen.

"Who drank all the coffee already?" Seokjin groaned. He peeked around the cabinets at them. Jimin waved coyly. Yoongi only smirked.

"Don't get mad, hyung," Jungkook chided as he opened his mouth to scold them. "At least Yoongi's awake."

"Who knew the eighth wonder of the world was among us, just waiting to be discovered," Seokjin grumbled sarcastically, measuring out coffee grounds. Jungkook patted his shoulder in consolation before joining them at the table with a granola bar in his hand.

"Why are you awake, though? I'm impressed."

"Yah, why does everyone have to ask that? Can't I just decide to wake up earlier?" Yoongi protested.

"Not when you're Min Yoongi."

"Why not?"

"Because you literally never open your eyes until we make food or Seokjin-hyung tries to wake you and gets mauled."

"That's accurate, I guess," Yoongi admitted, raising the cup to his lips. Jungkook gave a modest shrug. As he did, Yoongi noticed that the bandage was still sitting on his left cheekbone. The sickness in his stomach came rushing back, and he took a big gulp of his coffee before setting the cup on the table. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to remind himself Jungkook wasn't upset.

"Something wrong?" Jimin broke in, taking him from his thoughts. Yoongi took too long to deny it with a shake of his head, and Jimin regarded him dubiously, leaning back in his chair. He could never get anything past him.

"Are you still thinking I'm gonna be mad at you?" Jungkook inquired, chewing his granola bar. "Because you're wasting your time, hyung." Yoongi blinked at him, surprised that he'd figured it out. Jungkook smiled sheepishly and swallowed, making a motion for him to wait a moment. "I know you feel bad, but really, it's not a big deal. You weren't yourself and I was just trying to help. It was my choice to get in your way."

"Get in my way?" Yoongi fiddled with the rim of his cup nervously. "What do you mean?"

"You don't remember anything, do you? Probably too drunk." Jungkook didn't say it unkindly, but Yoongi still stiffened, biting back a wince.

"No, sorry kid. Nothing. Why were we even fighting?" Jimin's eyes widened on the other side of the table.

"You were just really upset. I still don't know what it was but you came in and started screaming and you wouldn't stop. I tried to calm you down but it just seemed to make it worse. You threw me off and we ended up fighting. We punched each other a few times. Also, you threw a chair into the wall." Yoongi looked down into his coffee before rubbing a hand against his temple, letting go of a sigh.

"Ah...I'm sorry, Kook."

"Yeah, I got that," Jungkook retorted. "Quit saying it." Yoongi paused, working his jaw. "Hyung, don't feel bad. You were just...scary and I don't want to see you like that. None of us do. I was only trying to help." Jungkook took another bite of his bar and chewed it with unnecessary force. "Not your fault. Okay?" He raised his eyebrows and pointed at Yoongi, daring him to give a contrary answer.

"Kid, you don't make any sense to me," Yoongi finally scoffed. Jungkook's eyebrows climbed comically higher, insistent. Jimin pushed a laugh down his throat, hiding it with his coffee cup. The oldest of them glanced at the ceiling as if he was searching for patience. "Fine, I get it. I should let it go."

"There you go," Jungkook affirmed with a click of his fingers. With that, he stood up, tossing his wrapper into the garbage before waving and snatching up his coat. "I'm going out with Taehyung, see you guys later. Don't destroy anything else while I'm gone, Yoongi-hyung." Yoongi barked a halfhearted curse at him as he scurried out of the room. Jimin did laugh this time, chuckling behind his hand.

"What about you?" He asked Seokjin, who was rifling around in the drawers. "Plans?"

"I have to see what groceries I can scrounge up to keep here," Seokjin responded, scribbling something down on a loose piece of paper. "And get more coffee," he added sulkily.

"Thanks, Mom," Yoongi jabbed at him, not missing a beat.

"Hey, do you want to die today?" Seokjin threatened, leaning over the counter. The smile on Yoongi's lips was crooked.

"Maybe."

The memory of that morning faded slowly, eroded into nothing but a wisp of coffee and smugness inside Yoongi's veins. He hadn't known what was coming, then. He hadn't seen the warning.

