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alexbx128 · 4 months ago

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Time Dilation: Gravity Falls AU

What if instead of Ford being sent through the multiverse he was sent through time?

Basically, this AU covers some Ford shenanigans and the events leading up to the Portal incident, as well as shows what Ford is doing in the present moment- I think it's some pretty fun stuff, so, I'm gonna post the first chapter here to see if anyone's interested! I'm almost done with chapter 2 (Which is the better chapter imo so far) but, I thought I'd post something about it here! (There will be a link to my Ao3 at the end!!!)

It had only been a couple of weeks since Stanford Pines had moved in to Gravity falls, he never thought he'd ever manage to find a place as perfect as this, it was everything he had dreamed of when his was a kid, and more.

He had just had his first encounter with the Gnomes, it was quite the scuffle, but he managed to defeat them, but not without getting a small bump his head. There were only about 4 or so. Perhaps they are short in population? It didn't matter all that much to him, just another addition to his Journal, like usual.

He had been on his way home through the woods, he had discovered more of the “weirdness” the deeper he went through these woods, so he made sure to always try and start the day with a nice hike in the mornings, sketching and writing his Journal along the way.

Though, the gnomes were something new, the first type of “humanoid” and sentient being he had come across besides the townfolk.

That was till he saw a hooded figure in a slightly dark and tattered cloak, putting what appeared to be a letter into a mailbox…

In the middle of the woods.

Ford decided to ascertain the situation, before he was going to greet the stranger.

He had never been one for social situations after all.

He watched as the mailbox seemingly came to life as shook, before simply opening its little flap on the front side. He watched as the hooded figure reached inside and pulled out what looked like a different piece of paper before reading it carefully.

The figure almost immediately turned around and locked eyes with Ford, he cursed at himself, before making a break for it. Ford, (wanting to learn more about him and the mailbox) quickly gave chase to the figure. The figure was always one step ahead of him somehow and made a sharp right turn behind a large tree.

“Wait, don't leave!” Ford exclaimed as made the same sharp turn, and stopping dead in his tracks.

The figure was gone.

Seemingly without a trace as well, Ford had looked around for any clues of where the figure may have ran off to, but, there was absolutely nothing. He cursed at himself, before making his way back to the mailbox.

Perhaps he could find more answers there?

But, with what he had learned so far, it would probably just raise more questions than anything.

He made it back to the little opening in the woods, and walked up to the mailbox carefully. Out of curiosity, he ripped a small piece of paper from his journal, and wrote; “Hello?”

He stuck it in the mailbox, making sure to close the flap. He waited a few seconds, before it started to shake just as it had earlier. It popped open, with a new small piece of paper, with a very fancy ink seemingly printed on it.

Ford looked at it carefully, attempting to examine the entire note before reading it. But the only thing it seemed to have wrote was “Hello” back.

Ah, a sentient mailbox, well, that was certainly new.

Ford made a note in his journal “Anomaly #54” and made a quick sketch of it in the lower right hand corner.

He got a new piece of paper, and wrote a quick introduction.

“Hello, my name is Stanford Pines, I am a scientist and researcher of gravity falls. Now, who might you be?”

Ford was never really much for pleasantries, always clear and straight to the point.

He stuck in the mailbox, before quickly getting a response.

“Yes, I know of you, Mr. Pines. As for me, many have called me a god, but I am simply here to provide Humanity with enlightenment and knowledge. You may ask me any questions you may have, and I will answer them.”

Ford whispered to himself; “Fascinating…” Before make another quick note in his journal.

Ford wasn't sure where to start, he wanted to test it before asking any pressing questions. He thought of his interaction with the gnomes earlier, and decided to ask a quick question to test his so called information skills.

He asked the mailbox who he fought earlier this morning, and the mailbox spat out with about 7 different names.

“Carl, Francis, Steve, Gerald, Bart, Jack, and Shmebulock. All of whom were gnomes, you however, only saw 4 of them, the other 3 were flinging rocks at you from above.”

