#and then have my own distortions triggered in response to theirs

[void-tiger]

Maybe I’m doing pretty well at containing this, actually. Or at least not the WORST about it…

[diveronaevents]

DATE: June 3rd - June 15th

LOCATION: Various

TRIGGERS: Murder, death, drug mention, alcohol mention, dissociation

JUNE 3RD THE TWELFTH NIGHT

The air shivered between waxy sculptures, slinking its way around the museum like a slithering snake; it fidgeted around as if it knew it was being watched, whispering around the artwork. As it wound its way around the rooms, it eventually slipped itself into a room, where JULIET and VOLUMNIA sat quietly. These past weeks, the Capulets had been dealt smite after smite, and while they had met every assault with a splintery one of their own, the ground continued to tremble beneath them. A punch to the chest, a winding hit to the stomach, a blow to the jaw. They rose, but keeled over, Capulet bodies stung with defeat.

None of them had jumped ship, not yet. But something was in the air...

Cosimo Capulet had been a family man, once. Perhaps he still was. With an assuring grasp of each initiate’s shoulder, a look of brotherhood bobbing in his eyes, he might have turned to put the ink of his pen to some fresh deed or benefaction, sanctifying a new hospital wing with a hefty pouch of gold. Endowing it with his name. Then, he would say: “The strength of a family lies in its loyalty towards its members, sorella. Each and every member. Is it not the same in war?” 

That had been an omen.

His honeyed words had drawn people in, seized them in his web. He had given them a home away from home, burying hearts with knives, assuming the role of a benevolent beast that swallows his children up and keeps them warm in his belly. It is a task in itself, then, to pinpoint where things started to go wrong.

The stench of doubt permeated the air. The ugly shape of Cosimo’s theatrics was still splayed out in the current like a ghostly outline. It bled with heresy. For some, its echo spread like a sickness, for others it seemed a resounding victory – but then, loss. Enormous, unforgivable loss, yawning fat and wide. The theft of their beloved Cathedral was a difficult pill to swallow, silks of icy blue stripped from its bricks, displaced by a deep red. 

At the centre of all this? 

Cosimo.

But this was not all, nor was it the reason for the two women’s meeting. Another tempest was turning, rolling into an uninviting billow of dust and glass. More secrets tucked away like a hanging thread at a sleeve. Two Capulets, and two Capulets alone, had been made aware of the lengths to which Cosimo had extended himself to achieve the death of Alvise Vernon. Pelting Verona into a war that tolerated no retreat, it seemed to stretch out for miles, like two bloody hands shifting forward to reach their weapons. The end of it all seemed to be curtained underneath a thick veil of mist.

Two Capulets, and two Capulets alone, had sat on this information, put their heads together over it like two beasts in an antlered rut, mulled their options over on what felt to them like a deathless loop. Two Capulets, who now sat opposite one another across a desk, the grim look of determination washing over their faces, pored over the intelligence once more.

Elegant as her companion, JULIET sat up straight in her chair, the semblance of constancy flowing over her, though she leaned her wrists into the oak. Exhaustion filled in her features where constancy ran thin. She yawned a sigh. Though she had only been a shadow of the Don all these years, her limbs moving with his like a puppet-master with marionette strings, the sensitivity of her task did not elude her. 

Quite the opposite: it glared back at her, its eyes black and cold.

VOLUMNIA leaned back in her chair, the same semblance of exhaustion burying itself in her expression. A more clinical eye would easily peer past this, though, able to seize the truth. Behind the Underboss’ eyes lay not exhaustion, but fortitude.

“IMOGEN cannot be expected to sit on this information forever,��� JULIET said at last, the journalist’s name turning sour in her mouth. The words sunk from her lips in fatigue, and it gave one the impression that this was not the first time they had slipped from her mouth.

HAMLET had done his best to assure them that he had choked back evidence of his involvement from IMOGEN, and that they, in turn, had vowed to wait in the shadows. While they appreciated this, the tenuousness of the situation sat ill with the two women.

“No. We must act. Soon.” 

Hanging in the air between them were words held in their mouth that neither of them wanted to say. That neither of them needed to say. 

We must act. You and I, not the Don.

Both knew that Cosimo wouldn’t hesitate to put out a hit on IMOGEN the moment that he learned just how much of the tale they had become privy to. In the same vein, both of them knew that Cosimo Capulet was not a man that much liked the feeling of being backed into a corner. Thus, heads bowed covertly, they buried their intel, tucked the secret away, and while the idea of an assassination had not been entirely ruled out by the two of them, they pushed it aside.

“So, what can we do?”

VOLUMNIA would not go on pasting over their problems with more bloodshed and thuggery. With a cold judder, she would forge a New Age by splicing through the old one, leaving it to be swept up like leaves in the wind. She would not have her pseudo-daughter follow in the ways of their kingpin, treading on the heels of footprints rinsed in blood—not if they hoped to crawl their way out of this sunken hole, and especially not if she hoped to ease JULIET into her birthright. Whether that was ten days from now or a matter of weeks, it didn’t matter.

She would cut out a space for the heiress in the stone.

A woman on a mission, VOLUMNIA forged ahead. There was no room to regret her past decisions now. Not if she wished for JULIET to succeed.

“Call in TYBALT,” she advised.

JULIET picked up her phone.

-

They weren’t left waiting for long. Twenty minutes, thirty, maybe, went silently by, but the time only seemed to distort itself out of shape for JULIET, swelling like an elastic balloon. A creeping sense of unease washed over her when she pondered quite how much there was at stake here; how much hung in the balance. Nevertheless, the thought of her cousin flocking to her side, as by way of nature, brought her some ease. As for VOLUMNIA, the Underboss barely noticed the silence between them, always watchful but busied by turnings of her own.

Something was piecing itself together in the couloirs of her mind.

The cogs only stopped to turn when the women were stirred by a rap at the door. In answer, TYBALT slinked into the room. As he settled into his seat, postured like a mortal blessed with divine favor, so followed PARIS tightly behind him.

The head, the hands, the heart. All poised around a desk made of oak.

“Tigrotto, there is something you should know,” VOLUMNIA began, drawing TYBALT in with a secret hidden under her tongue. “And I need you to listen carefully.”

Gravely, he nodded.

VOLUMNIA nodded to JULIET.

“It’s about Alvise Vernon,” JULIET decided upon, straightening her back. She had decided upon a great many things, really. She had decided to betray what they know, to seize the reins from the palms of her papa. She had decided to act, now, while the city lolls still. “Well, it’s about everything, really. It’s about my papa, too,” she hummed. Almost mechanically, she lifted one leg over the other, crossing them neatly into a set, as if positioning herself for a grand storytelling. “But, Alvise Vernon seems like a good place to start, doesn’t it?”

Because, at the beginning of all things, at the end of all things, throughout all its middling and its intermediaries, there stood the formless silhouette of Alvise Vernon, haunting them without definite shape.

She cleared her throat. “The night Alvise Vernon was murdered, my father found a Montague in one of our bars. He was drinking. Alone. He wasn’t—” the heiress paused; the words locked under her tongue. “He wasn’t in a good way. Even before they drugged him.” She opted for they, rather than we, casting a thick, bold line between them. 

She swallowed a knot in her throat. 

VOLUMNIA encouraged her to proceed.

“HAMLET killed Alvise Vernon.”

“What?” PARIS interrupted.

“He killed him. On my father’s orders. Well – with papa’s encouragement. He told us so himself.”

“Your father told you this?” PARIS punctuated in disbelief.

“No,” VOLUMNIA intervened. “HAMLET did.”

PARIS sunk into his seat, warring with a thousand thoughts at once. TYBALT, on the other hand, became his inversion. Leaning forward, his face twisted into an unforgiving blend of curiosity and incredulity, keen to have his spirit of enquiry sated. 

JULIET continued: “It took him a while to come to, but he did. Papa made him susceptible to his manipulations – or, well, perhaps someone else did. The details are hazy. Papa gave him a file. Doctored, of course. It suggested that Alvise was responsible for the death of HAMLET’s father.”

She paused tactfully, testing for a response from the men.

Neither of them reacted quite in the way she had expected them to. How could they? How do you react to the news that your own Don facilitated this war, kept it tucked under his belt like a buried conquest? The silence between them is only riven by the sound of VOLUMNIA shuffling in her seat, eager for her understudy to draw the bloody narrative to a close.

“Papa drove him to Alvise’s home, gave him a gun. He made him go inside and confront him. When he came out – well, papa gave him a change of clothes. HAMLET doesn’t remember much else.”

“The details are hazy,” VOLUMNIA repeated in a murmur.

Something was at work behind PARIS’ dark eyes. TYBALT, a profane blend of fascination and scepticism, shifted in his seat. He lowered his gaze, the flutter of his heartbeat grazing at his ribcage. Their detachment did not go unnoticed by JULIET, who reached out a hand to each of them, took theirs in hers, smoothing her thumb over their skin.

“But I believe him.”

“You believe him?” TYBALT retorted incredulously, pulling his hand back.

“Yes, I believe him. Why would he implicate himself if it wasn’t true?”

VOLUMNIA leaned forwards in her chair, the movement steady and languid, as if a beast that has been lying in wait. She seized her moment. “Yes, HAMLET knows what he did. And so does IMOGEN.” A pause. “There’s evidence.”

“IMOGEN has evidence?” PARIS leaned forward. “How?”

“HAMLET told them. He handed over the evidence, with a condition. He is the reason why they haven’t gone public with the story yet. Why they haven’t tried to bring us down.” She paused once more, allowing for time for her words to sink in. “Because he asked them not to.”

“What evidence?” TYBALT asked, irritated. “Why would he tell them? What could he possibly have to gain?”

“Time,”JULIET answered, “He wants time.”

“There’s a gun. It has Cosimo’s prints on it. They’re only partial, but,” VOLUMNIA sighed, “it will be enough.” She left no trace of ambiguity to her words. They were stark as the moon raised into the dark sky.

“So, what? We steal it?”

JULIET leaned forward in her chair, folding the creases in her shirt. “Exactly.” 

As the word slipped from her mouth, the shape of it curved up into a knowing smile.

Balanced at the side of her chair was a file, which VOLUMNIA pulled up to the desk, spreading the documents amongst the four abettors. “The two of you will retrieve it as a team. No need for our exploit to leave this room – it shouldn’t prove a difficult task. PARIS will play reconnaissance, and you, TYBALT, will steal the evidence.”

TYBALT rolled in his chair, his black hunger oked by the vantage. “Pencil in POMPEY, too, while you’re at it. We’ll need a look-out.”

VOLUMNIA nodded, gesturing her hand in agreement. “Very well. In and out, simple as that. Capisce?”

As they rose from their seats, they nodded. Stalking out of their room, they left behind their shadows and strolled into a great, yawning gorge. One does not make an enemy of the Capulets and live to tell the tale. Should they succeed, they would ensure that IMOGEN would not be making any enemy of them any time soon.

Not yet, anyway.

-

JUNE 4TH VARIOUS LOCATIONS

While the Capulets colluded and the Montagues drifted off in a ruinous scatter, a message arrived, bringing all of Verona’s moving pieces to a screeching halt. Like a bullet fired in the dead of night, with a sharp, north-pointed path and a bang that echoed with the toll of a clock striking twelve.

At midnight, it reached all Capulet affiliates, without a traceable number or a signature of any kind. Some opened it with furrowed brows and tight mouths, others opened it in an impatient hurry, eyes dulled with disinterest -- all of which faded into swift, sinking shock.

What is dead has come back to haunt Verona, and you Capulets most of all. It’s your comrades, who perished beneath the heel of the enemy’s misplaced vengeance. It’s your territories, which were lost to a war incited by one of your own all along. And finally, it’s evidence of your crime, as it is theirs, and the heinous act it entails of drugging an unwitting Montague and corralling them into murdering Alvise Vernon.

The culprit is a Capulet whose name is written in pure silver. Look to your people for the snake that hides among the grass.

As the Capulets and their allies reeled from the impact of the long-buried truth as it was lurched to the surface, LAMPRIUS leaned back into his shadow-spun throne, and allowed his triumphant smile to shoot a spark through the dark.

-

JUNE 4TH IMOGEN’S APARTMENT BUILDING

PARIS decided to pay IMOGEN a visit. After all, a predator must size up its prey.

It was an easy enough task to shoulder your way into an apartment building you did not own when you wore the guise of dark capability as well as PARIS did. Starless and louring, a rare civility washed over him in a storm, and it was for this reason alone that he welshed his way into the complex unnoticed. Eluding all suspicion, he cupped a sea of intrigue in his greedy hands.

Once he met the door, he spun on his heel, checked around for cameras; sought out an escape route. He took a moment to forge a map in the recesses of his mind.

Three cameras, he thought to himself. He made a mental note. With their angles slightly adjusted, he generated enough blind spots for their thief to slip in and out undetected. 

As seamlessly as the teeth of a switchblade in the gut. Such, after all, was TYBALT’s way.

PARIS concealed a bug at her door - for extra measure.

-

JUNE 7TH OUTSIDE IMOGEN’S APARTMENT BUILDING

PARIS pulled the car to a halt, turning it into the curb. Beside him sat TYBALT, while POMPEY languished in the backseat, tentatively entrusted with his sponsor’s good faith. A hand seldom extended, but extended, nevertheless. 

While POMPEY was to skulk the parameters and act as the group’s third eye, TYBALT was to step into the building, slink up the stairs in much the same fashion as his brother-in-arms had done so the day prior, and retrieve the evidence their target holds against them. The bug at IMOGEN’s door has provided them with a golden window of opportunity: they would be out in the evening, delivering the infiltration team with the opportunity of invisibility. 

TYBALT gained access to the building easily. He, too, blended consummately into its carpets, its walls, charm lingering in his mouth like a dagger suspended at the back of his throat. 

He greeted IMOGEN’s door as if an old friend, slipping leather gloves over his fingers, and picked the lock with ease. Shouldering his way into the apartment, he was careful not to disturb the natural lay of things as he prowled toward the study.

He pawed through the room for a few minutes before he came across anything of note. Pages torn from a notepad, scrawled in black ink, and a file containing various media clippings. TYBALT snagged and stole entirely unaware of the intelligence he was burrowing into his satchel.

A scalping true to type.

Folded away in a draw, sleeping beneath a hidden partition, lay the gun. With all the precision that his warring body possessed, he slipped the gun into a plastic pouch, a vulgar grin unfurling over his features. 

When TYBALT bellied out of the room, he double-checked that the rest of the apartment remained unperturbed before stealing away. It was only then that the subtle prattle was pervaded by something more serious.

“IMOGEN. They’re back early,” PARIS advised, his words cool yet immediate.

“POMPEY. Distract them.” TYBALT interrupted, concealing himself for escape.

POMPEY stepped forward as IMOGEN turned the corner, and with the mien of a boy struck dumb, a prince with his crown shaken from his brow, he stumbled into them, arms quavering rapidly in apology. However brief, the altercation provided TYBALT with the small window of opportunity to flee the premises and unfold into the shadows without detection. He bored his way towards the car, evaporating like a will-o-wisp in the wind.

PARIS did not need to break the speed limit on their way back, but he did so anyway, if only for some small satisfaction. They left the bug at IMOGEN’s door undisturbed – just in case.

-

JUNE 8TH BENEATH THE CASTELVECCHIO

Two Capulets had taken it upon themselves to bear the divine burden of legacy, and towards an uncertain fate, they now carried it forward, shoulders strained and necks taut as they dragged it at their heels. Yet although they ought to have been crawling, fingers ensnared in Verona’s ancient earth, knees scraped and feet scalded, they walked ahead with firm steps and fixed gazes -- one with a loose crown lying skewed against her brow, and the other with a general’s belt wound around her from shoulder to waist.

They moved forward, towards the future, towards the comet-like fall of longed-for dreams as they came within reach, towards two Montagues, who held it all in undeserving hands while they waited in the distance.

The capture of IMOGEN’s coveted evidence had set off a race against the clock, and as soon as it had fallen into their grasp, VOLUMNIA made swift contact with HAMLET, with a tentative yet unwavering request for a meeting. A sliver of truth peeking through plain, carefully plucked words, a beat of heavy, choking silence on the other end, and then finally, a time was set.

Quiet filled up the space between them in place of greeting when VOLUMNIA and JULIET’s steps finally came to a stop, unspoken words and disguised sentiments sinking between them like the blade of a guillotine as it cut its way through air and flesh. GERTRUDE met their arrival with her usual air of tranquillity, though it seemed to hum dangerously as she looked upon VOLUMNIA, the static current bouncing sharply off of steel as the Capulet met her gaze head-on. In a similar manner, HAMLET and JULIET took each other in; though the bridge of their gazes was barren of any hostility, it lulled and wavered with tension, and the flailing gust of all the things they wished to say to one another yet forcibly held at bay.

“We’ve taken action,” VOLUMNIA began, paving the way for the bargain JULIET aimed to offer. “In response to the scheme you revealed to us, HAMLET.”

JULIET seemed to blink away the urge to glance at the underboss, nodding as she looked between Montague mother and son. “Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her, voice softening as she continued on. “My father’s actions have soiled too many hearts, too many lives... “ She looked down. HAMLET crossed his arms against his chest. “I won’t let it go on any longer.”

“You’ve taken needless action, principessa,” came GERTRUDE’s simple objection. “We can have justice by our own hands.”

VOLUMNIA pursed her lips, swallowing down her razor-edged rebuttal to test how JULIET would regain control of the conversation.

“Well, we can’t afford to allow that.”

GERTRUDE hiked a brow, patiently awaiting the heiress’s elaboration. JULIET swallowed, then set out to offer it to her.

“You were honest with me,” she said, eyes on HAMLET. “So, I will pay you the same respect.”

This time, she glanced at VOLUMNIA, who encouraged her with nothing more than the simple act of meeting her solemn gaze.