[boltthrutheheart]

“It Only Hurts When I Breathe”

Bethyl Appreciation Week

Day 7: Journey

This is an excerpt from my Bethyl fic “It Only Hurts When I Breathe” (which can be found (x)here(x)). This was a post-Coda fic I wrote to purge some of the tragedy I was feeling after that episode. In this fic, Daryl realizes that he had dreamed of a full life with Beth after they ran from the prison and were alone only to be woken from that dream to the cruel reality that she was gone. This is the end of the fic which is a journey, there is tragedy, but the ending might be just a little beautiful. Excerpt under read more for some violence and language.

 Country Road, Take Me Home

           He didn't know where they were headed. Didn't care. Nothin' mattered. Survival...surviving...that didn't matter neither, but Daryl couldn't turn that off. It had been a death march since Rick woke him...ripped him from his last dream of Beth when walkers were tearing into the ramshackle house where they sheltered...left her behind...in the ground. They'd been running for their lives ever since, hitting wave after wave of the walking dead. Days and nights passed without measure; he didn't have the will to count...didn't need to. He slept, woke up, fought, ran...and now his dreams were as empty as his soul.

           For a while, it seemed like the end was comin' for all of 'em; no one could keep up their pace, not even him. But then, the walkers stopped coming. Everyone collapsed where they were and slept the night, and the walkers still didn't come. At first light, Daryl slipped away unnoticed. Hunting...even he was hungry, and he didn't want to live. In the woods alone, several times Daryl thought that maybe he would just keep on walking, not look back...but something stopped him...what, he didn't know.

           The two lane country road caught him by surprise, the trees and scrub brush growing up right to its edge. Standing on the cracked pavement, Daryl couldn't take his eyes off it...that sign. It wasn't an official sign or nothing, but it was a sign all the same. His ass hitting the ground, just sittin' in the middle of the road, crossbow in his lap, string of squirrels discarded beside him, he was just staring up at it...

           "I'm a tracker..." Daryl tracked stuff, found shit...always knew the right direction to go, how to find his way home, wherever that was...had his entire life, but now...

           You really don't know this game? When Beth suggested a game, Daryl had been reluctant but curious all in one. And he didn't know it.

           I never needed a game to get lit before.

           Wait, are we starting?

           How do you know this game? For just a second, Daryl wondered if Beth wasn't as innocent as she seemed, schooling him on a drinking game, but his doubt was unfounded.

           My friends played. I watched. Okay, I'll start. I've never shot a crossbow. So now you drink.

           Ain't much of a game. At least he knew he could drink little Beth under the table.

           That was a warm-up. Now you go.

           I don't know. He knew lots of things...just not things he wanted her to know. Now, he would give anything to have the chance to tell her everything...

           Just say the first thing that pops into your head. 

           I've never been out of Georgia...

           "I've never been out of Georgia," Daryl confessed out loud, but there was no one to hear him.

           The sign...that fucking sign...its words painted in scrawling script...

           Now Leaving Georgia. Hope You Keep Georgia on Your Mind.

           It was just a state line...an arbitrary boundary slapped down on a piece of paper a couple hundred years ago. It didn't mean shit. He'd probably crossed over it out in the woods a couple times hunting, but this...it was different.

           Georgia, it was the place where he was bred and born and raised, but none of that mattered shit. But Georgia, it was where Beth was born. It was where he fell in love, had a life with her, no matter how short the time. And it was where Beth...died...where she would be forever. Daryl knew this country road wasn't gonna take him home.

           Once again, Daryl tried to find it, twist the warm silver ring around his finger, but he only found bare, calloused flesh.  He wanted his wedding ring back...but it never existed no matter how much his head told him it did...how many times his fingers went to find it, touch it, only to realize there was nothing there. Never had been. More than anything in the world, he just wanted his Beth back.

           "I'm a tracker, but Beth...I've never...been so lost..."