Ah, so that's what that was, rubbing the bump on his head.

He asked a few more random questions, and getting answers before adding them to his notebook. Seems the mailbox held a lot of knowledge, he'd definitely make sure to add this to his morning rounds.

He thought for a moment, before finally asking “Who was the hooded figure earlier?”

“I cannot tell you at this time.”

Ford was confused, and asked “Why not?”

The mailbox simply repeated itself.

“I cannot tell you at this time.”

Ford started to get frustrated and asked; “Why can't you tell me?”

And the mailbox repeated itself, and wrote something new down.

“I cannot tell you at this time” and at the bottom, was a strange cipher, with a bunch of different symbols.

Ford was not very pleased, but inevitably gave up before adding to his Journal “Can, and will withhold information.” Before giving up for the day, and heading home.

Cut to another Ford, many, many years into the future. He is currently floating through what appears to be an endless void.

He looked very different, time does seem to have the effect on people. He was wearing pretty much the same outfit, but with a long dark robe over it, with some extra stuff added for what was either for Functionality or flair. Probably the former.

He was attempting to sit criss-cross, but, again, it's an infinite and endless void. So, he was struggling.

He was very clearly frustrated, you could tell by his disgruntled expression on his face. His arms were also crossed, angrily so.

Ford was talking to himself aloud, letting his words try and fill the void.

“All those years, and for what? Me to be stuck here, in an endless void, waiting to just what? Starve to death? I can't just sit here and do nothing, but if I tried to…”

He looked at his wrist, there appeared to be some type of strange watch wrapped around it. He looked at it carefully, before getting a flashback to him being chased by two massive figures, who almost looked like policemen, but much more futuristic.

He shook his head, and spoke to himself again.

“No, no, there has to be another way.” He checked his pockets, nothing but half-eaten granola bar, and some loose change. He checked his little book satchel, but, there was just another one his journals, with a golden 6-fingered handprint, and the number 4 on it.

He sighed, seemingly have given up entirely.

“Well, seems like it's the only option, here we go!”

He pushes a button on the side of the watch, before everything warps and spins around him. The void seemed to collapse in on itself, and as everything shifted and changed. He could very clearly see something floating rapidly towards him, he tried to move out of the way and that's when it hit him, knocking him into unconsciousness, almost immediately.

End Chapter 1

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexbx128

Feel free to reach out and leave any questions in the comments! I'm kinda still starting out, so any and all support is appreciated!!!

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alexthebordercollie · 7 months ago

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Nobody but You.

Ford felt heavy as he trudged up to his front porch. He passed the mailbox on the way and saw it was full. He had a bad habit of putting off collecting the mail. It looked like mostly junk. One envelope from the MBU grants department looked particularly concerning. He knew he was late on submitting his expenditure reports. No doubt they were getting antsy to see the financials.

“This is going to be fun.” Ford groaned to himself.

He went straight for his study upstairs once he made it in the door. He’d rather go over the paperwork in a room with a window. Some sunlight would be nice after the night he had. Ford had spent the night at a Corderoy family home that was rumored to be haunted. On the upside the rumors were indeed true, he did manage to observe and catalog a wide range of ghosts. Unfortunately, his observations of the undead were not as helpful as he hoped they might be. He still didn’t have any leads on unlocking the secret to Weirdness Magnetism. He was at an impass and felt like he was running in circles. Discovering new anomalies was all well and good but if he couldn’t prove where they were coming from or why they all congregated in this one town his theory was a bust. There had to be some reason Gravity Falls was so weird. It couldn’t possibly have been a coincidence.

Ford sat down at his desk with a heavy sigh and pulled out a letter opener. Tossing the junk mail straight into his waste bin and opening up the envelope from BMU.

“You run into Death while you were out?” A tangy metallic voice rang off the walls of Ford’s study.

Ford looked around for a moment. Still holding the folded-up papers in his hands. “Bill?” He called out. Trying to spot his muse.