“Things won’t be the same for the Capulets now that my father’s actions have come to light. Not with the decisions we’ll be making as we move forward, not with the threat of its reveal to our affiliates, and certainly not with the risk of your vengeance.” It was no greater than the risk of laying their volatile circumstances so plainly before the enemy’s scrutiny, yet it would soon prove to be a wise move on JULIET’s part. It was precisely what would coax the teardrop’s worth of trust needed for the Montagues to agree to their bargain. “It’s why we asked for this meeting; to offer you a deal that would give you the justice you’ve earned -- while sparing us any further threat, loss or bloodshed.”

HAMLET straightened; his focus now sharper. GERTRUDE sank into contemplative silence for a long moment, then muttered, “Quite a heavy promise you’re making, JULIET, and one that I imagine would be difficult to keep.” With a nod, she continued on to ask, “What is your offer?”

“Don’t confirm Capulet involvement in Alvise Vernon’s murder, and don’t retaliate for it. In return, my father will be deposed in the coming months.” A pause. “I think we would all agree that losing his empire is the worst punishment he could possibly have -- and the greatest vengeance you could possibly earn.”

“What guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your end of the bargain?” HAMLET quietly asked. It was the first time he had spoken since his arrival to the meeting.

JULIET subtly tipped her chin up, growing more confident as she turned towards him.

“Plans are already underway, so the outcome on our end is inevitable. And if my word means anything to you, you have it; I will see to it that my father is stripped of his throne, no matter what.” She glanced at GERTRUDE, looking between her adversaries once again. A slim hint of harshness permeated her following words. “If anything, it’s your end that’s unreliable.”

VOLUMNIA’s eyes glimmered with curbed pride as she looked upon her heiress, though the spark was snuffed out in time for her to turn towards the enemy, curt and impatient as she asked, “So what’ll it be, Montagues?”

HAMLET sloughed out a sigh, a clipped sound drenched in weariness and worry. He turned towards his mother, who silently met his gaze.

Not a word was exchanged between them, yet they seemed to come to an agreement, nonetheless.

A moment later, GERTRUDE offered a decisive nod. “You have your deal.”

-

JUNE 9TH A CAPULET WAREHOUSE

It was along the echo of those words that JULIET and VOLUMNIA were carried into the gaping maw of the following day and thrown amongst the warbled plans and chewed-up aspirations that it held in store for them. 

And it was there that they now lay, accompanied by TYBALT, digging through the half-devoured scraps and biding their time in fervent anticipation of the jaws that were slowly, slowly closing in on them.

If they had been racing against the clock before, their bargain with the Montagues ensured that they were now effectively losing to it. Every second that passed while barren and empty of action pulled them back by countless precious steps -- ones that they aimed to retrieve by ruinous leaps and ruthless bounds.

Their means of achieving that was rather simple: instead of lurching Don Capulet out of his throne, they were going to crumble it underneath him; bone shard by bone shard and stone by stone.

It was for that purpose that they had gathered, huddling together within the pitch-black shadow of one final scheme that they had concocted -- one that was meant to seal everything in place. Violence and confrontation alike had been cast aside as futile, unwanted options, and so they had settled on the only one that remained.

Planting doubt and fostering rebellion. 

After all, to strike down a king, there was no need to steal his crown or shatter his throne.

One need only strip him of his worth.

Such was precisely what JULIET and VOLUMNIA aimed to achieve, by means of assigning their unoccupied ranks to a series of doomed missions, built around nothing more than the simple notion of projecting Cosimo Capulet’s growing incompetence and failing judgement -- and cementing it beyond all doubt.

They had already conceptualised the missions and their predetermined outcomes. All that was left was assigning them.

Sat in a Capulet warehouse far beyond the peering walls and prying doorways of the Twelfth Night, JULIET and VOLUMNIA spent hours upon hours poring over what seemed like an endless heap of files and documents; selecting Capulets, revising mission outlines, scrutinising details and technicalities -- until finally, everything was set.

TYBALT, privy to the information out of necessity without ever having come close to engineering it, sat with them uncertainly - perhaps for the first time. It was important that he was on their side; it was important to VOLUMNIA that she knew his sword belonged to JULIET. 

In spite of loyalties, or perhaps because of them, he would not stand in their way. A throne was easier to take when nobody sat in it.

But before it could be emptied, it would have to be taken apart.

And it was with that goal in mind that the three heads of the divine Capulet beast began to arrange their pieces across the crumbling board.

There could be no beginning for any dastardly story without the startling presence of their BIANCA, who would go on to be told that she would be escorting KATHERINE on a stakeout mission. Yet upon her arrival at the designated location, BIANCA would find herself tied to REGAN for an assassination, instead. Deliberately, the three planted seeds of doubt, that Don Capulet wasn’t distributing his soldiers properly; and that he, in his rush to combat against the Montagues’ attacks and efforts, was leaving his ranks in an utter scatter. As for REGAN, they would be deliberately given a wrong description of their target, leading them to assassinate someone else entirely, all while believing it was their intended target all along.

In the realm of emissaries, DIANA and TITANIA would be tasked with negotiating with a Capulet affiliate from Amsterdam, chosen specifically for their prior rejection of allyship with the Capulets, in addition to their notorious violent inclinations. This information would be kept from DIANA and TITANIA alike, casting the oblivious emissaries into the awaiting dangers of a doomed bargain. They would certainly be injured as they escaped, and although it was an unpleasant outcome, it was necessary to nourish the image of Don Capulet’s lack of care towards his soldiers’ lives -- an image that had been all but set in stone by the spectacle he had arranged for Viola.

Next, EDGAR and KATHERINE would be sent to a Montague warehouse that was said to harbour information on the mob’s mysterious new product, Reaper’s Kiss. The warehouse was, in fact, a high-security Montague establishment, heavily guarded and brimming with soldiers. Yet the information would be kept out of the mission outline in order to further project Don Capulet’s carelessness and miscalculation. Regardless of what sort of action EDGAR and KATHERINE would end up taking, whether it be engaging the enemy or retreating into reconnaissance, their defeat was certain, due to the prevailing enemy numbers and the level of security surrounding the location -- though reinforcements would be sent to guarantee their safe escape, regardless.

Always in search of new business opportunities, HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH would be sent to procure a local, family-owned business that was said to offer the Capulets a new and lucrative money-making opportunity. The owner of the business had been as yet unforthcoming, but armed with alarming evidence against the family’s eldest son, they were to offer the owner an ultimatum: either the Capulets go public with this scathing information, or they enter a disadvantageous business partnership. Of all the assignments the women laid out, this was the only task destined to succeed, but the success of it would be as futile as the rest of them. The business was utterly useless and the whole exchange a waste of HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH’s time, leading the soldiers to doubt Cosimo’s decision to send them there in the first place. Just as the women had designed it.

Finally, CORDELIA and EDMUND would be sent to Phoenix and the Turtle incognito, in order to survey the new layout of the territory and scan it for weaknesses in preparation for a retrieval mission. Yet once they signalled their arrival to the Capulet HQ, an anonymous message would be sent to the Montague captain overseeing the location, informing them of the presence of Capulets. This would force the duo to reveal themselves and fight the enemy head-on; outnumbered and outgunned as they would be, they were certain to be defeated and forced out of the territory, just as intended.

In the end, the missions weren’t simple, and the risks were heavy.

Yet it all weighed nothing against the goal they were setting out to achieve, especially when it was perhaps the one and only noble thing that they could do for the Capulet famiglia, and for Verona as a whole.

It was worth it.

It had to be.

-

JUNE 10TH THE CATHEDRAL

Damiano Montague’s silhouette painted itself against the window in broad, fearsome strokes of shadow; a foreboding sight that none were damned enough to witness except for GERTRUDE, who stood before his desk as she patiently awaited his command; both a watchful guardian and a rogue with blade drawn behind her back. He could almost feel her looming betrayal spearing through the crackling air around him, though he did not turn around to meet it. Devoted or not, she remained a woman with honor. Even with his gaze clouded by scorn, he could still see her for who she was. Her reasons for accepting to take part in his son’s rebellious operation were the same reasons why she would look him right in the eye once her blade struck true.

Or perhaps he would come to find it in ROMEO’s grasp instead.

The thought drew a mild furrow along his brows, but he refused to allow it to detract his sight from what lay before him.

The greatest victory to ever tie itself to his name; such was what the Cathedral symbolized. Yet even with his feet planted upon its ancient marble in firm ownership, even with his form eating up what little remained of Cosimo Capulet’s memory as he took up his rightful place beyond the broadest window, Damiano did not feel triumphant. In fact, he felt robbed.

He had harnessed the full power of their troops, led them down a searing path that left half the city aflame with the embers of Montague ambition, and emerged with the Capulet crown bent beneath his foot. Meanwhile, all his son had done was scrape together what was left of their soldiers and scramble to grab hold of the pitiful scraps that he knew lay too low to fall within Damiano’s soaring sight. Yet somehow, he had been the one to gain glory and renown; now revered by their allies and adored by their people. And Damiano was left with his heel poised upon the broken bones of the Capulet empire, only he could not even relish the sound of them as they splintered and fell apart; ears drowned out by the ceaseless, accursed chants of his son’s name. 

His son’s name was his own.

But the Montague name was Damanio’s.

And he aimed to cut it across the skies and pummel it into the earth until all of Verona knew that.

For now, he would start with his people.

“Genevieve,” He called, turning his head to glance sideways at her, clasped hands clenching as he watched her stiffen attentively, sharp eyes trained on him as though she aimed to latch onto every word of command -- as though she was truly unaware of the fissure in her facade. He sniffed, then twisted around in one sharp motion to stand behind his desk once again, fingers splayed as the outline of his orders mapped itself out before him. “I have certain missions in mind that I wish to see fulfilled with the utmost urgency. Assign them to our ranks, and report to me with the results.”

Whoever failed was doomed for a punishment not unlike the one the mark of which GERTRUDE now carried, but he didn’t wish to entrust her with that information. It was all too likely that she would act on her whims, especially where her son was involved.

Damiano would allow for no more insubordination, and these missions ensured it. They were set to snuff out every bit of it that continued to fester within his soldiers.

He cleared his throat.

“Pair up ANTONY and BENVOLIO and set them on the trail of a mark who’s been legally interfering with our business. It’s the eldest Rallis son, but you are not allowed to divulge that information to either of them, at any cost. If ANTONY kills him, he cements his loyalty beyond all doubt, and if BENVOLIO does, it proves that he might just be willing to do whatever it takes, after all, and if it’s a shared effort, then all the better -- but failure is not an option. Neither is favouring any outcome except for death.”

“Next, pair up GONERIL and BEATRICE to set up a trap for CORDELIA, one that she has no way of escaping alive. She’s been an unstoppable force, ensuring victory for the Capulets time and time again. I’ve also heard that GONERIL wasn’t all too pleased with our operation at the Cathedral, which gives me the impression that she might be clinging to her past attachments. Setting her after her sister is certain to cut her loose once and for all, and if she fails, BEATRICE is meant to ensure that the target is eliminated, regardless. It would land a heavy blow to the enemy and prove their ultimate loyalty to our cause.”

“PERDITA is proving to be quite a valuable addition to our ranks, but there is more to a soldier than wiles and trickery. I need to know that force is not beyond her; that she can be both weapon and reaper under my command, malleable enough to shape herself into whatever I need her to be. Send her to one of the bars that solicit our protection, with orders to demand our payment and strike enough fear in the owner’s heart that they would never think to keep us waiting ever again. Have BRUTUS accompany her, though he is not to interfere unless PERDITA needs his help; his role in this mission is to offer support, and nothing more. After all, loyalty to one’s comrades is just as crucial as loyalty to one’s cause, and if anyone must learn that lesson, it’s BRUTUS.”

“As you may or may not know, we’ve recently captured a prisoner who proved to be a lot more interesting than I’d originally thought. Not only were they one of Faron Vasiliev’s soldiers, but also the bullet that set their liege’s demise in stone. It was through their treacherous confession that Laertes had discovered the identity of the one who had ordered his imprisonment in Russia, and it was through that confession that Faron’s corpse had met its early grave at the foot of my desk. I’m curious to see what sort of action they would rouse from CLEOPATRA. Command her to orchestrate a trap for them where they believe they have found their chance to escape our capture, only to find themselves caught in her grasp. CELIA is to offer her aid with the trap, but the torture that follows is CLEOPATRA’s and hers alone to execute.”

“In this time of war, there is no greater danger than treachery. I’ve been presented with proof that one of our soldiers aims to abandon our ranks and flee the city. It’s unforgivable, but I fully intend on leaving them begging for forgiveness in their worthless final moments. Pair up ROSALIND and OPHELIA for this task. OPHELIA is to come up with a way for them to be executed quietly and away from prying eyes, while ROSALIND is to seal their dreadful fate when the time is right.”

“There have been whispers on the streets of a strange message sent out across the city a few days ago. Apparently, it pertains to your crime, Genevieve, though unfortunately, I don’t know much beyond that. I’d like HAMLET to investigate the matter, and report to me directly with his findings. Curious choice, hm? Well, since you seem reluctant to ask me outright, I’ll do you a favor and be direct about it. I’m interested to know if someone else knows about what you’ve done aside from the two of us -- if there’s a chance it could be your son and that he’s been covering for you all along. I’ve always wondered where his true loyalties lie; with the Montagues, or with his mother. And this mission is certain to give me the answer.”

“A blessing to all, that the infallible VOLUMNIA is as weak as she currently is. We would be foolish to not take advantage of it. Send MALCOLM on her trail, and have MERCUTIO accompany him to ensure that the mission proceeds as it should. It’s not of the utmost importance that he kills her as we currently have far grander goals to aspire to, but I get the impression that MALCOLM is reluctant to needless torment, and that can no longer be allowed now that he is a captain. MERCUTIO is only to interfere if their help is needed, but aside from that, their task is simply to ensure that their partner torments the Capulet viper like she deserves.”

“I’ve assigned one of our captains to a reconnaissance mission in the Roman Baths; to survey the location and scan it for weaknesses. I believe that it would be beneficial for us to seize it in case the rumours surrounding the Witches’ return are proven to be true. The problem is… I have every reason to believe that the captain is a traitor, and I have a plan in mind to dispose of them. I would like RICHARD III and SEBASTIAN to take up this mission. They are to pair up with the captain and use the mission as an opportunity to execute them. Even if their comrades turn away from them because of it, they will have proven their loyalty to our cause, and that is where the priority lies.”

“I have a feeling TROILUS is going to be a problem. I don’t appreciate his rebelliousness or how fiercely he clings to his meaningless neutrality. When tied to the Montague name, one has no choice but to carry it, and it seems that despite our numerous attempts to instil that in him, TROILUS continues to resist. So, a change in approach is in order, and I believe no one would be more fitting for it than his own darling wife, CRESSIDA. As soon as she receives her orders, she is to set out to coax him towards joining the Montagues. I don’t care how long it takes or what means she uses, so long as the mission ends in success. Assign LADY MACDUFF to the task of monitoring CRESSIDA’s progress and reminding her of just how much is at stake for both her and her husband. Should CRESSIDA fail, you are to order LADY MACDUFF to employ their skills as a reaper and covertly dispose of her. I’m ushering in a new era for the Montagues, and there is going to be no room in it for disloyalty.”

Damiano stood up, acknowledging GERTRUDE with a single nod before crossing his arms against his chest and turning back towards the window. “That’ll be all, Genevieve.”

He looked down upon Verona from his tarnished throne and mulled over the test of loyalty that he was saving up for his son -- a trial to be held for none other than damned, darling ROMEO.

-

JUNE 15TH THE TWELFTH NIGHT

Heavy with unrest, the Twelfth Night felt something like a judicial chamber. In its stomach gathered a collection of bodies, variously disillusioned, called covertly by their Underboss. Some were wounded, while others had only sustained bruises to their pride, but all were equally mortified at what had become of their ordeal. Every single one of them had suffered in some shape at Cosimo’s charge, some more grievously than others, and VOLUMNIA recognised that.

She had come here to pass judgement.

The room was all spider’s silk. It weaved between old murals and ancient sculpture like an elegantly presented crime scene. Thin red yarn pointing to a blood-splatter here and a murder weapon there; a spillage, a fingerprint, a strand of hair fibre left carelessly behind. 

Secrets and whispers tangled themselves in the web.

Once, the protection of Cosimo Capulet had meant invincibility. An initiate was a brother, a sister, a child, a lover. Arms outstretched, he had welcomed each and every soldier who now stood in this belly of revolt with outstretched arms, the promise of longevity buried in his eyes. Once, power had flowed from his fingertips like dark-red wine. To be one of Don Capulet’s own was to be part of a great, thunderous throng, each one protected by the cruel hand of God. A single glance gutted hearts clean.

But that protection was thinning. The shield wasn’t working the way it used to.

The room seemed to speak in murmurs. Don Capulet seems bent on sending us all to an early grave. The sour thought arranged itself on the web, turning the spider silk into black dust.

JULIET stood at the centre of the room; her presence seemed to bring her fellow Capulets some assurance. VOLUMNIA and TYBALT stood at her side. The former continued to weave her web, and one could not ignore the knife fastened to the latter’s side.

The heart, the head, the hands.

JULIET took TYBALT’s hand in hers. Both of them knew what was to come, and neither knew how their fellow soldiers were likely to react. TYBALT smoothed his thumb over JULIET’s knuckles, sporting a rare, tender smile. 

VOLUMNIA cleared her throat, and by way of nature the room stilled itself into silence. Each pair of eyes fastened themselves on her and her alone. “I don’t need to tell you why we’ve gathered here tonight. You’re concerned, all of you… and you have a right to be.” She paused, testing for a reaction. “As am I. Since VIOLA’s execution, the decisions made by Don Capulet have become more and more difficult to grasp. He ignored the advice offered to him, and on his orders we lost the Cathedral. He sent many of you on fool’s errands. Mismanaged his soldiers. Your latest assignments were fated to fail from the start.”

When a ruler loses the faith of his subjects, his subjects disgorge the throne.