 End of Watch

           The gunfire had brought him back to reality, to the danger of their world. He might not have wanted to live...but the others...his group, Daryl didn't want them to die. He never made it to them though...never saw if they survived or not, if what he did made any difference. The herd was too thick...there were too many. After the first bite, Daryl knew he was dead, just livin' on borrowed time, and the clock was running out quick. But he wasn't just gonna lay down and die...he was gonna take as many fucking walkers down with him as he could. Nothin' left to lose. When there was nothing else coming at him, Daryl knew he could rest. Laying down in the center of the carnage, in a clear spot that seemed to be waiting just for him...he was so exhausted. Not just 'cause it was the end, but 'cause life...it finally beat him...and now, he didn't have to fight anymore. He could give up. Daryl remembered that day, running from the prison, when him and Beth fell in the field when neither of them could run anymore. What if he'd just reached out and took her hand? Would it have all been different, fate changed in that one moment, or would he have still failed her? It didn't matter anymore. They were both dead.

           It was odd...he could feel the blood seepin' outta his veins...outta his wounds...but it didn't hurt. It was almost euphoric. Looking up at the canopy of leaves far above his head, it was so bright, the light shining through, and he could feel the sun on his face. It was warm...comforting. It was always gonna be like this...Daryl knew it all along. He would go down fightin' to the bloody end. And maybe that gave the others a chance...that was all he could hope for. In the final moments, all a man could really do was try to make peace with his life. Daryl...there was a time when he thought he'd go out regretting the things he'd done, not the things he didn't do, but that wasn't true anymore. He regretted all the things he never got to do with Beth, but what he never did was done. Daryl was good with most of it. In his heart, he knew he'd done his best to balance the scales of his life...he'd done his best, might not have succeeded, but he tried. If it wasn't good enough, he'd take whatever judgment was passed down on him. Closing his eyes as his life drained onto the dirt, she was all he could see...all he could remember...the one purely good and beautiful thing in his life. Beth...love...and her sweet, innocent smile. His first love...only love. The love he never knew he wanted, but maybe, just maybe he deserved it after all...

           Something strange...it took all his focus to realize it...understand. There was a hand gripping his...a man's hand. Holding it so tight. He wasn't gonna die alone.

           "You're my brother...." The voice was shaking and pained, but it was Rick...

           Joe! Hold up...these are good people...You want blood. I get it. Take it from me...

           Daryl made that offer once, meant it then, and this time...finally God got something right. The others...they were gonna live. It was so bright, even with his eyes closed. He tried and thought he was able...thought he squeezed back.

           "My...brother..." he managed.

                 *                      *                      *                      *                      *

           God dammit. Rick almost fell to his knees at the edge of the walker corpses that ringed Daryl's body. "No...no..."

           He knew Daryl wasn't gonna make it...didn't want to after losing Beth, but Rick  wasn't ready to lose him...and not this way. Daryl had gone out fighting though, true to who he'd been, what kind of survivor Rick knew he was from the moment he stepped out of the woods the first time they'd met...dangerous and deadly. Rick bowed his head, palming his Python, and taking a deep breath before he stepped in and did what had to be done. It was gonna be him. Daryl deserved that. Standing next to Daryl's body, taking aim, Rick cringed, seeing...realizing the cruel truth. He was still breathing...he wasn't dead. Crouching down beside him, not even sure if Daryl was conscious...hoping he wasn't...Rick took his hand, holding it firm...trying to work up the nerve.

           "You're my brother..." Was his voice coming out at all?

           Rick knew he waited too long to tell Daryl, but men like them, telling things like that...most of the time, they were understood but went unsaid. He'd waited until Daryl offered to sacrifice his life for him and Carl...and today...Daryl didn't just offer, he made that sacrifice...paid that bill. But when was the moment it became true...Daryl...his brother? It hit him hard when he remembered. Dale...it was his group, they followed him, suffered because of his choices. Dale was his responsibility, but Daryl stepped forward, taking his revolver, took his burden away, made it his own.

           Sorry brother.

           That was when Rick knew.

           It was weak, but he felt it, Daryl's hand gripping his. Maybe it was just reflex. Maybe Daryl wasn't even there anymore...couldn't think or feel...

           "My...brother..." It was so quiet...raspy, but they were coherent words.

           God...no... Daryl shouldn't be awake, much less alive. He wasn't bleedin' out fast enough. He was suffering.

           Rick aimed his weapon twice, pulling it away each time, not having the courage to do what needed to be done, still holding Daryl's hand. In that moment, Rick was glad he hesitated because Daryl had last words. They were clear and solid for a dying man...a man bleeding out on the ground.