“Over here.” The voice chimed from every direction at once.

Ford swiveled his head to try and identify the source of the sound only to have his nose bump into something.

“Boop!” Bill cheered as Ford ran his face into Bill's cane. The little yellow triangle’s gleeful smiling eye came into focus just inches from Ford’s face.

Ford jerked his head back. Disoriented by the closeness. He tossed his papers down on the desk and reached up his hands to rub his eyes. Pushing his glasses up his face for a moment. “Uhg, yeah, I saw him.” He confessed. He pulled his hands away and readjusted his glasses. Narrowing his eyes at Bill as he reoriented himself. “You know him?” He asked.

Bill plopped his feet down on Ford’s desk. Leaning lazily against his cane next to the paper. “He owes me fifty bucks.” He replied glibly.

“Ah.” Ford nodded. Bill had an odd way of making conversations of the paranormal seem downright mundane.

Bill looked down at the folded papers with passive curiosity. “So what’s all this about? That loser school sending you love letters?” He teased.

“Hardly.” Ford scoffed as he snatched up the papers. Rolling his eyes as he unfolded them. Bracing himself for the contents of the letter.

“Well, they better be. You’re the only graduate they have who’s worth a danm.” Bill replied indignantly. He started pacing Ford’s desk like a little sergeant. “Those maggots better appreciate genius while they’ve got it.” His irritable expression and the faint hint of red on his face as he huffed and puffed alleviated some of the tension in Ford’s chest.

Ford let out a sincere chuckle watching the little man wave his cane about.

Bill looked back up at Ford and directed his cane waving at him. “Well don’t just leave me hanging IQ, what’s it say?”

“Ok, ok, give me a second.” Ford soothed. He leaned back in his chair and began combing over the letter. The brief fleeting joy slowly drained from his face as he read. “Oh…” He sighed softly. “I guess I knew this was coming.” Ford couldn’t hide the soul-crushing weight in his voice.

“What?” Bill questioned. He hopped up into the air and swirled around to perch on Ford’s shoulder and read the letter for himself. Leaning over his cane where he stood. He squinted harshly when he read. A bit of a slow reader actually. Ford had noticed this once before. He wondered if his muse might have needed corrective lenses. Rather ironic for a creature that was mostly eyeball.

“They’re threatening to cut my funding.” Ford summarized before Bill could finish reading.

“Well obviously.” Bill huffed. Shoving Ford’s face away. Catching that Ford had noticed him struggling and clearly flustered by it. He paused a moment though as the statement seemed to click. “Wait a minute, why?” He asked.

Ford tossed the papers back on the desk and hung back in his chair. Letting his head dangle over the back. Rocking himself softly with his foot. Bill remained glued to his shoulder all the while.

“I haven’t published anything. They’ve been expecting some kind of publication by now but I’ve been putting it off. I want to prove my theory. That’s what I came here to do.” He explained. “I could tide them over with reports about leprecorns and ghosts but submitting proof of the paranormal presence in Gravity Falls will only attract more researchers.”

“Potential competition.” Bill replied knowingly. Ford didn’t have to explain his concerns. Bill was already on the same page. They were alike in that regard. Bill crossed his arms and sat down on Ford’s shoulder. He rubbed the space under his eye thoughtfully, above his bowtie.

“Did someone ask for a Ghost!”

Oh, sweet Moses that voice. God that grating nails on a chalkboard- Ford spun around in his chair and chucked the nearest heavy object he could find in its direction. As it turned out that was an empty mug he had left on his desk. It flew right through the childlike body of the category one that had manifested in his study. The damned thing had followed him home apparently. Ford’s mug smashed against the wall with a loud shatter that barely even made it flinch.

“Leave me alone!” Ford barked.

“But I-” The ghost started to protest. Not hurt, unfortunately. The stupid thing was too unabashedly cheery to be upset or scared. Only optimistically confused. Ford would strangle the thing if it had a neck.

“No one asked for you. Now get out of my house!” Ford insisted. Pointing aggressively at the door.