VOLUMNIA and JULIET surveyed the scene in front of them. Still chafing from their botched mission, CORDELIA and EDMUND had resolved to wear their failings like badges of honour, but the sting of it was felt keenly under the skin. Swelled by bruises and flinching at fractured bone, DIANA and TITANIA presented their misadventure more keenly than the others. They became a single organism, failure seeping from a shared wound. Forced to endure the unexpected, BIANCA resented her misemployment, while the blood of an innocent lay on REGAN’s hands. EDGAR and KATHERINE, on the other hand, merely hung their heads in a sort of reluctant shame. As the only soldiers to emerge from their assignment victorious, HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH thumbed their pyrrhic triumph with bitterness.

PARIS and POMPEY, of course, had been more successful. But they had not been under Cosimo’s charge. Crucially, they had been under JULIET and VOLUMNIA’s. 

The scene presented itself like an oil painting. Exactly as the women had designed it.

JULIET stepped forwards. Like an armed shadow, TYBALT stepped forwards with her. From now on the two would be indivisible, and he wanted it known. “As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, my father isn’t well. He hasn’t been for a while now. He’s become paranoid, none of his decisions make any sense, and he ignores his counsel. Losing the Cathedral hit us all hard, but, well… I think it hit him hardest of all. His health and well-being need to be our highest priority right now. My father deserves the greatest possible care.” She paused, delicately, the soft touch of lips to the throat before she bared the first sign of teeth. “As do we.”

As if an executioner, VOLUMNIA swung her toothed blade, severing the cord. “What’s clear, however, is that he no longer has what it takes to lead us,” she finished her pseudo-daughter’s trail of thought. “He no longer has what it takes to be our Don.”

Some murmured in agreement, others stood frozen, refusing to betray their true feelings. All, however, knew what was to come next. That, after all, was why they had all gathered here, no?

“So, I will relieve him of the burden.” JULIET declared. “With one hand guided by history and all that we have overcome. and the other looking ahead to what awaits us, to build and to conquer” — VOLUMNIA’s eyes flashed and the corner of TYBALT’s mouth quirked wickedly — “I will begin a new era. We stand strong.” 

She clasped fingers once more with the anchors that stood at her side, each offering what she still lacked: cunning and experience, a stomach for what it took to seize and retain a throne. 

“Above all, we stand together.”

-

As JULIET’s battle-cry rang through The Twelfth Night, clanging in the air like a song of swords in battle, Cosimo Capulet sat in the backseat of an armoured car. Vanquished and betrayed, it tugged his body through the streets of Verona. That, after all, is how it feels to sit in the shadow of your own child; how it feels when all your love is thrown out with you, left in the alleyways to rot. He was equal parts fury and resignation, the pang of defeat weighing just as heavy as the venomous sting of betrayal.

Silently, his eyes took in what may well have been his last look at Verona. The gaze fixated on all the things Cosimo Capulet had once owned: a local business here, a police station there, a bar, a museum, an ancestral home, Verona itself. The car wheeled away from the impressive empire he’d created with his bare, bloodied hands.

Emperor that he is, Cosimo had built his kingdom to be inherited after him, but his heiress had stolen it from him earlier than anticipated.

First, the women had told them what they had done. What was already behind his control. Behind his back, they had negotiated with their enemy, sent his people on embarrassingly futile assignments, mismanaged his soldiers, and thrown them into Hell blind. All, they assured him, to undermine him, to cast a shadow of doubt over the great Cosimo Capulet. Already a blasphemous brute, splaying the crucified body of a dead girl for all to see, what more was it for him to be an incompetent fool, too?

Next, they had laid out how things were going to be: by their design, JULIET would take Cosimo’s place like a shadow growing into itself, and he would be removed to live out his days in their Padua villa. There, he would be surrounded by all things rich and extravagant: golds and amethysts circling his dinner plates, and the finest selections of wine, cheese and mutton at his disposal. There, he would remain under guard, any tangible image of power stripped from him.

There is no use in fighting, they had warned him. We have already won.

Perhaps for the first time in Cosimo’s life, he did not fight. He did not scratch, did not scrape, did not howl perfidy – the yowl of a wild dog, after all, had never much been his style. He could see his loss, stretched out in front of him crystal-clear, but that did not stop the cruel slashings of his dagger-like tongue. He wanted them to feel the sting of their betrayal, as he did.

Perhaps they did. It changed nothing.

They would not have him bound like a common criminal – his daughter had spared him that humiliation, at least.

To think that the great Cosimo Capulet should fall at the hand of his daughter, his lily-white, Eve-spun daughter, like a flower that grows in the dark – his lip almost vibrated with amusement. He wanted her to feel the shame of her betrayal, the principessa to whom he gave everything, even blood, but as he sat here, his eye trained on a city that now recedes from his touch, he was almost impressed. To think that a man as powerful as himself should fall at the feet of his own child – it is his shame to bear, but it is also his pride.

The man has done some dastardly things in his time: started a war, forced a child to bloody their hands instead of his own, crucified an informant in the shape of Christ, forced his only daughter to wield the knife. He had been right to, no?

Had she not pulled the steel from Viola’s chest and pushed it into his own?

The daughter grows into the shape of her father in the dark. JULIET had betrayed her father and become him – at last, Cosimo recognised that he’d been underestimating her. Unforgivingly, he wondered how long she would last. Cosimo wondered how long she could stand the contortions before they twisted her out of shape.

She would return to him. Wouldn’t she?

As the wheels of the car rolled past the bridge, past the impossible breach that had split Verona down the Adige, Cosimo thought he recognised the shape of something familiar. Someone familiar. He looked closer.

LAMPRIUS tore a writhing fissure through the dark as he emerged. Yet he did not step forth to heed the call of a king’s gaze, but to seek the sight of the victory that lay before him, crumpled among the ruins of what Verona had once been -- and what it has yet to become.

It was quite fitting, that a symbol of collapsed peace would be the mark of his ascension.

It carried a sense of revival. Renewal. Righteous retrieval of everything that had once been stolen by Montague and Capulet alike.

The sight stirred a rare gleam in his eyes, one that remained untouched and unvanquished, even as a dozen soldiers slithered out of his shadow and marched towards the torn-up Castelvecchio.

Rogues, guns-for-hire, and henchmen bought out of the ranks of contacts stolen from RICHARD III; now crowned with the honour of being his pieces across the board, pawns to nothing but the resurrected will of the Witches. They settled on both ends of the bridge and along its broad centre, armed and armoured as they sealed his claim over the long-forgotten, ever-abandoned hallmark.

Yet even with his force anchored to this location, his influence stretched far beyond it, at the tail of one final message sent out to the damned people of Verona -- this time, with a number left behind.

Unlike the one that had come before it, it was not a slip of bait dangled before gnashing teeth -- but an invitation, obligingly placed within open, beseeching palms.

ARIEL, HERMIONE, OLIVIA, HERO, IMOGEN and TROILUS were those chosen to receive it.

Upon speaking of the dead, one must remember to honour the living. And the only honour Verona knows is in the bargain of power; its ebb and flow, its offer and gain. Yet you don’t abide by that law, and you don’t bow before those who do. For that, you have been deemed nameless and defenceless. So this is how we choose to honour you: not by leashing you to the power we offer, but by helping you grow into your own. Not by tying you to a false cause or bending you to our will, but giving you a name and standing beside you when no one else will.

We don’t aim to liberate you; you are already free. You always have been, but it’s easy to forget that in a city as vicious as Verona.

The Witches offer you a reminder, and more. So much more beyond what the Montagues and Capulets have dared to steal from you, so much more beyond what Verona has led you to forget.

Come and find us, if you choose.

No matter what you decide, the Witches have returned to stand with you.

As the neutrals reeled from the message, LAMPRIUS and his forces held their vigilant claim on the Castelvecchio bridge, lying in wait for the rising sun to seal their dominion in place and drape Verona in the dawn of its new era.

Change was finally coming to the ancient city.

And it carried the promise of a reckoning.

-

OVERVIEW: Well, Veronesi, it’s been a long, long time coming, but at last, the moment you’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived! The head of Cosimo Capulet has been cut off (metaphorically speaking), and in its stead three more have grown back. Juliana has assumed her father’s position, guided by the nurturing hand of her Underboss and new advisor, Tiberius. For now, Cosimo sits under guard in a Capulet-owned villa in Padua, the result of Juliana and Vivianne’s string-pulling. There, he continues to live in luxury, but all his power has been stripped from him. With Henry’s gun retrieved from the hands of Isabella and a deal stuck in the shadows, the Capulets seem to be safe for now. The Montagues, on the other hand, have been less fortunate. Each of them have been demanded to make their loyalty clear to Damiano, who continues to try and consolidate his power over his son. For many, what he asks are impossible tasks, and we highly encourage you to explore these in your threads! 

But wait, that’s not all. The Witch (singular, for now) has snuck in and taken advantage of the surrounding chaos to claim Castelvecchio Bridge as his own, in one fell swoop. An offer has been made to each neutral in the city who has been pulled into the war. It is their choice to make, and their burden. Neutrals, please message the main with your character's decision to join Lucien or not OCTOBER 29TH. Please keep this decision private for now!

The game is afoot! Thank you for bearing with us this time around. We recognise that this is a very long, very complicated plot drop with several moving parts, so if you have any questions, please let us know! You may date your interactions from JUNE 3RD to JUNE 25TH. 

[hongism]

finding beauty in your darkest places - chapter 8

Pairing: TBA (i have no clue at the moment, ot7 for now)

Genre: Psychiatric Clinic!au, Heavy Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 6094

Warnings: strong language; deals with mental and emotional illnesses and disorders as a heavy theme of the story, future graphic depictions of disorders - please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable

Chapter specific warnings: discussions of character death, graphic depictions of anxiety attacks, discussion of suicidal thoughts and actions

Rating: PG-13/Mature

Summary: Everyone has their issues, and everyone deals with them differently. Jungkook thinks that avoiding his problems is the best option out there.

aka

Jeon Jungkook is the newest patient at the Omelas Specialized Psychiatric Clinic, and he just wants to get in and out as quickly as possible so that he can go back to university and be with his friends again. Of course, that doesn't work out according to his plan.

a/n: hello hello this is somewhat of a surprise chapter because i didn’t have this on the schedule or planned in my mind really. However, i find it easiest to write my feelings and since i’ve been feeling down recently, this chapter was easier to write and i felt more inspired to work on it. It’s also been quite some time since i posted, and for that i am hugely and immensely sorry. time slipped away from me and i put this story on the backburners of my mind for too long.

Also, this chapter contains a small surprise for my boo @maptoyoongi​ bc Mari has been so helpful and kind and lovely about helping me with this story and supporting me big time when it comes to this story. I never feel as though it’s enough to just say thank you and i wanted a way to thank you in a special way ;-; even now, i don’t feel as though this is enough to say thank you <3

(it’s been so long that this is the first time i’m actually using the tag list omg)

tag list: @succulentjinkook​ @mxrzan​

7 | 8 | 9

Finding Beauty in Your Darkest Places

Chapter 8: Black Waters

It's cold. The edges of autumn have seeped their way into the clinic, bringing brown and red leaves to the trees around the basketball court, and the season is windier than usual. A gust of wind passes over Jungkook's body. He doesn't brace himself against the breeze despite being in a typical short sleeved white shirt. Rather he remains where he is, sprawled out in the middle of the basketball court and staring up at the clouded sky with an equally clouded mind.

Cold.

Everything is cold. His fingers are never warm anymore, the cold seeping to his palms on occasion. Part of Jungkook knows that he should be worried. It's a concern, maybe a serious health concern in fact, and yet...nothing.

Cold.

Jungkook would rather be cold.

"For the longest time, I only saw that reflection when I looked in the mirror. It took a long time to separate Kim Namjoon from the disorders the doctors labelled me with. What do you see in the mirror, Jungkook? Do you know who you are or do you just take the labels doctors give you? Are you “Jeon Jungkook, Panic Disorder” or someone else?"

Who is he? According to the voices scampering through his head without rest, he's a number of things. Loser, asshole, trash, garbage, piece of shit, dirty, crazy, a disappointment. A liar. Jeon Jungkook is a dirty fucking liar, and he knows that to be the truth.

The worst thing he could do is dwell on the past. Think about all the ways in which he wronged Taehyung, you, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hyewon, maybe every patient in the clinic. His brother...mom...father. Jungkook's head begins to tingle, a faint sensation starting in the back of his skull and quickly travelling to the space between his eyes.

“It’s far better to know people for their heart and not their mind. A person’s mind can be fucked up and distorted. But the kind of person they are, what they do for others, how they treat others — that all tells you much more. We are all souls with a house of flesh and bones, wrestling with a mind that is not our own. For some people it gets to be too much. They just want out of the cage they feel trapped in, and society is the one keeping them there. They don’t see their body as anything good, it’s only a trapped feeling, and sometimes they try to get out. They try to get rid of a certain part of themselves, kill the mind that isn’t completely theirs.”

Namjoon's words stay with Jungkook and cling to the loose bits of his brain only to eat away like a parasite. Kill the mind that isn't completely theirs. In the first few days after that conversation with Namjoon, Jungkook wanted nothing more than to do just that. It would have been so easy, so quick and painless, he could've just done it. Should have. And yet, he lives to see the clouded sky another day, back cold from the pressure of the concrete under him, and surprisingly at peace with being alive.

Nevermind the nagging voices in his mind telling him he's a coward who can't kill himself properly. Jungkook is content.

His birthday came and went without any celebration, which is exactly what he had wanted. None of his family came to visit before or after the day of his birthday, and when each Sunday ended without their presence, Jungkook found that he was not upset in the slightest.

At peace.

Such a strange concept.

When has Jungkook ever felt at peace with anything in his life? Where did this sensation come from? Namjoon's understanding and endless wise words provided relief, yes, but Jungkook wouldn't go so far as to say that they put his fears and anxieties to rest. They haven't gone anywhere. They're just...quiet, but not in a relaxing or easing sense. Jungkook flips between being content and on edge throughout the day constantly. Because it feels like they're waiting. Waiting for something, the drop of a pin, the perfect trigger, the slightest misstep.

On edge may be an understatement.

Dr. Martin requested that Jungkook begin to attend group therapy sessions at his last meeting with the doctor. The idea, in and of itself, sounds like a cruel form of torture for a person like Jungkook -- one still wrestling with the weight of what's wrong with him, the issues swirling through his body and mind.

It will be beneficial, the doctor had said.

Jungkook mentally called bullshit. How could it be? A sit down chat with other patients where he has to talk about himself and his struggles? Fuck that. Jungkook would rather have a fork stuck through the back of his hand. Besides, another huge concern that looms in the back of Jungkook's mind is that Taehyung may be at one of these sessions.

The two are still doing a fantastic job of avoiding each other, and considering they are roommates, Jungkook is impressed they've been able to keep it up this long as it is. But he can't run away when trapped in a room for a group therapy session. He has to sit there and take it, facing the person whose trust he broke, whose relationship he ruined, and whose condition has regressed dramatically in the past few days.

All my fault. My fault. I did that. It was me.

Jungkook's eyes flutter shut, blocking the sky from his view and letting the blackness behind his eyelids sweep over him.

"We need to talk."

Jimin had caught Jungkook by the arm after breakfast two days ago and uttered those four words, eyes narrowed and expression grim. For a moment, Jungkook had thought that he did something wrong or something to upset Jimin. Of course he did, he single-handedly destroyed Taehyung, but Jimin was not angry. His expression softened a moment later, and he had said that he wants to help fix things.

Again, Jungkook mentally called bullshit.

"Fix things". A load of bullshit by itself, but also something that Namjoon said was unnecessary. Fix what? The countless problems Jungkook has caused since arriving in the clinic? Or fix Taehyung himself?

Jimin never approached Jungkook after that, however, which left Jungkook to wonder when the older man is going to approach him, if he does at all. He certainly isn't going to be the one who makes an effort to bring the topic up with Jimin.

Jungkook sits up on the pavement, eyes snapping open again, and he blinks at the intrusion of light through the clouds above. With a quick glance at his watch, Jungkook scrambles to his feet and rushes for the door. His group therapy session starts in two minutes, and the room is on the other side of the clinic. Moving quickly, Jungkook manages to sprint over to where Dr. Martin's office lies, coincidentally across from the room where group therapy sessions are held. The door lies cracked open, and through the small space, Jungkook can see multiple forms already seating inside. No voices arise from the room, however, so Jungkook can at least rest in the knowledge that he isn't late.

That peace of mind dissipates the moment he steps through the door. There Taehyung sits, directly across from the door in a rickety plastic chair. He stares forward and locks eyes with Jungkook as soon as the door moves. Both men freeze, stare at each other with eyes growing wider with each passing second. Panic.

Jungkook's brain is firing warning signals everywhere, the cold in his fingertips grows to a dull ache, and he curls his fingers into his palm under the skin almost breaks. Panic.

Taehyung's face relaxes into a deadpan expression, wide eyes returning to a hooded gaze. Jungkook glances at the people on either side of him, Hyewon on one side with her platinum blonde hair that blends in too much with the white of the clinic around her, and Eunbi on his other side. Both girls wear similar expressions, but when Hyewon makes eye contact with Jungkook, she beams brightly at him. Jungkook offers his own weak smile in response but it doesn't linger. Rather, he steps around the circle of chairs and moves to the seat across from the girl, one beside Seokjin, who seems about as happy to be here as Jungkook is.

"Hi, Seokjin."

Jungkook's greeting is met with a small grunt rather than words, which catches the younger off-guard. Seokjin never fails to be bright and cheerful, chatty even when no one else seems to be in the mood to talk. The Seokjin before Jungkook now is not the one he knows, not in the slightest, and that realization itself sends a chill down the back of his neck.

"Good afternoon everyone!"

A bright and warm voice intrudes on the silence of the room. Jungkook glances up, eyes finding the door again and spotting a young woman dressed in a set of pale blue scrubs. Her smile is too bright, a foreign expression from a nurse at the clinic, and Jungkook almost hazards a guess that she's faking it. However as she steps further into the room, her grin remains. She wastes no time in coming to sit at the last available chair one seat over from Jungkook.