           "Beth...I'll love you...for the rest of my life..."

           It wasn't meant for him to hear, but Rick needed to hear it. Squeezing Daryl's hand as tight as he could, Rick rested the muzzle of his gun at Daryl's temple. He hoped with everything he was that in this final moment, Daryl was seeing Beth.

           "Go to her, Daryl...go to Beth. Your watch is ended brother."

           The whole forest went still and silent as the gunshot echoed...and it stayed silent in honor of Daryl. Rick's revolver fell to the ground as he crashed to his knees in Daryl's blood. Daryl's hand was limp, but Rick still couldn't let go.

           "You were the best of us..."

 Pass Slowly

           The rumble...the growling...it was like music to his ears. And the vibration...havin' a bike between his legs again made Daryl remember what living was supposed to feel like. The sun was warm on his bare arms. The whole world seemed too bright for his taste, but he wasn't complaining none. As far as he could see, the highway was clear and open, not a car...anything in sight, but he wasn't goin' as far as the eye could see. He was going somewhere specific...he just didn't know where...but he turned off onto Fairburn road. It was familiar...there was a memory there...

           Home...That wasn't right, was it?

           Rick said you had others on the highway, that big traffic snarl? Backtrack to Fairburn road. Two miles down is our farm. You'll see the mailbox.

           The gravel road was bumpy, his bike throwing up a cloud of dust around him as he took it faster than he should've, but reckless abandon wasn't really feelin' that reckless anymore...like it didn't even matter...and he had somewhere to be. Daryl stopped, parked, grabbed his crossbow off his bike, not really knowing what was up ahead. It was so bright and light that he couldn't make out anything, but as he stepped forward, ready for whatever was gonna be thrown at him, either his eyes started to focus or the veil of light started to part like fog. He could see...her...he saw Beth. He was frozen...the picture of her too perfect to be real, sittin' on a set of steps in a little white cotton dress, pale hair spilling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her hands were in her lap, and she was looking down like she was just passing the time...waiting for something. But then Beth looked up, suddenly saw him...realized he was there. Standing up slowly, her hands came to cover her mouth, in what? Shock? Surprise? It hit Daryl too...all the memories...the cruel realities slamming him hard. It was all just a dream again...

           But Beth was there...and she'd been gone for so very long. He stumbled back a step, then his crossbow crashed to the ground just a few seconds before he did. Daryl's hands were shaking, and he couldn't catch his breath for nothin'. Then she was in his lap, her arms tight around his neck, pressed so hard against him. He wrapped his arms around Beth knowing that even if he swore never to let go, this dream could break that promise in an instant, ripping him away from her, and there was nothin' he could do about it.

           "Beth, I'll love you for the rest of my life."

           It came out urgent. Everything he wanted...needed to say...he had to say it now 'cause he might never get the chance. He could feel Beth nodding against his neck, accepting his love.

           "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you..."    

           "Shh..." Beth pulled back, looking at him, brushing his hair outta his face and smiling.

           Daryl caught her hand, was gonna kiss it, but stopped as the light caught the glint of metal, the ring wrapped around her finger. Closing his eyes...trying to stop himself but he couldn't, Daryl looked down at his hand...and it was there. His wedding ring was finally there too. This dream...this dream was gonna be too devastating to recover from. Who was he kidding? He was never gonna recover anyway. He couldn't look up at Beth. He was too broken.

           "Daryl, you don't have to protect me anymore. Your watch is over." Beth's sweet words were mixed with just a hint of sadness, but they soothed his sorry soul.

           She leaned under his bowed head, nudging him, placing the most innocent kiss on his lips. It all felt so real...maybe he didn't want it to feel this real anymore. It was just too painful.

           The gunshot startled him. Looking up, Daryl pulled Beth close again so he could shield her. But had she even heard? How could she not? It'd been so close. The brightness around them started to fade...it was fading to black. Daryl knew what was happening...the gunshot...it was waking him up to the horrible, cold world where he was forced to run, fight...survive, for what? Nothing. The dream was over...

...until it wasn't. The light faded, but only until the world around him became normal...he could see clearly. There was nothing tugging him away, pulling him back to the pain. Daryl felt peace. He knew...the gunshot wasn't the end of his dream...it was his end...the end of his life.