"I'm seeing a few new faces today. First of all, I'm so happy to see that and welcome. I hope that we are able to help you all and this session offers you some peace from the harshness of what's inside your head. Secondly, I'll introduce myself for those of you who may not know me. My name is Dr. Mari, I take care of the group therapy sessions here at the clinic. Would you please each introduce yourselves so that everyone can know each other's names? Oh, also share one interesting fact about yourself! A simple icebreaker to help keep the tension at bay." Dr. Mari motions to the girl sitting on her right, asking her to start wordlessly.

"I'm Hanuel and um, I-I like dogs?" The girl shrugs a bit after her introduction. Seeing her fidget in her seat, eyes wavering and not meeting anyone else's in the room, and the sheer expression of panic across her face as she introduces herself sends Jungkook's mind into a panic of its own. He grips the fabric of his sweatpants tight between his fingers, knuckles white from the force of his grip, and the rapidly accelerating drumming of his heartbeat in his ears begins to resound. His mind shuts down in that moment, blocking out sensory functioning and clouding all his judgement with the constant rhythm of panic in his body.

Before he can stop it, the anxiety attack washes over him like a tsunami. Cold, even colder than before, yet hot at the same time. His throat is burn, skin scalding around his neck, and he's almost certain that his face looks much like a tomato at this point. Jungkook knows what comes next. The distortion, the confusion, pain -- oh so much pain.

Idiot. Dumb fucking idiot. Why did you think it was a good idea to come here? You think you're normal compared to these people? No, look at you. Look at you barely functioning. Dumb fucking idiot. Worthless, I told you you were worthless.

Can't fucking kill yourself properly?

At least do it like you mean it, you worthless disappointment.

Jungkook sinks. The water plunges over him, filling his lungs and throat with black water that freezes his insides. He's thrashing, fighting to get out, but to no avail.

Jungkook has been here before. This is familiar. A hand closes around his throat, and he can no longer breathe. It's familiar.

Something wakes him up from the reverie, well someone to be more specific. A hand comes down on his thigh, and Jungkook jerks his whole body, finding the culprit staring at him with wide eyes. It's Seokjin. The fingers that close around his thigh simultaneously pull him from the depths of the black water in his mind. He nods twice. Jungkook takes the hint and glances around the room, seeing waiting expressions.

"Oh, uh, I'm Jeon Jungkook...the--the newest patient here."

Dr. Mari offers a soft smile, her eyes twinkling as she does. "We're so happy to have you here, Mr. Jeon. Thank you for coming." Jungkook nods a few times in response. He fights to gain control over his breathing again as the girl on his right introduces herself. Seokjin's grip gradually lessens until Jungkook doesn't feel the pressure of his touch any longer, and when he glances down to where the man's hand had just been, he swears the skin tingles with lingering warmth.

"We will open the discussion today as usual. Remember anyone can jump in and talk, there doesn't need to be any specific order, and you don't have to speak if you don't feel comfortable doing so. Hopefully it's helpful to some extent and encouraging to hear others open up in front of you. Now, how are each of feeling today?"

Silence meets Dr. Mari's question. A moment passes when each patient glances around the circle as though pleading another to speak up and make some sort of conversation, but no one does. Dr. Mari remains quiet and patient though, eyes soft as she glances over the patients before her.

"W-Well..." It's Eunbi who starts up the discussion, her voice quiet and hesitant. She doesn't continue her train of thought, at which point, Dr. Mari nods at her.

"Go ahead, dear."

"Well, I've been feeling down and distracted recently. Um, Miyeon might be leaving soon. I-I'm really happy that she is getting better and could leave shortly, but...and I know it's a selfish thought, but I don't want to see her leave. She's my best friend, and she's always been here for me. I don't know what it'll be like to not have her here. She--she helps keep everything in check, keeps all the pieces glued together, so I'm scared. I'm sc-scared about what might happen if she leaves." Dr. Mari hums as Eunbi finishes speaking.

"Does anyone have any advice or words for Eunbi?"

Taehyung doesn't hesitate. He leans forward, quick to offer some sort of reassurance with his words. "Jimin and I will always be here for you. Even if she does leave, we'll still be here." Eunbi smiles at Taehyung, not saying another word and instead shifting her gaze to the floor. Silence creeps into the circle once more. Dr. Mari waits a few moments before cutting the quiet with words of her own.

"Seokjin, you're being awfully quiet today. Is anything in particular on your mind?" Jungkook follows the doctor's gaze to Seokjin.

"No, it's just that I was up late last night talking with my roommate," he explains. "We were having a chat and it ended up being a lot longer than anticipated, so I went to bed very late."

"I understand, that's alright. Why don't you each tell me about one thing that made you happy this week? Seokjin, we'll start with you if you don't mind."

"That's perfectly fine. Um, I spent a lot of time in the library with Namjoon this week. I was able to make it through almost half of a book without getting detached. I remembered most of the content too, so I was happy to finally able to talk through things with Namjoon after reading the book. I haven't been able to do that in a long time."

Eunbi picks up after Seokjin, talking about something related to Miyeon, but Jungkook doesn't pay the words much attention. Dr. Mari's question lingers in his mind. What made you happy? Jungkook doesn't need to think for long because his answer is nothing. If there was anything that made him happy, it's been blocked out and erased by the bad memories. Nothing. It sounds too depressing in Jungkook's mind, and he's sure that if he were to admit that out loud, Dr. Mari would talk to the doctors about his condition. Maybe he'd get new pills, new therapy, more appointments, more and more pointless diagnoses that aren't entirely accurate simply because it's what works best for the system.

"And you, Jungkook?" Dr. Mari cuts through his thoughts.

Maybe it's best that way. Take more and more pills until you're a husk of a human being. Then they won't ask if you're happy.

"Nothing good happened to me this week," Jungkook says without looking up at the doctor. He expects to hear her sigh and click her tongue against the roof of her mouth as a show of disappointment. Neither sound comes.

"Did anything at all make you happy?" She inquires instead.

"No." Jungkook dares to glance up, finding Taehyung's eyes across the room, and the other man wears an expression of sadness for a moment.

"I understand," Dr. Mari says in a quiet voice. Her tone remains level and soft as she consoles him. "It can be tough to have a week like that. But know that things will get better. Whether it happens today, tomorrow, in three weeks or three years -- this will pass, and you will be better and stronger because of it. We're here to help along the way and support you when you don't feel like you can do it by yourself any longer. Now, I would like for you all to share one thing that made you upset this week. Jungkook, would it be alright if you started? You seem to have a lot on your mind, so I'd like to talk through that some if you don't mind." Jungkook's eyes flit over to the doctor. He expects to see the cold and retrained expression that always covers Dr. Martin's face, or the slight look of disdain from some of the nurses, but he sees neither. Rather, Dr. Mari blinks back at him with brows furrowed, gaze soft, and expression reading pure concern. Something about her expression eases Jungkook's mind.

"I'm not sure where to start."

"That's alright, you can just say whatever comes to mind first if you'd rather."

"I...I had a falling out with someone." Jungkook shifts in his seat, daring to look in Taehyung's direction. They meet eyes for a second, then Taehyung ducks his head and refuses to look at him any longer.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Jungkook debates it, considers telling the truth and being honest for once. Just once, he really wants to be honest. He wants to get it off his chest, be open, but to do it in front of these people? People he doesn't know well, some people he doesn't care to know and vice versa, people who could use this against him. Yet Dr. Mari's expression of interest and concern compels him to speak.

"We had a disagreement, and I didn't consider how my actions would affect him mentally or emotionally. I...it's selfish, but I don't want to be responsible for harming him or the relationships he has with others."

"Do you feel bitter at all? Towards that person?" Jungkook jerks his head to find the source of the question. Taehyung's eyes are on him once more, eyes wide, and teeth gnawing his lower lip now that he's put the question out in the air.

"No, not at all," Jungkook admits. Taehyung dips his head. "I just--well, I feel guilty, I guess, for hurting the other person. I wish I could explain that to him but it seems like he's avoiding me. I want a chance to ask for forgiveness, but I don't feel like I deserve it."

"Why would you think you don't deserve a chance for forgiveness?" Dr. Mari asks.

"It feels a bit like I've hurt him too much to be forgiven."

"Maybe...maybe the other person overreacted some because he didn't know how to handle the information," Taehyung speaks up again. "And maybe he isn't upset with you, but he said some hurtful things that shouldn't have been said."

"Taehyung is right. Communication is key, especially when it comes to disagreements. I encourage you to talk with the person again and maybe explaining the situation a bit more will help. That may also help you have better days and find more happiness in things." Jungkook nods along with Dr. Mari's words. "Thank you for sharing, Jungkook. Would anyone else like to share?"

"Um, I-I would," Taehyung pipes up again. He fidgets in his seat before speaking again, a small sniffle accompanying his movements. "I, uh, I called my mom earlier in the week. She said...she said my grandmother passed away. I-I don't know why, but she helped raise me and has always been there for me no matter what. I wish--I wish that I could have been there for her before this happened. It doesn't feel fair."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Taehyung. I understand how much she meant to you and how it must be very hard for you to handle while being at the clinic. It must be very hard for everyone here. It's hard to feel as though there is no way out, no way to see family and friends, and live your own life. Everything you do is under watch, someone is there with you, you're required to follow all these regulations and rules. While, yes, they are meant to help your betterment and assure safety, it must feel very suffocating at times. However, each of you has come to this place together, all suffering and struggling with similar things, and you are with each other at the same time for a reason. You should be a beacon of hope and a light at the end of the tunnel for each other. When something bad happens, rather than stepping away from each other, you should step towards one another. Be there for each other and treat this place as a new home. While it may be a temporary one, it is an important one. This is a place where you can have a new family, not a replacement per se, but a family full of people who know what you go through each and every day and understand how you feel.

"I understand each of you may have qualms with each other or with the staff here at the clinic. It can be hard to feel surrounded by people who seem not to care about you or want you to get better, but I assure you there are people who want to help here. Whether it be a doctor or a nurse or a patient, people want to see you be better and stronger, to return to your life outside the clinic.

"Everyone is at the clinic for a reason. Obviously you each know that, the patients are here for their specific reasons. The reason I came to the clinic, however, is because I wanted to make a difference and be a person who could help in some way. When I was your age, I didn't have anyone to rely on or go to when I struggled. For many years, I struggled alone, and it was the most terrifying experience of my life. I'm here to make sure that each of you don't have to feel that way, to give you an option, a choice to not be alone. I love seeing progress in each of you, and growth, but I adore seeing you grow and rely on each other to get better. Medication can only do so much. There has to be a change in the heart and in the mind in order to overcome your struggles. That is what I want to see as a doctor here. I want to see patients come together and help each other because we doctors and the nurses lack in many areas. You can do so much more for each other since you understand each other. Now, I will leave you all with that thought for the day. Thank you for coming, thank you to our newcomers, and you're free to leave now."

Jungkook moves to get up, but a hand clamps down on his leg, keeping him planted to the seat. He looks to the man on his left in confusion. Seokjin doesn't say a word, nor does he even spare Jungkook a glance, and he keeps staring forward at the floor in silence. Dr. Mari is the first to stand, followed by a few of the female patients, while Taehyung lingers in his seat as well. A few moments later, the room is empty except for Taehyung, Seokjin, and Jungkook. There doesn't seem to be any reasoning behind why they're lingering, and Jungkook can only blink between the other two in wonder. Taehyung won't take his eyes off Jungkook, lips slightly parted as though he's about to say something. Words never come.

A minute passes, then two, then three in silence. There's an itch under Jungkook's skin now, the anxiety crawling its way back into his system. Then, a creaking noise rises, and Taehyung stands up. He heads for the door without saying or doing anything, leaving Jungkook to wonder what the hell just happened. Once Taehyung is out of sight, Seokjin releases a deep breath.

"Did something happen between you and Taehyung?" He asks.

"No." The answer comes a bit too quickly, perhaps the lie is too transparent, and Seokjin can see straight through him. "Nothing happened. Everything's fine." Jungkook ought to stop talking, he's only digging the hole deeper at this point. He won't be able to drawl out of it once Seokjin catches on that it's a lie, but luckily enough, Seokjin makes a noise of approval.

"Sorry for bothering you. I just--it seemed--I most likely misread things. I make too many assumptions anyways, according to Yoongi at least."

"Ah, no! Don't worry, it's fine." Jungkook rushes to reassure the older man, and Seokjin smiles back in gratitude as he does. "Would it...be alright if I asked you a few questions actually?"

"Oh, me? That's fine. Ask away!" Seokjin grins at Jungkook, the lines around his mouth and nose scrunching up with the gesture.

"How long have you been at the clinic?"

"Hm, I think it's been about a year for me now. Might seem strange, since Namjoon, Yoongi, and Y/N have been here for a lot longer."

"How did you start talking with them then? Or become friends, I mean." Seokjin leans back in his chair, squinting at the ceiling.

"Well, Y/N was the person who showed me around the ward at the time. Back then, she was a lot less bright and happy." Jungkook does at double-take at the words.

"She doesn't seem bright or happy at all now," he scoffs.

"It used to be a lot worse. I have no clue why, but she was absolutely hellish back then. Even so, I found her interesting and I was grateful that she showed me around, so I kinda just pushed myself into her life. After I found out that Yoongi was my roommate, I thought it was sort of meant to be? That sounds odd and cliche, but that's the reason why I spent all my time with the two of them. Namjoon was obviously there as well, though at the time he didn't spend all of his time with us as he does now. Thinking back, it was hard dealing with both Yoongi and Y/N since they were both so hellish then, but Namjoon was good at placating it. Y/N and Yoongi would argue all the time, back and forth with no end whatsoever. Namjoon would just say "stop" and they would shut up. I don't understand it, even now that it's a lot better and way different than it used to be."

"What do you mean?"

"They care about each other -- Y/N and Yoongi that is -- but it's always seemed as though they have a really twisted way of showing it. I don't approve of it, but I'm not the person to tell them otherwise. It's not my place, first of all. Secondly, I can't do anything about it even if I wanted to. The only person who could have an actual impact would be Namjoon, although anytime I mention it to him, he shuts me down and refuses to talk about it." Seokjin's admission triggers something in Jungkook's mind, and he's taken back all the sudden to one of his previous conversations with Namjoon.

“Quit asking, Jungkook.”

“I’m so-sorry, I was just c—”

“I don’t want to talk about them so you shouldn’t bother.”

“Talk about Yoongi and Y/N?”

“Drop it now before I have to say it again.”

Now that he knows it's been a recurring pattern with Seokjin, Jungkook can't help but wonder what the cause is. Did something happen there for him to be so against talking about it?

"Eh, now that I think about it, I guess Y/N wasn't the absolute worst she could've been. When I first arrived, she really tried her best to help me and look after me in a way, even though I'm older than her. Over time though, she started helping me less and less. I think it's partly because I insisted that I was just fine helping myself. Maybe that's why she was cold to me for so long. Part of me feels guilty about having her help me, somewhat due to the fact that I'm older than here, but also because there isn't really anything wrong with me."

Jungkook blinks at Seokjin. ...isn't really anything wrong with him? But if that's true...why would he be here?

"I'm not sick or anything like that, so she didn't need to help me."

...Not sick?

"We argued about that at one point. I don't remember the exact content of the argument, but Namjoon took my side and of course Yoongi took hers. Things were tense for a little while after that but we cleared things up and talked through it. Turned out better in the end because now we're fine, and she knows that she doesn't have to help me anymore."

"Makes sense," Jungkook mumbles, more focused on the fact that Seokjin claimed to not be sick.

"Of course, she still tries from time to time," Seokjin continues as though Jungkook didn't say anything. "But it isn't as frequent as when she tries to help others like she does with Hoseok or Taehyung or even you."

"What?" Jungkook blanches at the mention of him. "She doesn't do that for me. She doesn't do anything like that at all, especially not compared to what she does for Taehyung or Hoseok."

"Oh, you can't see it?" Seokjin's eyebrows raise, and he swipes his tongue across his lower lip. "I know that she's trying her best to help, but it may not be obvious because of the kind of person she can be. She truly does care though, no matter what you might think. It's just--she, well, she has a tendency to believe that she can help others while keeping them at arm's length, even though that's almost impossible. Maybe that's what caused us to fight in the first place: we don't see eye  to eye on a lot of things. At the end of the day, we respect each other. That's the most important thing: mutual respect and care. As Dr. Mari said, being there for each other is valuable and I wouldn't want any sort of petty argument to get in the way of that."

"I suppose so. Well, no, that's right. That's 100% correct. Just...difficult, I guess."

"So can we talk about what's going on between you and Taehyung now?"

"Huh? W-What? Nothing happened, I don't--I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit." Seokjin releases a small laugh. "Whatever happened between the two of you is somehow affecting Taehyung's relationship with Y/N." Jungkook's heart plummets. He noticed? How did he notice? Did other people notice too? "Listen, Jungkook. Taehyung is one of the most important things in Y/N's life, the other thing being Hoseok. She doesn't feel as though she has any purpose or value outside of that."

"I...I know that, but there isn't--there isn't anything I can do." Seokjin grabs hold of his forearm, pinching the skin with his rough grasp.

"I was up late talking with Yoongi last night, and we were talking about Y/N. She came to visit Yoongi while I was gone yesterday. I was helping clean up and take care of dishes after dinner so Yoongi was alone. I--they--" Seokjin cuts himself off before he can say any more. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this. No, I'm sure it's fine. It's fine, I don't have to tell him everything." Jungkook leans away from the man, but Seokjin's grip only tightens around his arm. "Anyways, Y/N and Yoongi talked for a bit."

"You see, this is why we are better off not talking when we're together. Things that don't involve conversation always do more good for the two of us."

Jungkook narrows his eyes. "But...Y/N told me herself that they don't tend to talk when they're together." Seokjin's eyes grow wide, then he shakes his head.

"Uh, it's not my business to tell you the details of her relationship with Yoongi or to explain what the two of them do in their private time."