Save Sorrow For The Souls In Doubt

           Beth was looking down on him, smiling. He knew...they both knew...he didn't have to leave...he never had to leave her again.

           He saw the tears on her cheeks...not sad tears, and he heard Beth's soft laughter while she was crying. Brushing them away gently, Daryl understood now what it meant to cry when you where happy...because there were tears in his eyes too...for them.

           "What...what is this?" Daryl managed, trying to work it all out in his head.

           Everything around him...he understood now...Beth's old farm house...she'd been sittin' on its steps waiting on him to get there...to get home. The fields were green, there were trees and the woods in the distance, the old fence lines reaching into the far horizon...it was just like he remembered.

           "I think this..." Beth was finally able to start answering him. "...this is our after..."

           Our after...Daryl looked away, down to the ground...thinking...doubting. It couldn't be.

           Beth's hands were on his face, in his hair, touching...caressing him like she needed to feel him to believe he was real.

           "But...I didn't believe...I didn't have any faith after I lost you. I hated God for what happened to you..."

           Lookin' back at Beth...she was the only truth...the only faith he needed.

           "It's okay, Daryl. He never stopped believing in...loving you." Her hand went to his back, slowing tracing, sending shivers down his spine. "No one...none of us get away from life without being tarnished. They aren't as white as they where when I first met you, but they're still there."

           He didn't understand what she was sayin' at first, then he realized what she was doing. Beth was tracing his wings. His vest...it was a part of who he was...who he became while he was livin'.

           Beth, I'll love you for the rest of my life...

           Pfft...those words that meant the world...Daryl knew they weren't enough anymore. He had to...wanted to do better than that.

           "Beth, I'll love you forever." Forever...somehow it was what they had.

                       *                      *                      *                      *                      *

           Crossbow slung over his shoulder right where it belonged, Daryl took the porch steps two at a time thinking Beth was right behind him. His hand went to the door...he stopped, uncertain, looking back at Beth, but she was still at the bottom of the steps, hesitating.

           "What's in there? What's on the other side?" Daryl was filled with a sense of wonder...childlike excitement...things he'd never felt before.

           Beth shook her head a little, unsure.

           "I don't know...I promised I wasn’t gonna leave you.” Beth’s last words to him...he remembered...never forgot...and she kept her promise. “I waited for you so we could walk through together..." Why was she hesitating? Her soul, it was never a soul in doubt. "Daryl...I'm scared..." Beth's voice was trembling.

           Of course she was scared. It was the unknown. Daryl went back to the top of the steps, looking down to her.

           "I ain't scared of nothin'." He said it soft. It wasn't a comeback. He wasn't defensive. Didn't need to be. Now, it was just the truth. He reached out to her. "I'll hold your hand."

           Beth was on the first step, comin' to him, finding strength in his confidence. Her trust in him had been steadfast since the beginning...she told him so...

           After we burned the cabin and I stopped in the woods to look back, you told me to follow you, that you wouldn't lead me astray. When you turned away, all I could see were the wings on your back. I knew in that moment...I didn't really know why yet, but I realized I would follow you anywhere...I was taking it on faith. I would follow you into the dark...

           Now Daryl was taking it on faith.

           It all really and truly began when he felt Beth's hand slide into his, and Daryl pulled her up the last step right in front of him, smiling at her. There was no reason not to smile anymore.

           "Come on, Beth...I'll go first if you're scared." It should've been him first all along...he should've died...not her. But now...everything was finally how it should be. "Just...follow me into the light..."

[sending-the-message]

Angel of Death by bymyitchyhands

I've killed so many times.

Sometimes when I close my eyes at night, I can see their faces again, the terrified looks in their eyes, right before I ended it all for each one, right before I took it all away.

But I never kill someone who doesn't deserve it. I guess you could say me and certain blood spatter expert have a lot in common. Although I was killing long before anyone ever knew who he was.

I take out the trash. I clean up the bad parts of society, get rid of the undesirables, the gutter filth, the bad ones, the ones who hurt others. Sure, I hurt people too, but the difference between me and the ones I hurt is that I have everything under control. I am removing the evil filth of society while they are a part of it.

I am a force to be reckoned with. I am nemesis. I am the Angel of Death, come to exact his vengeance on the sinners and the wicked.