"P-Private time?" Seokjin presses his lips into a thin line. A second passes, then reality sinks in, and Jungkook suddenly understands what you meant when you said that. "Oh." Seokjin offers a weak yet understanding smile.

"Again, it's not my place to talk about that. But anyways, back to the topic at hand. Y/N had mentioned something to Yoongi about needing a distraction because Taehyung was acting strange and different. She apparently went to talk to him, and he flat out ignored her. She's scared that he's mad at her for not finding his bear sooner."

The black water laps at Jungkook's ankles. He's expecting another tsunami.

"Did Taehyung mention what happened between them or if it has something to do with whatever happened between the two of you?"

"No," Jungkook denies quickly. He tugs his arm out of Seokjin's grasp. "It's not my business to talk about that anyways." Seokjin purses his lips then opens his mouth to say something else. "I have to go." Jungkook stands up, excusing himself from the conversation before it goes any further. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't care to know about whatever is going on between you and Yoongi, or how hurt you are by Taehyung's behavior. It doesn't matter. It's not like I'm going to fucking stay at the clinic forever. Jungkook pushes his way out of the room, leaving Seokjin behind him, and doesn't care to look back and see whether the man decided to follow or not.

The black water is at his waist now, he feels the tug of the tide pulling and dragging him further in, and the cold black hand ready to close around his throat.

Your fault. Your fucking fault. Look what you did. You dirty fucking liar. You disappointment. Look at you. Can't do anything right, huh?

Jungkook stumbles on thin air.

Can't even kill yourself properly, can you?

Then all the sudden, he's on the floor, staring at the white ceiling with a dull throbbing in the back of his head.

"Jungkook!" It's not Seokjin's voice -- far too feminine for that -- but his mind is too swamped by black water to put a name to the voice.

"Y/N!" That's Seokjin, Jungkook recognizes it from having just heard it so much minutes ago. But that means, that it must have been you who yelled his name. For some reason, that realization causes the black hand around his throat to retract and sink back into the water, and the water recedes until it's lapping at his ankles again.

Hands find the collar of his white tee, pulling his shoulders up off the floor. Jungkook blinks a few times as your face appears before him. It stands out against the white of the ceiling, a blur to your features until Jungkook focuses his eyes again.

Then -- panic.

Oh god, is she mad at me? Does she know? She knows. Fuck, I'm screwed. She knows about the journal, about Taehyung, about everything. Fuck.

You smile.

Jungkook chokes on air.

"I found it, Jungkookie."

...

a/n: i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! not a lot happened but at the same time a lot kinda happened?? i missed this story so so much and was so happy to return to writing it. i am excited to share more of this story with you guys, along with other projects that i have :3

consider sending me a ko-fi!!

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[quirkykayleetam]

Not Who You Made Me to Be

Self-Sacrifice + Discovered Immortality requested by @whump-tr0pes

Post-Apocalyptic Corporate cyborg setting selected by me. 

See tags for trigger warnings.  Gore is a thing that happens.  Defense of fanfic as a human beauty completely endorsed by the author.  Interpretations of the romance as queer are welcomed and appreciated.

It was the end, the resistance’s final stand.

They wouldn’t win.  They couldn’t.  That much was clear when the sun rose to the literal army of abominations ahead of them.  Created by madness and corporate greed, these mixtures of machine and flesh had no free will.  They only did what they were programmed to do.  And now, they were programmed to kill.

They did not feel fear.  Handmade flamethrowers that had at least given the first wave paused didn’t slow these beasts.  They leapt forward on paws and legs and distorted feet.

They did not feel pain.  The enemy scientists had found a way to block their neurotransmitters so they did nothing but obey.  Where our soldiers fell to knee shots and blood loss, theirs’ continued forward.

Still, the last of humanity fought on.  They used all their ingenuity, their creativity, their community, everything that couldn’t be made in a lab to strike back against those who would take that away.  Whole units fell as distractions so children could make it away in cloaked underground tunnels, their minds filled with memories of stories and art and the determination to make beauty wherever they went.  Once elders asked us what was worth saving.  Charles Dickens?  The Mona Lisa?  Harry Potter?  Fan Fiction?

The resistance responded with one voice: Everything.

I watched our leader.  She was beautiful.  Her Black braids waved in the sunlight as she shouted orders from the front lines.  She knew her job wasn’t solely to fight; it was to be seen.  She’d become a symbol of hope and while that weighed on her in quiet moments where she felt she could be herself again and not just a banner on a battlefield, she accepted that responsibility.  As long as she was standing, she knew people behind her would fight.  They would not give up.

The day was long and bloody.  My vision blurred with tears and smoke as I helped burn the bodies of our fallen.  This wasn’t something that could wait.  If we lost, we knew they’d turn our corpses into their next experiments and we  vowed to prevent that.  Our friends deserved better.

There wasn’t much else I could do.  Lame from birth and half deaf, I couldn’t keep up with the fighters.  I couldn’t hear orders if they were shouted from my left side or hear approaching enemies if they came at me that way.  That was why the corporations didn’t want me.  They’d marked me for scrap before the resistance saved me.  

They handed me seeds and precious books, knitting needles and cooking knives.  They learned I had an eidetic memory and set me to making maps and portraits and art.  Some things were for tactical use.  Some things were to remember people.  Some things we made because they brought out the best in us.  They were beautiful.

“No one is worthless,” they told me, “And even if they were, we’d stand together just the same.”

It seemed strange that I was there when we accomplished our final objective:  We cornered their head scientist in his lab.  We hoped that if we destroyed his research, his schematics we could at least slow their innovations and give us time.

Our leader was there.  Even if we didn’t survive, we wanted memories and pictures of her confronting the man, giving our arguments for the importance of humanity.

Then something went wrong.

A machine exploded.  Shrapnel shredded the room, the largest piece headed for our leader’s heart.

I didn’t think.  I just jumped.

The floor was already slick with blood and oil when I hit it.  From my good ear, I could our leader, my leader calling out my name.  The metal pierced my stomach.  I breathed wretchedly through the pain, knowing that was one of the worst ways to die.  At least it was worth it.  She was safe.  I loved her and she was safe.

Her hands lifted my head.  They were warm and calloused.  I could see the tears in her eyes and I loved her all the more for that.  She ripped the scrap from my belly.  I cried out in anticipation of more pain, more spurting blood, but it never happened.  We stared.

There were synthetic tubes where my intestines should have been.  They were ripped, spilling fluid, but already trying to repair themselves.  I was hurt.  I was hurting.  But I wasn’t dying.  I was just broken.

Another voice reached my ears.

“No!” the scientist howled.  “You!  You were supposed to be my greatest creation!  A human so lifelike even humans couldn’t tell you apart.”

“Why?” I whispered.  Then louder.  “Why?!”

“Ah, the switch!  Here, I have it.  One flip and you’d be one of mine again.  Think of it?  The moment of you little revolution’s greatest triumph and you’d be cut down by one of your own, exactly what you were trying to protect.  It would prove you all useless.  It would prove you all wrong!”

His wrinkled hands fluttered to the switch.  He flipped it once.  Then again.  Over and over, the red light going on and off as he pointed it at me.

I could feel something.  Something cold unfurled in the belly he had wounded.  It was stark and plain.  It spoke of painless unfeeling and worryless obedience.

But I also felt my love’s hands in my hair.  I saw the golden halo that ringed around her irises.  I felt her heart speed up as she tried to process what had happened.  I heard her voice crack as she whispered my name.  And that seemed far, far more important.

With her help, I struggled to stand.  Blood and oil seeped out of me and in the low light of the laboratory, they both seemed the same.

“I am not who you made me to be,” I said.  

I turned to my people.  We turned to go. 

[wondr18360]

Hints at who the traitor was in Persona 5

To be honest, I always had a gut feeling that this person would be the traitor partly because I had seen the teaser images for PQ2 with them included as part of the Phantom Thieves and given their background before they “joined” the group, they certainly seemed suspicious, but still that’s not really proof that this person was the traitor, so here’s a list of things that really helped prove that they were the culprit behind the mental shutdowns and the one who sold out the Phantom Thieves!

(I haven’t revealed their name or gender yet cuz I don’t wanna spoil anyone by accident, so select ‘keep reading’ at your own risk!)

1. Lurking at Okumura Foods

The first time the Phantom Thieves enter Okumura’s palace, Akechi is spotted nearby, and we can see him actually notice the Thieves gathered in front of the company building before the scene cuts to the Metaverse. At this point in the game it could be just a way to make us nervous since it’s already been established that he’s suspicious of the Shujin kids + Yusuke and Futaba, and him seeing them go into the Metaverse in front of a potential target’s property could make him even more suspicious and maybe even give him solid proof that they are the Phantom Thieves, but really, why is Akechi by the Okumura company building in the first place? Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe he’s just doing his job investigating Okumura as a suspect? In any case, it is quite convenient, especially that he happens to be there at the same time that the Thieves are, and more importantly, that this just happens to be the one palace that they infiltrate whose owner dies of a mental shutdown because the true culprit appears after the boss battle and kills his shadow. I’m probably grasping at straws, but in hindsight this does seem a bit fishy...

2. Interest in the Shujin Kids + Yusuke & Futaba (and Haru)

During the Shujin Academy panel, when Akechi reveals that he knows their identity as the Phantom Thieves, he tells the group that he was curious about them ever since the Madarame case. This could have been because Yusuke started hanging out with Ryuji, Ann, and Akira (and Morgana) around the time of the Madarame case, and not only would that have been odd because he didn’t go to the same school as them, but after a bit of digging it would have been known that a former pupil/victim of Madarame was hanging out with three Shujin students who had been victims of Kamoshida, who was the first target of the Phantom Thieves; logically that would have made for a pretty interesting group and it would have been a strange coincidence that Yusuke just happens to join those three when his tormentor gets a change of heart. But remember, Madarame’s shadow was the first one to mention the true culprit behind the shutdowns, and talked about a Persona-user with a black mask. Kaneshiro, the next criminal to get a change of heart, also mentioned the culprit. It’s a bit odd that the time around which Akechi grew interested in the group coincides with the time that we first heard about the true culprit, who most likely could have even been in the palaces at the same time as the Thieves and maybe even saw them as they were exploring, particularly since in the Okumura palace, the culprit kills Shadow Okumura right after the Thieves defeat him and leave him behind, indicating that whoever they were, they must have been waiting inside the palace itself for the Thieves to weaken him and then leave so that they could finish the job. Again, probably grasping at straws, but it’s kinda suspicious.

3. Sudden Thieves fan??

Okay he doesn’t really become a fan of the Phantom Thieves, but Akechi’s stance towards them does soften somewhat after Okumura’s death when he adamantly says that they aren’t responsible for the incident or for any of the other mental shutdowns. This is a bit suspicious since before he seemed very convinced that the Phantom Thieves were connected to the mental shutdowns, and when his stance suddenly changes to the opposite, even Sae Nijima calls him out on it and points out the same thing. Not only that, but on his television appearance, he even comments that there may be more going on than originally thought, which is similarly suspicious and even indicates that he may actually know more than he’s letting on. In addition, when he later runs into Akira at Leblanc again, he says something about how is goals are probably not so different from theirs, which a) hints at a possible collaboration between him and the Thieves, and b) indicates that he may also have his own agenda to get rid of scummy adults. The latter is actually confirmed later when he’s talking with the Thieves in Leblanc, when he mentions wanting revenge against sickening human beings and having a grudge against someone, which puts more emphasis on the fact that there is some darker force behind Akechi’s actions and motivation. 

4. Genius, or experienced?

During the Shujin Academy panel when Akechi confronts the Thieves and reveals how he found out their true identities, he says that he has the same power as them and that he gained that power around the time of the Okumura case, about a month before the panel. However, when he’s talking to the Thieves, he seems to know quite a bit about the Metaverse, even mentioning it by name, which is odd because even members like Makoto and Futaba, who either pick up knowledge quite quickly or may have already had some knowledge of the cognitive world, needed time and guidance from Morgana and the veteran members of the Thieves in order to figure things out. And yet here’s Akechi, who was on his own the whole time, talking as though he’s already an expert on the Metaverse- and how exactly did he know that that’s what the other world was called? It’s a bit strange, and even when he’s exploring Sae’s palace with the Thieves, he seems to know quite a lot already, or picks up on things abnormally quickly for someone who’s supposed to be an “amateur” as Morgana would say. Speaking of Sae’s palace, it’s also a bit fishy how he was able to find out so quickly how to use the Meta-nav to find it, since he is the one who reveals to the group that she has a palace, and evidently already has a plan to change her heart. Basically, his intelligence aside, the only other viable reason I can think of for Akechi’s extensive knowledge of the Metaverse is that he has more experience with it than he made it seem to the Phantom Thieves. 

5. Bad storyteller

I don’t know about you guys, but when Akechi was telling the Thieves about how he saw the real culprit behind the shutdowns and somehow survived their encounter by awakening his Persona, I wasn’t buying it. First, there's no proof that what he’s saying is actually true, and also, if he's really going to be a bona fide monafide member of the Phantom Thieves, wouldn’t we actually get to witness his awakening the way we did with all the other members? Even Haru, who was in her Persona clothes already when we first saw her, got a real awakening scene for us to see, but there’s none of that for Akechi. That’s not all though- it’s already established that the true culprit is quite strong, in fact, back when Shadow Kaneshiro mentioned the culprit, he said that the Thieves would be no match for them in terms of strength. If that’s the case, how would Akechi have survived? Maybe the trauma of a life-or-death situation triggered his awakening and his Persona momentarily saved his life, but still the culprit could have taken another shot or two and killed him because he’s still supposed to be relatively unfamiliar with his powers, and logically it would also be in the culprit’s best interests to make sure to get rid of Akechi because he actually saw them and this could come back to bite them later. In any case, Akechi’s story is only slightly believable at best in my opinion, and for me at least it definitely was a big hint.

6. Sae’s calling card

Am I the only one who thought it was kind of weird that Akechi was so specific about the date that they should send out the calling card for Sae? I mean, yeah he gave that whole analysis of her character and why based on that it would be good to send the calling card closer to the deadline, but still, why did it have to be on the 18th? Why not the 17th or the 19th? After all, those dates are pretty close to the deadline as well. This just makes it more likely that Akechi’s monologue about Sae is a clever ruse to hide the fact that he is planning his own “mission” to mobilize the police to capture the Phantom Thieves in her palace on that date. 

7. The deal

One of the biggest indicators (in my opinion) that Akechi wouldn’t be a true member of the Phantom Thieves was his condition for cooperating with them: they disband after dealing with Sae’s palace. If he genuinely was interested in joining them or working together towards justice, he wouldn’t be giving them such an ultimatum. He does say that he wants to work with them because the mission would not be able to succeed without their cooperation, but even that comment is a bit sketchy because his referring to a “mission” could even mean that he has an ulterior motive, some other “mission” that he’s trying to carry out besides taking away Sae’s distorted desires. Anyway, because he generally did not approve of the Thieves and his motivation for working with them was questionable at best, it makes sense that he would have been the one to betray them.

8. Delicious Pancakes:

Finally, the most meme-ish canon hint that Goro Akechi is the traitor! This is basically the incident that tips off Akira and the Phantom Thieves that they should be suspicious of Akechi when he wants to make a deal and work with them later in the game. It’s one of those hints that you can catch when it happens (which is far earlier than the deal and whole traitor business), but it’s subtle enough that you do need to be paying some attention to what’s going on at the time, especially since it’s covered up well by Ryuji’s convincing response to Akechi that nope, no one was talking about pancakes, and the fact that no one actually addresses it afterwards until months later when the story is close to its climax. But even if you did forget that Morgana was the only one talking about pancakes and how delicious they were, you would have to wonder why Akechi was so specific about having heard someone say “delicious pancakes” when it sounds nothing like what Ryuji and Ann were talking about before he arrived on the scene. From the early-game standpoint, it’s an indicator that given the fact that he heard Morgana, Akechi probably isn’t the normal high-school detective that he appears to be, but after progressing to the later part of the game, it’s proof that Akechi could hear and understand Morgana from the very beginning, and therefore was another Metaverse user; he was the true culprit behind the mental shutdowns. 

Welp, that was long, but if you got this far, thanks so much and I hope you enjoyed reading! :D

Bonus hint: Akechi literally is a long-haired alternate dimension version of Light Yagami, I mean of COURSE he’s the crazy criminal masquerading as a detective/ordinary student! XD 

(Also no one asked but Futaba sits a lot like L so it really is like Light vs. L again except this time L WINS!!)

[solcnas]

task three. nightmares result in awakenings, and bad dreams do not.

     the noise blaring from the alarm clock slowly brought lana back into consciousness. she hadn’t opened her eyes yet, facing reality wasn’t the first thing she wanted to do. the room was warmer than it was when she fell asleep the night before. which didn’t make much sense considering the weather was only getting colder and crisper as fall was turning into winter. there were more leaves on the ground than there was on the trees they came from. this time of the year was harder for lana. the holidays were approaching and she watched those around her making memories with their families, listening to her classmates go on and on about what to get their parents for christmas. just another thing she missed out on. instead, she was forced to return home— her grandmother’s. as much as she loved her, it was difficult either way. she’d see the woman’s face and silently panic. her grandmother lost her child because of lana’s own father; the person whom she shares half her DNA with. that constant reminder must destroy maria cruz. no matter how much she’ll deny it, and how much lana wants to believe it, still it’s hard to get over.

     “get up, sleepyhead ! you’re going to be late for class.”

     the voice made the groggy girl sit straight up. she lived alone, so who was speaking ? and why did she recognize it ?

     “i expected this from high school solana but not college solana.” the words were followed by an enchanting giggle.

     solana ? her eyelids lifted. that’s when the terror set in.

     this was not her room. this was not a college dorm. and, that voice— that was her mother.

     “mom ?” she threw the comforter off her body and jumped off the mattress, running into lorena’s arms.

     the embrace calmed lana down. but, not enough to stop the tears that fell down her face. to think, that lana hadn’t cried in forever. from what she remembers, she hadn’t cried since losing her mother. now, seeing her again, triggered it. this wasn’t right, something was terribly off. however, she chose to ignore the feeling. it had been years since she’d last seen her mother. too many years.

     lorena was squeezing her daughter as tight as she could. there was obvious confusion displaced on her face, she knew there was something wrong with lana. however, she wasn’t about to stop the sudden affection. “i’ve never seen you so happy to wake up at eight o’clock in the morning. is your father bribing you to do this ?”

                                       your father.

     lana pulled away, staring up to meet her mother’s gaze. that’s when lorena noticed she was crying. the sarcasm and jokes were pushed aside, and instinct kicked in. “solana ? what is up with you ? tell me, please.”

     “d-dad .. where is he ?”

     “still away in washington for work, why ?” eyebrows furrowing, she placed her hands on either side of lana.

     an instant sensation of dizziness struck the raven haired female like a tidal wave, so her mother’s support helped her to stand straight. what’s happening to her ? this was all too real to be a dream. only a few hours ago, she was tucked away at university, now she was living the life she’d always imagined she’d have.

     all she cared about was the fact that her father was not here and her mother was. lana wrapped herself around lorena’s waist again, never planning on letting go. she’d turned into a kid again, one that desperately clings onto their mom’s side. now, knowing what she knows, she had good reason to.

     “you’re scaring me, sol. i’d never say no to a hug, but,” she had to practically pry lana off of her. wiping away stray hairs, she kissed her daughter’s forehead. “ i think you should lay back down, yeah ? skip class and i’ll make you some of maria jose’s famous miracle working tea ? ” lana nodded at her suggestion. maybe she was sick. still flustered, she laid down on her white sheets once again.

     lorena picked up the remote control from the night stand next to the bed and turned on the television, “there. relax and i’ll be right back,” she added before exiting the room.

     lana couldn’t explain this. she was living inside a dream, hoping that she didn’t wake up anytime soon. she even went so far as to pinch the skin on her arm under her blanket. “ouch,” she felt it. that had to be a good sign. she rested her head back on a pillow, taking a deep breath as she resting into comfort.

     “and we have an update on the fifteen students who died last night on the campus. a colleague of theirs came forward to speak with us earlier,” the reported on the tv caught lana’s attention. she reached over, grabbing the remote and raising the volume. gina.

     gina was speaking, she was alive. “what is..” lana didn’t finished. her mouth was left open, with nothing else to say. she watched the news cast in shock.

     “because they were my friends. i went to check into the building to check on them since i knew they were all going to be there for a meeting and that’s when i found them.” gina was accompanied by her sister, jody, who stood there to comfort her.

                                  fifteen students .. that were gina’s friends ?

     “mom ?” she called out. no response. lana shook her head and focused in on gina’s voice again.

     “i walked in and saw naomi first. oh my god, naomi..” she was visibly starting to shake. as was lana. “what is going to happen to the babies ? i-i’m sorry, can we stop this ?”

                                    this had to be a coincidence.

     the program switched back to the reporter behind a desk, “the police have released a description of the person they believe are responsible for this.”

     her heart sunk. moments before, lorena mentioned that lana’s father was away in washington for work. “oh my god,” no one was around to hear the fear in her voice. nonetheless, she gasped out, anyway. mayer willis had to be behind this. in any universe, it would’ve been him. he was after them from the beginning. but, why ?

     “they believe the suspect to be female, someone who could pass as a student..” no— wait. that’s not possible. it was her father, it was the backseat killer. suddenly, the image on the screen began to distort. the picture was pixelated and there were colors that didn’t belong. as the man went on, his voice was deepened from the occurrence, “she was spotted on the campus, over night, between the hours of two and four.”

     she wanted to run. she wanted to call out for her mom again; she couldn’t move. water started filling her eyes, blocking her vision. she wished she could cover her ears, too. to avoid the next thing she heard from speaker, which happened to be ten times amplified than before.

     “they have just confirmed that the killer is, in fact, lana cruz.”

     blink. the tears slipped out, leaving streaks on her cheeks.

     she was losing her mind. fighting her way through whatever it was that caused the frozen state, lana pushed herself to the edge of the bed. “no,” something was covering her. and, it wasn’t just her blankets. frantically moving them aside, she was exposed to splattered blood. it was spread across the bed, tainting the bed spread, and the small nightgown that covered her frigid skin. “no !” she repeated, even louder. “mom !”

     “mom, help !” her chest was burning from screaming. lorena never answered. lana would call over and over, each one more piercing than the last. no response.

     from what she could assume, this blood was taunting her. it was a product of what happened to her friends. her friends. lana cruz hadn’t called the mysterybusters her friends. not until the second, she’d realized they were gone. or worse, she’d hurt them.

     she collapsed off the bed, landing on her hands and knees. watching the blood drip onto the carpet beneath her. “mom,” lana wasn’t shouting any longer. she knew her mother wasn’t going to come. the syllable came out in a hopeless whisper. it took her a second to regain her balance and stand up. once she did, she was stumbling down the hallway, making her way to the kitchen where lorena was supposed to be.

                                             and .. she was.

     first, lana spotted the puddle of blood under her mother’s head, who was sprawled out on the floor. “mom ?” she crawled over to lorena’s side. even though she wasn’t responding, lana wouldn’t stop shaking her lifeless body. “please..” her eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out what she was seeing.

     lana’s mother went missing when she was eleven years old. it was such a fragile time for the young girl. she was changing, becoming her own person. losing a parent would have been tough for anyone, it was harder when you’re able to comprehend every ounce of detail yet not being able to understand why. she always held out hope that her mother was still out there somewhere, that she was hiding from her serial killer husband, and that she’d return to lana eventually. losing her once was scarring enough— lana lost her twice. three years later, lorena was presumed dead. there was no body, leading lana to grasp on tighter to her dream. on top of that, her father was gone. left without a trace. how could a fourteen year old handle that ? no one should have to learn their father might’ve killed their own mother and then proceeded to abandon them as a result.

     “solana, what did you do ?” she whipped her head around to see her father standing behind her.

     “you !” the last person she wanted to see. she was choking on her tears, “you did this.” it was a statement. nothing more, nothing less.

     mayer let out a chuckle, “you’re mistaken.”

     “you killed her !”

     “no. you did that yourself,” the briefcase dropped from his hand, crashing down. the sound echoing through the house. “you killed her.”

     “stop.”

     “and, you managed to kill all your friends. but, you never really liked them, did you ?” he held his hand out for her. she swiped it away. “you should have checked the watch, solana,” he expressed what she perceived as disappointment.

     “what ?” that was when the ticking started. the same ticking she heard at the halloween part. the same ticking she was being haunted by since that night. it kept getting stronger and stronger, becoming unbearable.

                                                  “check the watch.”

     JOLTING FROM HER SLEEP, lana was panting for air. she was in her dorm room again. it was a bad dream. every thing she’d experienced was a bad dream. she ripped the covered off, searching for any trace of the blood that was covering her in that nightmare. there wasn’t a drop.

     she started breathing easier now that she could confirm that it wasn’t real. however, the ticking was bothering her. the watch remained on her desk. she’d try multiple different times to try and figure out what the object meant. no luck. all she knew was that it counted down to gina’s murder. that and it was cursed. lana stared at her father’s initials on the back panel of it. turning the sadness she was feeling, into anger. she threw the watch across the room— hitting the wall and breaking into two.

     to lana’s surprise, a tiny piece of paper popped out of the center. she stood in place, debating whether or not it was worth it; reading it. she could easily escape her room, storm off to naomi’s and do was she did best, ignore any and all problems.

     not being able help herself and being the curious person that she was, lana moved closer to it. she stalled for as long as she could before bending down and picking it up.

     she read it. whatever it was, it left her more confused than ever.

                                                  12/17/18

                                                            ——- a date.

[easkyrah]

Elorcan Werewolf Part 10

Are you ready? I’m not. [Unedited]

All my wolves, begin to howl Wake me up, the time is now Oh, can you hear the drumming? Oh, there's a revolution coming Elorcan Werewolf 10

She soared on wings of misery and ruin, every feather slicing slivers of sores and wrecking welts through her. Ripping pain rippled through her, muscles burning and tightening. Her skin had shed, her nails stretched, the very roots of her hair screaming in agony. A rattling vigorously shook within her, bones bending and lungs lifting. Her spine arched, with her nostrils flaring. Hair prickled across her skin, acidic akin feelings coursing through every inch of her screaming pores. Saliva bubbled in her throat and a dryness coated across her tongue. After the flame came the ashes, where the the mind slaved down memory lane: roaming and raging with flashes of sickened smiles and the whistling whip raining over her, pale skin blemished with purple and red hues, salty and thin liquid warming the stones. Afar she watched the strippings and the beatings, the ghost of the red and the pain a figment of reality that no longer her drilling appeals of feebleness. The phantom face of the predator in victory and ruined triumph leered down on her. It was neither hot nor cold. It was all nothing. And dark, and more dark. It was another cell, a transformation from a weak, ruined flesh to hardened, strengthened possessions. She distantly was aware of the shivering wracking her skin, but the cold cell had been far worse, a numbing to the perspective of an outsider welcoming the pain, and relishing in the wrongs of the singular and surroundings. A part of her swayed to an unsung melody, trapped within the bleeding ears and scarred tongue, scratches and screaming echoing through her head and bouncing around her walls. Her head throbbed and swabs of cotton smothered her vast space and thoughts of process. It was cold. The loneliness had left her for the embrace in pain’s open arms. The itch at the back of her mind eased as the darkness swept in, consuming every crevice and corner, calming the chaotic condensations once crammed down her throat. A bubbling sensation rose up, smothering down her body, lying still in a seemingly blackened alley where the crickets no longer chirped and the roaches had long deceased. Pacifism arose with those lying words of calm and soothings, for she was not alright, and had not been. Distorted images and mangled bone rose within her vision, and she could see the image of a trembling girl huddling in a damp corner, tears coating a grime-caked face with equally dirtied and bloodied skin, crimson liquid bathing her skin, sticking to her tongue, and filling her nose. Scars decorated her, blood crowning her black burnt strands. Smoke and ashes filled her insides, slithering into her veins.   There had been the warm, tepid hands of longing and hope, shattered by the epiphany of what came after pain, numbness. A string of stress snapped within her,  a balloon of remembrance sleazing a decrement of undulated joy and innocence. Her lungs opened and filled with a vast broad suck of air, and Elide Lochan exhaled, breaking from her cell.

Lorcan laid his mate in the center of the dark cave, running a hand over her burning forehead, leaving traces of red welts over his palm. He hadn’t expected the circumstances to trigger whatever hidden Lycan gene within her to detonate, especially within the bounds of being able to finally hold her within his arms safely and securely. He would never let go. He was sure of it. A sob escaped Elide’s mouth, and her body lurched forward from her previously prone position. Lorcan immediately pressed wet towels against her burning body, and hissed when her temperature plunged into dangerous, icy textures, mist escaping her breath. A damned old Lycan, and through his entire life span, he hadn’t seen a transformation like this. He could not fathom why fate or the moon goddess would pair him with a beautifully and tragically broken creature who would suit another male of purity and trueness, but he supposed that Elide had enough with attempting to be molded into a higher figure as a priestess with inked and poison insides. He murmured his mate’s name soothingly as he rocked her in his arms, and whispered his assurances into her ear, her skin already hardened and smooth from the beginning stages. In certain intervals of seizures, her eyelids would flare open, dark, onyx pupils glistening in true, speckled darkness even the cave could not swallow. The final stages of the process had come, the coldness shattering into the shedding of wrinkled, outgrown exteriors to sleek skin, and muscular limbs. Lorcan studied his mate’s even breathing, and gently wrapped himself around her, stroking her hair. All the troubles for her to live immortal along him, to see the world through a deeper, more powerful eye’s of restrained responsibility and flying faults, would mean tethers to the true. To have another soul to care for didn’t seem the burden’s weight when the very fabric of mates meant equality and sharing, a bond of the better. Elide’s eyes darkened into pure obsidian, and her spine snapped straight, a sharp gasp of breath wrenching itself from her mouth. A rasp of sound crackled through the dampened darkness, and Lorcan gently poured a little stream of water into her mouth, allowing her to swallow. His body lit afire, his mate’s perfectly situated with him, both tragically broken. A rumble of possessiveness shook his body. Her wet hair, curling into thin curls and loops, slicked back against her forehead and plastered against her pale skin. Cold hands wrapped around the nape of his neck, and erratic breaths burst from her, chest heaving deeply. A roaring sensation fired from some hidden depths within, matching the turmoil colliding within his own mate’s eyes, filled with a blankness that sends him reeling over. “Elide,” he whispered, and leaned his nose against her forehead. The hands slid down his neck and across his chest and right over his beating heart, thrumming just for her. A phantom of a breath ghosted over his skin, and a tremble ran through him, in forever peace and contentment within the splits of a second. Fingers reached up to cup his chin, and dark lashes blinked up at him. “Lorcan,” Elide Lochan answered, and the edges of her lips curled up, revealing white, canine teeth. A dark, questioning look flickered across her features, a spell of quick agony. By the dilation of those hardened eyes from the once-softness, and the tang of fear and anger spiraling through the air, Lorcan knew that his mate craved a revenge full of vengeance so deep that the ocean itself would be envious. He could not rightly offer he what she wanted now so he endowed her with what she needed; not of the bloodshed to beckon her away from the abyss of numbness but another stolen piece from her scratched and strung tapestry of life. The pads of his thumbs brushed over her cheekbones down under the curve of her jaw, cupping her neck and smoothing one shoulder; pulling his mate in, Lorcan kissed her deeply. Elide responded instantly, her teeth nipping over his parted lips, and wrapping her own hands behind his neck, viciously pouncing on top of him, his back kissing the cold, hard ground. Her body was warm, and suddenly the cave seemed full of the hidden potential that had coasted over his own ground, soiled and covered with dirt. His Lycan within him responded to the roaring in his female’s, and his nerves set afire with each stroke of her hand that set him into a frenzy of no return past deep despair. Her skin touched his, her full breasts pressing against his chest, pale and porcelain legs wrapped sinfully around his waist. She gasped as he sucked on her neck, the sound full of rich forbiddenness, sending him close to free ferality. “My mate,” she whispered, and leaned her head back, exposing her neck to him. “Mine,” he growled, and stared into those onyx eyes, waiting for that permission to confirm past the disaster that had dented their destiny, waiting for that spark of what should have been theirs since the beginning, waiting for step towards surety and security. She merely cupped his chin, forcing him to stare at her, not quite consenting. “Do you love me for who I am or for what I do to you?” “You are referring to the mating bond?” “What else?” she said, almost bitterly. Dark eyes narrowed. “I do not need the mating bond to fall in love with you, Elide Lochan.” He could see the doubt in her darkened eyes, and the slight chill coursing through her. Lorcan held her tighter, and buried his nose within her damp hair, cradling her stiff and new body, one with unbridled potential and higher capacity. His Lycan side growled, needing to assuage his mate’s concerns and fears, and Lorcan abided. “I do not need the mating bond to see how the light catches against your hair,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her forehead. “Nor how you twist the strands when you’re nervous or thinking, a quiet foreboding. How you lick those fingers before turning a page or to remember the taste of what you last ate. How you believe yourself inferior when you have surpassed the limitations of your expectations. How you cross my mind, as if I can see the magic in the world, as if “I’d been searching for you all my life, a lost soul without an anchor. I have made a plethora of mistakes in the entirety of my life, but if each of this missteps would have let me to you in the end, I would commit each single atrocity again. If every inch of darkness and insanity was so that I could have you, then I forgive the cursed fates. I had never planned on falling love, much less with another person, didn’t think it was possible, much less it possible to love someone so much with all of me. I barely held control and focus, but with you, it’s not about these things. It’s about honor and cherishment, about you, Elide Lochan. “The darkness lived and lives through me; it simply does not live around me. So when you cannot see the light, I will sit with you through the darkness. I look at you and the twisted things that have come between us, and I know that I will choose you in the next life, in the next realm, in this life, through death, through whatever shape or form, to whatever face of shadow will appear. I broke and will break my rules, my mind, myself, just for you, just to see you hum to yourself as you continue in your beautiful, complex symphony, a passerby such as myself forever granted the pleasure of hearing. “I do not care if we are not soul mates because I had never believed in the concept of love, nor bothered to listen to its proof of existence, not when fear would win out in the end. But I fear for my love of you, and I fear for myself for what ends I would do for you. At your beck and call, I do not know what bounds or limits what I could do and destroy for you. In the middle of the chaos and lunacy, you were there, with my heart, and I’d let you keep it for the eternity. With you, I can breathe a little bit more, and fill the dead skin and smothering ashes sweep away, filled with a sound melody, one that will reverberate for as long as your heart beats. “If I could turn back the clock to be the male you deserve, I would do so in a heartbeat. For you deserve every twinkle in the stars that lights up the night and the rays of the sun in coldness. No longer do I think I deserve nothing but stark bareness for my brokenness, but one who craves so deeply for more and seen too much that perfect shards would not be enough. You need to paint, Elide, and need to unleash your emotions jailed, and I will be your palette should the need arise. I have conquered and silenced but never have I loved, and now, I think that I can finally do such a thing. Everything I have not done, I want to do with you. With you, and only you. It’s always you, Elide Lochan.” Elide stilled, pressing her cheek against the top of his chest. “You—” Lorcan brushed a knuckle under her chin. “—I could not learn about my mate as a human, so I chose my weakened wolf form to present to you.” “Lory,” Elide murmured, her lashes fluttering, inevitably floored. His inner Lycan twitched, and he pressed himself harder against her, needing more than their touches, needing to fulfill that animalistic need driving him for completion. For awhile, simple silence filled the cavern, a blanket of the inked dark providing solemn, sincere need of time as a sponge to soak in the words and occurrences of the chaotic, distorted past. But the present was a gift for aknew. A laugh slipped past Elide’s lips, and his mate smiled knowingly at that tent in his pants, screaming for her, ready for her, slaving to her. Elide bared her neck wider. “You are mine, Lorcan Salvaterre, and I will fight for you.” Trust and certainty bound between those eyes. Lorcan brushed his nose over hers, and a deep rumbling resounded from within his chest, a noise that had been locked and swept along with the ashes of unspent time and burning emotions. Baring his fangs and revealing the aura of his true other side, unhinged, Elide leaned forward, waves of longing from what time and distance had built between them. Lorcan bit down, and watched Elide’s eyes flutter open and close, a murmur of content escaping her mouth and her skin shuddering with pleasure. Her lidded eyes gazed into his, a smile smoothing across her features. When his fangs retracted, his tongue licked the blood pooling across her collarbone, his mate’s breathing uneven and ragged, her body ready for what followed next. The scent of need and hormones permeated the air thickly. But Lorcan could not give that to her, not when they needed to seek cements of closure from the cowardly confronted. So he pulled his mate into for another kiss, one which their their inner wolves howled together in synchrony, a stimulation ceases his current worries and fears, save for the warm body in his arms. When they pulled apart, both mouths dripped with blood and sores, Elide ran a tongue over her ripped lips, and gave him a wicked smile. The scent of mixed arousal pierced through the cave, flowering in the darkness, matching their smoldered songs of suppression and satisfaction. Lorcan’s hands ran over her thighs and skin, not to claim, but to heal, kneading those tight, new muscles that would need to be broken in. Tomorrow they would face the new freshness of the world together, hand in hand. So he said, “Sleep,” and curled her body against his own, molding their flesh together and against one another. Elide reached out to grasp Lorcan’s hand through the darkness, resting her head along his torso. “Goodnight,” she whispered, voice muffled. Elide could almost feel the other Lycan male’s smile warming her skin, a rarity at odds against all. “Goodnight,” Lorcan rasped back. “Elide Lochan.” “My mate,” Elide whispered, and allowed the dark oblivion to wash over her, carrying her further with an anchor into the abyss. No longer was she only human, a simple, disposable gem in this dim world, but a larger player, one with cards to hold and discard, with a lover at her side, one to fit her perfectly, one she’d love forever, through everything.