Priests preying on the young. Rapists taking carnal knowledge of the innocent. Thieves. Murderers. The destitute. Their blood stains my hands and sometimes I swear I can feel it like an oily layer on me when I wash them. So many, over the years, there were, before Dr. Fleishmann found me. Or rather, should I say, how I found him.

It was an innocuous ad in the paper, that was how it happened.

SUBJECTS NEEDED FOR PSYCHOLOGY RESEARCH. GENEROUS COMPENSATION.

And there was a phone number and an address in Queens. The number was Fleishmann's phone, the address his apartment. When I came to his place that afternoon like he instructed and rang the bell, the door opened almost instantaneously, like he'd been waiting for me.

He was an old German man, dressed in a argyle sweater vest with a rumpled old dress shirt beneath. His hair was white and voluminous and looked like it had been blowing in the wind. His eyebrows were heavy and looked the same.

"Come in," he beckoned, in a thick accent. I signed a form in the kitchen that told me I would get two thousand dollars for undergoing some kind of neurological procedure.

He bid me enter his living room. In the very center sat a dentist's chair with beige leather padding, looking so completely out of place it was as if it had dropped out of the sky. Medical equipment surrounded it: long wires with little electrode stickies on the ends, monitors of many different kinds, an IV bag and stand, an old laptop.

"Will this hurt?" I asked, sitting as he gestured to me to do so. "What exactly is this procedure? I couldn't understand from the form."

"Nein," Fleishmann said, and suddenly stuck a needle in my arm.

"Hey!" I yelled, and tried to stop him, but he'd already injected, and stepped away. Suddenly my body felt like it was made of lead and I slumped back in the chair. My vision started to get all blurry and I began thinking that this was what it must be like to need glasses and my mouth felt like there was cotton growing in it and I thought that cotton was a funny word and wondered what it looked like when it grew and I found that I couldn't move.

The old German man hovered over my face and I only could look at up at him as he attached the electrodes to my head and arms. I could feel them.

He left my line of sight and walked away and I was left staring up at the ceiling of his tiny living room. There was a crack in it. I thought this was probably how I was going to die, and that if I didn't die, Fleishmann deserved to and he would be the next person I would kill, and that I would make him suffer.

"The process is called neural imprinting," Fleishmann said, and I thought about the Berlin Wall. "It takes an imprint of what is in the mind, like making a recording on a tape. It won't hurt."

And the next thing I knew I woke up on the hard pavement next to the water in Brooklyn Bridge Park. I touched my temple and something crusty came off of it. Dried blood. I walked home, disoriented and confused and strangely exhilarated all at the same time.

All I wanted was a hot shower, but when I took off my jeans I found a crinkled envelope shoved into one of the pockets. I opened it, and found a note:

I'VE SEEN IT ALL. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I'VE MADE SURE YOU'LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN.

And next to the note inside were old, dirty, crinkled hundred dollar bills. I counted them. Two thousand dollars.

I tried to kill again, last week, a disgusting hobo in an alley I found at half past three in the morning on a Wednesday. But when I pointed the gun at him, my body felt like lead again, just like it had in the chair in Fleishmman's tiny apartment, and in my mind I saw a flash of the old German's wrinkled face. When I snapped out of my reverie the bum was still staring up at me in fear and I was holding the gun to my temple, the cold metal pushing into my skin and my shaking finger was hovering over the trigger and tapping it softly.

No matter what I do, I've never been able to track down Fleishmann. I called the number that used to be his and got some confused Mexican woman blabbering in Spanish. I broke into the apartment in Queens and found it full of dirty mattresses and used syringes and filthy dishes and cardboard boxes piled high. An addict was sprawled out on one of the mattresses, his eyes glazed over. The old me would have killed it him right then and there but I just turned and ran, confused and frustrated.

I sit alone most nights now, staring out the window, chain smoking cigarettes and filling the green ashtray on the coffee table. Next to it sits my gun. The urge to put it to my head and pull the trigger grows stronger every day, it's like an itching in my fingers.

It's only a matter of time now. I don't know what he did to me, but Fleishmann was wrong - I'll kill one last time. And the last person I ever kill will deserve even more than all the others.