Elide awoke to warmth, her body tucked within another’s. As soon as she stirred, the male holding her gripped her hips, and a satisfied growl rumbled deep from his chest. She traced her hands across his chest, and closed her eyes as he kissed her forehead, stealing another one from her lips. Tracing her fingers along his lips as they parted, she could feel them curving up into a feral grin. “A run?” her mate proposed, and her body surged with power at the request. She didn’t respond, and instead channeled in the raw depths of power and dominance within her. Elide closed her eyes and focused on her inner Lycan, the unknown beast within her that had slumbered for years in silence. Feeling her bones crack and rattle, her teeth shifted and hands grew, paws hitting the floor, her tail wagging. By the time her nose sniffed the air, the scent of humanity had no longer reeked within the cave, the other in front of her radiating the typical-Lycan authority. Her mate took off and out from the cave, Elide surging forward behind him. The hints of light peeking through the demented trees drooping over with hanging branches and sickly yellow leaves dripping thick, orange meshes. Their bodies wove through the firm trunks with white claw marks and deep indents, stale, brown blood caking the curves. Stalks of yellowish grains spurted from the left fields, the tips dotted with crimsons colors. Their wolves streaked by, and Elide pushed her legs faster and faster, feeling the wind tearing at her face and her lungs opening and expanding, the infinity of forever within unleashed within the trapped seconds of a limited body. This was freedom. She hadn’t been a believer in hope, that sliver of beautiful shreds ripped within her and howling to another wolf. She didn’t need hope when her true passions blazed from the wrongs and flaws hampering her true state. She couldn’t be restrained, not in this body, nor in the next. She had been scared of her future from her past, but she swore to herself no more. As they raced through the forest, the trees grew straighter and taller, the air crisper and fresher, no longer stale stenches of the rotted filling her nostrils. Rich green flashed across her vision, an array of colorful, vibrant hues rising from the soiled Earth, full of the minerals and sprinkles of waters. The sunlight glared down harsher, and no longer did the shadows loom over in hulking forms, cowering the damp dirt. The first willing surrender came with chasing her mate, allowing him to hold her heart. She lost track of time, allowing the figment of that necessity to slip from her mind. She followed her mate, with her giving trust, the last piece of what remained from her fractured heart. She nipped at his paws when he slowed down, and eventually took the lead, leaping over fallen logs. They raced further and further in the morning until her tongue lolled out, and Lorcan slowed down to a trot, leading her to a crystalline river. He nudged her to the edge of water, licking the tip of her ear. Pushing her forward from her behind, her mate eagerly walked them down the bank. Elide’s snout reached down to lap up the water, but stopped at her reflection. No longer did white-fur coat her, but midnight dark streaks to match her mate’s fur. Darkness. Elide’s ears twitched, and Lorcan stalked next to her, rubbing his snout affectionately against hers. Elide can only stare at her reflection, at the darkness, and the pitch-black coat that she now owned. A tiny part of her shivered, and wondered what her once-jailed would have thought, at the winning inklings that he’d left in memory, perhaps even a victory. Her uncle had molded her so that staring at any reflection had her turning away, scared of her own ruined image full of tears and washed dreams. He’d seen her heart as a piece of plastic, his own mind a red-hot brand, hands his hammer to pound with pain. The salted liquid brimming on her eyes had held no value, full of empty emotion, a natural response from her body, damaged and depressed. The cold cell had been a war with herself, a pity for her own weakness and feebleness, for her foolishness in believing for much more. It had been a cry for wonder, her own pity party in the trapped and isolation. The only beginnings had been the flames in the night of broken memories and crooked laughters. And now, this river, with the sun beating down on her, filling her with unwanted need that a past shape of her would have needed awhile ago. Pure, undulated light. Light that could not outshine the dark hole inside of her. She could feel a calling to fulfill the need in wrecking pain against her uncle, and having bloodshed run along with her bloodlust. It was an animalistic, acute sense that had her almost on her knees, but her mate was next to her, holding her, a pillar of solidity. The fact that her pelt had transformed into rich tufts of dark fur to match the midnight quality of her mate’s had her mate often licking her coat, and content rumblings emerging from his throat. Their wolves had gotten to acquainted with one another too well, and too much. Most hunts ended up in playful banter between the them, rolling on top of another, the male allowing his female to yip her victorious by pawing him on the ground. After drinking their fill of water, two dark, ethereal shapes raced through slanted and crooked trees, the onyx eyes the predator and feared as creatures of the night and strays of the moon, bent on their own love and no other facets wedged between or among them. No longer did she have to hide the things she hadn’t like about herself, flaws or facts in the hands of vices clamping hard around her. She had freedom and fullness, no longer a mangled ankle, where she could howl and push her legs faster and further as one with the wind, the whispers of might and glory at her heels, her mate racing right next to her, sheer power and strength exuding from him. The first kill had been a bear, to which they’d taken down easily that Elide gained a grasp of her own power. The male bear had not withstood a chance against the two hungry Lycans, Elide ripping chunks of his hide, her maw drenched with the warm blood oozing out. Lorcan had scratched the bear’s face, and easily clawed an ear off, slamming his body into the bear’s side, sending their prey into a tree, which promptly collapsed. Lorcan had dipped his head at her, allowing her to take the first bite. After digging past the ribcage and licking the bone clean, she’d allowed her mate to finish devouring the other meat from the liver and stomach. Leaving the carcass in the burning sun, they’d returned to the lake afterwards to clean the blood off their faces. She lapped from a lake greedily, ignoring the sense to reach out to her past Alpha and Beta, and nudged her mate’s proud head towards the water. Lorcan had taken in the habit of standing guard whenever she ate or drank, but all she wanted was her mate to eat with her, two forces of nature sharing a meal together. She slowly lost herself with her mate, to the wildness and its call, while the itching for revenge grew at the back of her mind. By the time the sun set, and the shadows loomed, preaching the misfit and the outcast, Elide had nudged her mate’s head. Lorcan responded by licking her mated mark, sending sensual thrills over her body, tail wagging furiously. The floating feelings of ecstasy ended as the loneliness diminished, the rage filling her, claws digging into the soil. Lorcan brushed himself over her, intertwining their scents, a question in his eyes. She swallowed, and twitched her eyes, pawing the ground. Reality would sink in one way or another, and it seemed it would always harbor anguish. Tugging on that firm thread between them, Elide allowed her mind to coast and seep over the sanctuary between them, shattering them with her syllables. Where is Vernon? Lorcan’s tail stopped wagging, and his snout touched her nose. After silence reigned over them for awhile, Elide reared back and shot off into the distance. If her mate would not give her the answer, then she knew someone else who would willing. Following that thin thread of connection to former warmth, she touched the link between her old pack, feeling the storm of voices and waves of shouting. She could feel Lorcan at the back of her mind, growling, but the itch grew more pronounced. Focusing on that past link, she channeled into the Fireheart Pack, feeling the soothing remembrance of belonging on some interval. Aelin’s link soared over her first, sending her a set of coordinates that Elide followed easily, weaving through the trees and jumping over rivers, knowing that her mate would be on her tail despite all odds. Manon’s voice easily boomed over the little murmuring in her mind, demanding how she’d survived the shift, if she’d been marked and mated, if she was fine. Elide didn’t know what fine was, but merely repeated her previous question. She’d be fine once the scratch within her went away. Aelin hadn’t responded, and Elide could imagine her musing over the consequences of telling her, while she sprinted towards them, pushing her new body faster and harder. Manon didn’t wait. Locked in the middle of a human city Las Vegas in human form so no wolf can get to him. Council banned any werewolf in any form from entering. Elide nearly tripped over a dip in the ground, but continued to leap forward and run and run and run. Then I cannot get to him? He’d gotten to her, wormed his way into her, darkened her, hurt her, broke her. Not without breaking Council rules, Aelin piped in. There is a death penalty, Elide. Come home. Elide abruptly swerved to the side, and shut down the link of her past, before leaving her farewell. A death penalty would not serve when there were worse things than death, a figment of this reality she no longer feared. Home was no longer with the Fireheart Pack when she was destined to rule to Perranth Pack, buried under the disgust and falsities of the Morath Pack. She deserved her empire and her people, one where her Alpha blood reigned, now mixed with Lycan genes. Her home was herself. She owned herself to her mate, another creature of the night and wind and darkness, and her broken mind and shattered heart. Closure seemed a distant concept with seeping ailments howling within her. She would no longer be feared. How could she settle for less when she’d been given none in return, given a body as more? Lorcan had feared for the depths for her, his love for her, and now Elide only feared what she would do when she saw her uncle. She left her scent through the forest as she broke out into the clearing, allowing whispers of her to trail behind for her mate. Pushing her legs faster, her paws pounding against the Earth, Elide ran, her lungs capable of more, her muscles able to absorb more, and her heart ready to devour. She crossed borders after borders, a set destination carving in her mind, to quell that urge for more.

Elide’s scent had ended past a run-down railroad, his own wolf growling and snarling in frustration. She’d blocked her own link to him, shutting down a window on her mental side, leaving traces of bitterness. Shifting and showering his own dark residency in the castle, Lorcan headed towards the Fireheart Pack. Rowan, to his credit, didn’t speak a word as his hooded face stalked into the Pack House and slammed the door shut. An arm was wrapped around his mate, Aelin, and across the table sat an empty chair where the half-Lycan should have been. The lack of activity when he had passed border lands sent him on edge more than usual, and by the blank faces staring at him, numbness had settled in. Lorcan slammed a fist on the table, staring at the thick wad of papers sent from the Council. Across in bold were the consequences if any wolf in any form dared to set foot or paw into Las Vegas without authority. Rowan nodded, hearing his linked question. “It’s where Elide went.” He let out a growl, anger rushing through him. “Do you know what you’ve done?” Sometimes secrets were for the better good, for the sake of sanity, one lesson he’d learned over time. Information was too gold, too heavy, and too greedy for those whether unwilling or drowning. Aelin sat higher in her seat, and pressed her palms against the table. “Manon told Elide, and is tracking her down currently. You can’t cage someone again when she’s been locked up for too long.” “And if your Beta fails?” Lorcan hissed, and Rowan leaned forward, his natural instincts to protect his mate. But at least the Lycan Prince had his mate near him, while his own was a shattered mosaic of wear and tear. Rowan ran a thumb over Aelin’s arm. “Then the Council will issue a death warrant.” Lorcan stared at them dully. “Everyone has their secrets, some more deadly than the rest. But my mate held the most dangerous. She harbored her Lycan side in.” The monster had thrashed within her, claiming divine retribution. Lorcan allowed himself a brief second to close his eyes, at the wrenching and snaring tugs at his heart. Without his last shred of fulfillment, he had lived without honor, but to live without experiencing the brighter spectrum to only listlessly carry on with the dulled cowardly and bloodied halves had already ingrained into his mind. His duty had shifted from the killing fields to defend and cherish another soul, a match for his. “She’ll be fine,” Aelin whispered, flatly staring at the stack of papers with vivid contempt. “She lived in Morath all her childhood.” “So Elide’s been through worse,” Rowan clarified. “You have a strong mate, Lorcan.” But even the strongest fell, and Lorcan feared that for once, this concept of more, of hope and love, would not be enough. He tore off into the fading sunlight, his clothes tearing and body shifting into solid muscle and full wolf, a deep howl full of pain and sorrow erupting from his throat, a sound that no other echo would capture, and no other wolf could vocalize in the forbidden night. For Lorcan would reclaim what owned his heart and keep hers beating. He promised her as much. He flew across borders and pushed his body to the limits, all for her, all to have her, all to live for her. 

Aelin cradled the picture frame, tracing a finger over the young dark-haired female in the middle, Rowan’s arms wrapped around her waist. Three women had stood proudly in the picture as the sun’s rays had casted over their tanned bodies, their toes curled from the wet sand and waves lapping at their ankles. Aelin had taken Elide’s right, her hair seemingly catching on fire at the angle, Manon the pillar of ice and height on Elide’s left; Elide had smiled gently into the camera without Aelin’s own signature smirk of wildness or Manon’s sneer of ferocity. She had been their rock, their gentle tide, their voice of calm reason against all raging reasons. It seemed the fates were bent on disorder and chaos from false notions of tranquility. “She’ll be alright,” her mate murmured, staring at her instead, offering his warmth. Rowan slid the frame from her hands and guided her to the bedroom. “I’m afraid,” Aelin murmured. “That in the dark she chose herself because we all fully refused to give to her. Her pack, her freedom, her strength. She’s been so cooped up for so long, I’m afraid what the oppression has molded into Elide’s heart.” Rowan leaned down into her. “Elide is not evil, Aelin. She will come home.” “The problem is, Rowan, where exactly her home?” Elide was heir to the Perranth Pack, an Alpha in her own rights. She’d been a second Pack Doctor within the Fireheart, and could now have a place in the Lycan’s royal palace as a mate to one. Aelin didn’t even know where her future laid with the Prince of Lycans, one where she was a simple female Alpha, one with a dirty past no clean palace could harbor. She’d killed many, had many blood and lines on her hands, and played dirty. By no means was she ready to take up the Princess title. “You do not think she will return to your pack,” Rowan mused, brushing a hand over her neck where her mated mark would have shown. He’d been surprisingly patient with his feral dominance to take things slow. He hadn’t displayed the typical possessive behavior in vying to mark his mate that every male inherently held. “I do not think Lorcan will return to your Pack.” Aelin shrugged off her leather gears, noting the scorching gaze Rowan shamelessly directed towards her. He shucked off his own clothes, pulling off his boots, and headed to the washroom. She could imagine two Lycans on solid, ivory thrones, heading the Perranth Pack. A new type of signal in a new world with darkness and lightness colliding like never before. A force Elide and Lorcan would hold as two blooded Lycans, mated to one another. A new empire forged from the darkness into the light, one with scores to settle. Lest her own Pack fall apart, her Beta was missing, Manon radiating another ancient power of her own, her authority matching that of an Alpha and strength comparable to the Lycans. Their functionality seemed to end as time poured over. Sense evaded her. Rowan tucked her under his chin, his naked torso slightly wet, steam escaping from the washroom door. “Elide and Lorcan have each other.” Aelin blew out a breath. “They will reinstate the Perranth Pack. If the Council does not demand their deaths first.” If not— She felt rather than saw Rowan’s wolf rear at the thought of the blood and deaths that would be shed, and Aelin’s own skin matched his shiver. A dark dawn was emerging, one that time had cultivated, and it seemed like the fire would not be able to out shine the shadows. Ashes had scattered too far. Sleep did not find her, a restless itch at the back of her mind. Even her mate’s presence was not enough. Even the chocolate gifts he’d bestowed on her no longer tasted sweet in her mouth, sourness gathering at her teeth. When the clock strummed twelve midnight, a beeping emission rose from her office computer. Aelin blandly arose from her mate’s embrace, and sleepily headed towards her device, scanning an email from an unknown address. Frowning, she dragged her tongue over her bottom lip, doubling clicking the link. Her eyes skimmed over the package, and her cursor hit start, she listlessly stood up, and cast one look at her mate, the Prince of the Lycans. Her focus returned back to the video. A gown had swished around the Princess of Lycan’s hips, her cunning eyes taking in the male in front of her. Minutes later, the beautiful fabric had been ripped and discarded, skin on skin. Rowan and Remelle had been more than acquaintances, and it seemed like the Lycan princess’s claims of lovers had been more fact that false. Aelin didn’t bother to mute the moans from the video and the flashes of naked skin that sent her inner wolf reeling. From shock and disgust. What we did meant nothing, her mate had said. But by the mated mark on Remelle’s neck, his words had meant otherwise. And would explain why he felt less of a tug and shift towards to her, not matter fate’s plans in destiny. You are mine, Prince, Remelle had smiled, moments before Aelin had once upon a time entered the castle for Elide to confront Lorcan, before all pain and chaos had broken, before she had allowed Rowan to court her. I am yours, her mate had said, holding Remelle in his large arms, embracing the Princess. For she had come too late. For timing had been everything, a facet of life destiny had not granted her. She was as good as rejected, and without her mate, her pack would not fully function. And her pack came first. Aelin stormed out of the Pack House, masking her scent, and shifted, damning the Council, and shifted into her blood-red wolf, sprinting off into the night. She had enough of games, and without her rock here, bloodlust was calling.

Manon tore through the forest and past the streets, a blur from the cars and trunks, the buzzing and honking, the shiny lights and cursed mumbles streaming past her ears. Once the sights of the looming, towering structures came in sight, she quickly shifted, and stalked through the night, cracking camera screens before glimpsing the dangerous, seething woman. Sliding through thin doors, she picked a set of clothes from the racks, flipping a black hood over her white-hair. Filling the pockets with the familiar curve of blades, Manon strode into the human-filled streets. It was a filthy, ugly disgrace here, where innocence bled and corruption ruled. The disgusting cards littering the cracked streets and whistling catcalls had her gripping her blade at her waist. Walking up the steps to the Caesar's Palace, Manon could feel the eyes boring into the back of her head, and the thumping of other foreign heartbeats. She could not stop Elide from her mandate, but she could complete it for her, lest she suffer from death, live without experiencing the joy of having a mate and belonging in unity. Manon moved behind a pillar before an arrow drove through her spine and out her heart. She barely had time to dart away before the pillar collapsed and the human screams erupted. “You are not welcome here,” a voice hissed, a slight rasp and undercurrent lying beneath the syllables. Manon drew out Wind Cleaver, her eyes adjusting to the smoke billowing in the hallway. She swore as the marbled statues glowed and shuddered to life, moving towards her. The water from the fountains rose to the air and slammed against the ground, rushing towards her. Magic. Her lips thinned, and she rolled underneath the first lash of a fist aimed at her head. She hauled herself onto the higher beams, and dodged the first strike of the Poseidon statue, slicing off the trident. When the chariot flew through the air, the water flooding the entire floor, Manon dove, and swam deeper into the hotel. Rivulets of stream wrapped around her ankles and tossed her back to the entrance, the back of her head hitting the wall. Gritting her teeth, Manon ducked as a wheel from the chariot flew right above her head. Her nails dragged along an outlet, and with a wince, she clawed at the walls, climbing higher. When the next stature flew towards her, Manon loosed a dagger at one of the columns, the marble collapsing on top of the magiced solid. Panting, she hauled herself into an alcove, and grasped blindly at the stones embedded in the walls. She jerked her body to the side as a hammer grazed the edge of sweatshirt. Finding the Lycan stone, she twisted hard on it, and when it didn’t budge, she drove Wind Cleaver through the middle, and the entire building shook in response. Turning around, she flashed her blade in front of her, watching the statues crumble into dust, and the water drain beneath the tiles. Dropping onto the ground, she continued deeper into the hotel, scenting the darkness and wretched scent of twist distorment. The next hall shuddered, and the ground shifted within her, tossing her body to the side. Darting up the middle stairs, Manon slashed Wind Cleaver through the incoming volley of arrows. One arrow exploded in front of her, and while Manon had seen many explosions in her life, she didn’t think she’d seen one where the flumes aimed straight up her nose and mouth. Snarling, she pressed her blades against her face, and muttered an archaic Crochan command, spoken from eons ago. Wind Cleaver flashed out, forming a mask around her face, thinning out to a veil around her eyes. Then she darted behind a curtain, ready to jump out the window if the attack continued. It did. A large spear shot above the curtain, crumbling the entire mainframe of gems and sparkling hues. Manon swung herself back into the staircase, her exit now blocked. She palmed two daggers, and then dashed down the main hall. Two knights standing against the wall shuddered to life and groaned, their helmets turning into her direction. The Council must have hired experienced witches to fortify the entire hotel with magic. It was too bad she was half-witch. Manon ducked and danced between the two knights, dodging each blow. When the last sword embedded itself into the wall and the other knight dug his lance out of his foot, she launched herself in between, and stabbed both her daggers through the would-be hearts, disconnecting the magical chain. The armor clattered to the floor, and she dusted off one metal hand clinging to her elbow. Sheathing her daggers, Wind Cleaver peeled off her face, and landed comfortably back into her palm. Manon slashed the blade through the cracks of the grand hall door, and then yanked the doors open with a crash, tasting the blood slipping out her scratched lip. Wind Cleaver nearly dropped out her hand as she leapt forward with a no, her face straining. For she had been simply too late.

“Well, well,” the face of her nightmares chuckled in front of her. “Have you come to finish me off at last, my dear niece?” Elide smiled at him, a curl of lip full with ice. “I don’t need to kill you when you’ve been dead for some time.” She stalked in front of the silver-chained monster. “But I suppose death would be a nice touch.” Especially if she were to break Council laws. “You touch me, you cannot touch your Alpha title as Perranth.” Dark shadows had blossomed under his eyes, and his body had thinned considerably, skin faded into gray, feeble meshes. His teeth cracked at the edges from grinding his jaws harshly together, and his nails were shredded. All the lies and tells in her life...maybe one day she’d have all the pieces. But maybe it was better she be reckoned as shattered and broken. Elide hefted a chain in her hands, her heart thrumming. “Look familiar?” she cooed, and swam in the despair and fear in her uncle’s eyes. She had drowned in those emotions a long, long time ago. The chain jerked around his neck, the shackles at Vernon’s wrists and ankles and waist screaming against his scarred flesh, burning from the metal. His neck snapped to the side, his eyes unfocused but glazed over in determination. She’d burned for so long that the sight did not an ounce of satisfaction to her. Elide stepped forward, and the balcony window shattered. A sigh of relief bubbled from the Vernon’s rasped throat, but quickly dissipated into a squelch of agony as a hatchet whistled through the air and pierced across his ankle, destroyed the chain and the flesh underneath. A howl of anguish shook the Alpha’s body, but he continued smiling. For he had believed crafted the perfect monster and carved a hole into society, a shard in the masterpiece of society. His legacy, his faults, his nightmares. A reality. Little did he know that he hadn’t destroyed her. She had destroyed herself. He had willingly retreated into the abyss of dark and ink. Elide tightened the chain, and waited for the newcomer to reach her. Warm hands wrapped around Elide’s waist, and her mate kissed the base of her throat. The ground beneath them shook. “Together,” Lorcan rumbled, and wrapped a hand around her wrist. Elide knew what her mate was offering. To end Vernon himself, to take the burden off of her. But this was what something that she needed to carry by herself. Shrugging off Lorcan’s hand, Elide offered her own smile at her Uncle, who shivered violently, teeth bared weakly. “I’ll see you in hell,” she said sweetly, and jerked the chain violently down, watching the neck snap completely. The doors burst open, and Lorcan arranged himself in a protective stance around her. Manon, looking as if she’d been dragged across the grave and back, hissed, her eyes purged into utter block. A single no hissed out of her mouth, and Elide felt the thin thread bound to the Council snap, and a fallen order blanket across her mind. A death sentence. Issued and ordered. The hotel floor shook again, and Elide braced herself for the consequence. Manon slammed the door shut, and stalked towards her, not sparing Lorcan a second glance. Blood dripped from her sides, black sweatshirt torn and ragged. Her past Beta dipped her head and gripped Wind Cleaver solemnly. “I stand with you.” She bared her teeth, and nodded towards Elide’s mate, just as the balcony drapes flung apart, and the white uniforms of the Council guards flew in, wolves of order leaping from behind. The South wall shuddered and collapsed, fire ringing out and bursting into flames around them. Lorcan pinned her to the floor as a burst of flame brought it down. An Enforcer flung a sword towards them, aim at Lorcan’s exposed back, but a wolf leapt through the fallen wall, a red pelt slicked with flames flying through the air, and taking the weapon. Aelin Galathynius slammed into the floor, the sword sticking from her back, blood swirling with the flames around her. Her wolf shuddered and stilled. Elide roared and tossed Lorcan’s weight of tons off of her and ran towards her fallen friend, the echoing howl of Manon’s having the tiles shake. The tide of Enforcer did not stop, but Lorcan flung his dark magic forward, sending the first wave of wolves out the window. Darkness swept across Elide’s eyes as she nosed her previous Alpha’s body. She watched the flames surrounding them wink out. She felt the Alpha of the Fireheart’s pack fur turn to ice. Decaying. Elide howled, and Lorcan roared his own, Manon’s screeching nails tearing across bodies after the next. The doors from the upper floor cracked open, and Elide’s heart soared as she saw members of the Fireheart stream in, wolves of all colors with snapping teeth. The floor became a battleground for unseen justice and stringent consequences. The Fireheart Pack had openly issued their statement in disloyalty as rebels and resisted the Council’s orders by heeding their Alpha’s call. As Elide launched herself against the nearest guard, she knew the deaths would come. But she welcomed it. For once.

Lorcan ripped off the pelt of the nearest enforcer, and kept an eye on his mate, whose claws had dug into a guard’s eye. After the wolf laid dead as his feet, he raced towards her, hauling the bleeding enemy off her back, and tossing him into the rubble. His mate rubbed her maw against him, and together they leapt into the mess of hissing and tearing and howling. They killed every beating heart of human or animal in their way. She became the silencer and the executioner. He was death. She was desire. They slaughtered the Council guards and the Enforcers. Without a blink or thought. And together—together they could bring down kingdoms if they wanted to. In another realm or world. For their limits came as the Council themselves stormed in, and the floor levelled off, the ground shaking and infrastructure collapsing around them.

Rowan awoke to a cold bed, and felt frosted agony worm through his body. He tore through the Pack House in search for his mate, and found not one trace of another Pack member. Aelin had to have more logic than to dare step foot or paw into Las Vegas, but by the true absence, it only seemed plausible. He swore, and opened his mind link with Lorcan. Blocked out. Of course. Snarling, he shifted into his silver wolf and followed the Council orders to the edge of Nevada where the desert ran for miles. Uneasiness ran through him as he picked up speed. The sun baked his fur, but he continued to push. Riddled and bristling trepidation coasted over him, driving him over an edge. When his paws no longer hit grass and soil, churning over sand, his pace slowed down considerably, a sharp searing pain digging into his side. The Prince of Lycans howled as he felt wedge drive within him, pain flowering within him to unknown depths. From his peripheral vision, dread building within him, he mustered up his well and stalked to the camp where the flying white flags of the Council shone. The guards parted, and his wolf strode through the line, noting the scent and stench of metal and wolfsbane. As the line of guards ended, a white elder with wrinkly face came into sight, and Rowan halted. The King of the Wolves. Rowan dipped his wolf’s head, not meeting the golden-ringed eyes of the other Lycan. The final authority and the highest honor, King Erawan, wolf of the order. The full-blooded Lycan merely handed his scepter to a helper next to him, and maintained his posture. “As the Prince of Lycans, you are authorized to uphold the law,” the King droned, and parted to the left. Rowan’s heart broke at the sight. A red-ash wolf laid bloodied and broken along the sand, face caked with tears and grime. His mate. “Aelin Galathynius.” A pained look crossed over Rowan Whitethorn’s face. The King nodded, a sneer on his face. “She has broken Council law and is sentenced to die. As Prince, you will set an example.” An example. That law was first. Over love, over morality, over need. The King beckoned a finger, and Rowan shifted, clothed in his royal garb. His Lycan within him howled in anger and fury, a turbulent storm raging within him. But the duty called. The first bond he had swore. His tongue filled with ash as the solemn words washed over him. One his animal side could not yet overcome. “Through my Lycan blood in me and through orders through the Council, you are condemned to execution for slaughtering and violence, death and destruction. Your disloyalty holds charges with the end.” Rowan felt his legs lurch forward, his wolf howling within him, a sound his mate did not echo. Betrayal ran in his mate’s eyes, deeper than the execution. Disappointment and sorrow. He knew the sight would haunt him for the rest of eternity. Another Hell on Earth. The King snapped his fingers, and the helper handed Rowan a dark blade, crested with obsidian gems on the hilt. He could feel the order pressing down in his mind, caging him. He lifted the blade. 

Aelin merely grinned at Rowan Whitethorn, still finding the strength within her failing lungs. He wasn’t on his knees grovelling, serving her, honoring her, cherishing her, protecting her. He wasn’t. Not when his mark laid on another’s neck. Not when a silver blade inked with darkness was directly over her. Not when the Council themselves had swarmed the hotel, and Remelle had triumphantly dragged her bleeding body across the city and into the desert where her veins had been ripped and displayed. Her Pack was in ruins, more than demolished. Only thirteen of her pack members had survived, and had fled with Manon—Aelin’s last order as Alpha. To survive and to remember. Aelin watched her mate take the dark blade from the King’s hands, and felt hatred boil up within her. Felt her inner wolf agree and hiss out, “I, Aelin Galathynius, reject you as my mate.” It would be easier this way, for the pain to fuel her, and for the pain for him to end her without rational thought. So that he could live with the burden that he had no control over his animalistic side, and lost his other half by priorities. That it wasn’t the sword of the King that ended the chance of more, but the emotions of the rage and embittered. She supposed this was her fate. To be stuck within that scale. And she did not stop her once-mate as the feral growl rippled through him and his bones shifted, a silver wolf leaping towards her, fury in those eyes. Aelin supposed she knew how Elide felt, how the physical pain of her skin being ripped apart and blood gushing out, pooling around her—it compared to nothing in the slightest to her heart breaking, not from the sheer force, but from her mind collapsing down on her and giving up, diving into that black abyss, and over the edge and into the what waited in the next life. “I hope Remelle is everything you wanted,” Aelin managed to whisper out as her spine cracked and her neck snapped. And she saw the darkness.

Lorcan stared at his mate, his love, his fate. “Elide,” he whispered. Elide blankly stared at him, a little trickle of blood running down her face. “Elide,” he repeated, his voice cracking between the syllables. Elide part her mouth. “Lorcan,” she murmured, and her hands fell limply to her side. “What have I done?” He swallowed harshly. Rid the threat before the threat rids us, as ordered by the King Erawan. Kill the girl. Pure ferality and unbridled bloodlust. His mate, his fate. The Council members closed within them, blank faces. Another cage, another cell. Lorcan felt his paws holding blood and sand, reeking of gore and flesh. Holding his and his mate’s defeat. It had not been enough. “I am sorry,” Lorcan whispered, despairingly. “Moon goddess forgive me.” For his first oath had drilled into his mind and wormed its way. The silver blade lurched forward, driving within his Elide Lochan’s ribcage, piercing through her hardened flesh and out her other end. The onyx eyes widened before her lids fluttered shut, and she croaked out his name thickly, her upper body collapsing on top of the blade. “Forgive me,” Lorcan said, and embraced her. Darkness and madness swept through him, a cord of sanity pulling into a reach beyond him. Her nest of hair fell across her face, and the salted stench of blood filled his nostrils again. He wrenched the blade out, and a silent scream stamped onto her face, pale features turning into whitened ash. “Forgiven,” Elide rasped out, and went limp, her eyes closing. For they had both sinned beautifully in the tragic world. Lorcan held his mate in his arms, and blankly stared at the silver sword tainted with crimson, staining the ground. He had promised to not let her go. Promises, his oaths, his only living shred of morality in this world. He would not let it slip from his fingers as further dishonored. Lorcan slowly reached down and wrapped the warm hilt around his roughened hand, his other wrapped around the drooped body, a sack of emptiness. Inhaling the fast fading scent of his source of elation one last time, Lorcan drove the blade inwards without a figment of restraint. The Council wolves stared blandly, empty holes drilled into their eyes. Two bodies collapsed onto the soiled ground, blood intertwining between them, tying them closer than ever before than in life, through the decay, and to death. Even his Lycan genes could not regenerate him fast enough, as the fast fading mated mark disappearing from Elide’s neck snapped his own tether to this world. For when his mate had been sentenced to die, so had he. She hadn’t needed a ring on her finger when he had claimed her, a claim that went into the next life and realm, a long, long dream of what could have once been and whispers of fantasy of might and true love, an easy conquerment to whistle through his heavens only to plunge into the depths of hell. For death had been their wedding with eternity.

Manon tossed away the flowers that littered the three graves she had built near the entrance of soom gloomy and haunted cave in the middle of a darkened forest.  Elide Lochan. Aelin Galanthysius. Lorcan Salvaterre. It would have been suicide to return back to Las Vegas where the Council awaited, with too much dark enhanced power and foreign allies. The Fireheart Pack remained in spirit, but the name was filled with too much raw memories. Settling her heart in steel, Manon headed into the wild, Alpha blood coursing through her veins. She’d rebuild up this pack, and forge them into their own masters, not weapons. And the dawn of the Crochan Pack arose, filled with thirteen beautifully broken members. Thirteen survivors with the blood bathing over their bodies and minds, sculpting their souls. She had revenge burning within her. In memory of her fellow wolves, the fallen who had fought against the stringent orders. And so the Crochan Pack sprinted into the distance, where they’d forge the next era.

Elide jerked up, panting, and stared at the darkness within the cave. Lorcan immediately sat up, and wrapped his arms around her, offering his warmth.

She yawned, and her mate yawned back. 

A run? Her mate proposed.

She didn’t respond, and instead channeled in the raw depths of power and dominance within her. Elide closed her eyes and focused on her inner Lycan, the unknown beast within her that had slumbered for years in silence. Feeling her bones crack and rattle, her teeth shifted and hands grew, paws hitting the floor, her tail wagging.

Elide waited for her mate to shift, watching the powerful muscles ripple through currents in the dark cave. When Lorcan finished shifting, her nudged her in concern. She moved against his pelt, shaking off the vivid images that had flashed across her head. Elide licked her mate’s ear affectionately, and wiggled her tail in anticipation.

Her mate took off and out of the cave, Elide surging forward behind him, into the breaking light of slanted rays, ignoring the murky and hidden feeling of deja vu running underneath her. 

FIN