Bill cackled wildly. He’d left Ford’s shoulder and was floating behind him now. “Wow, easy Fordsy, don’t pop a blood vessel.”

“Annoying little shit-” Ford grumbled under his breath as the ghost kept trying to talk to him. He turned back around in his chair to give it the silent treatment. Crossing his arms and waiting for it to get the hint.

“Why so worked up buddy?” Bill questioned playfully.

Ford waved his arms about in exasperation. “I’m about to lose my funding Bill! That’s why! I have a year to publish something or I lose everything!”

Bill floated lower and seemed to ease up sympathetically. He patted a hand on Ford’s knee. “Right, you humans need money. Like, to eat or whatever you people do with it.”

“I need it to afford food Bill.” Ford clarified. Still, despite his frustration he couldn’t help but relax a little under his muse’s touch. He placed his fingers over the tiny gloved hand on his knee. Savoring the warmth of another soul. Like the tiny paw of a cat. Reminded him of his mother’s cat. The way Isis would paw at his leg when she wanted something from him. It was comforting even if Bill didn’t fully appreciate the consequences of Ford’s situation.

“If I lose my funding everyone will think I’m a fraud.” Ford explained. “I’ll be very unlikely to get funding elsewhere. I’ll have to find some alternative source of income just to support myself, never mind to continue my research.”

“You could always rob a bank.” Bill offered.

“I’d rather not.” Ford replied dryly.

“Ooh, I wanna rob a bank!” That fucking voice again! The category one flew loop-dee-loops excitedly in Ford’s peripheral vision. “I can get us bad guy costumes and everything-”

“No one is robbing a bank.” Ford stated firmly.

The category one made a disappointed whine. Ford ignored him. Bill shrugged and backed up for a moment. Considering alternatives.

“Alright, alright, we’ll save that for plan B.” Bill conceded. “In lieu of the easy option,” he mused. “It sounds like you need a little push.”

Ford raised an eyebrow at Bill. “A push.” He asked.

Bill grinned up at him with his single wide eye. Ford felt lighter than air as he realized what Bill was offering. It wouldn’t be the first time Bill gave him clues that furthered his research. He was a muse after all. Inspiration was his forte.

“Well, you need to turn that hypothesis of yours into a theory in the next year, and I think I might have an idea how to get you there.”

Ford leaned forward and clasped his hands against the edge of the desk. Practically pressing his nose to it as he brought himself to eye level with Bill. “You know the source of Gravity Falls's weirdness don’t you?” He gushed breathlessly.

Bill chuckled and reached out a hand. Patting the top of Ford’s head and ruffling his hair. His cane tucked under his other arm. “Oh Fordsy, I think you're ready. Buckle up kid 'cause I’m gonna put that big brain of yours through the ringer.”

A portal. A portal that would punch a hole in the fabric of their reality. Open a dorway to the alternate dimension from which all of Gravity Falls's weirdness had bled through. Once he had it working Ford would have definitive proof of his theory. Not only that, but this world was Bill’s. Of course, his muse knew where the anomalies came from. He always knew. He was one of them after all. Ford's dreams that night had been long sessions of discussing the logistics of the project. Despite the hours of advanced physics, Ford slept better that night than he had in years. He woke up absolutely buzzing. Invigorated by his new project.

That energy did start to wane a bit though as the days turned to weeks. Hunched over his desk working out the finer details and getting lost in the numbers. After a while, he realized he was going to need some help. This was too advanced a project for just one person. At least if he planned to get it done in a year. He kept hoping Bill would visit again, maybe assist in some of the more difficult equations. He was absent, however. Bill’s periodic absences weren’t anything new, though they were frustrating under the circumstances.

“What ya got there Sixer?”

Ford jumped at the sudden intrusion upon his trailing thoughts. Holed up in the lab this time. Declining sunlight for lord knows how long. At least that obnoxious ghost had finally stopped interrupting him. Ford thoughtlessly brushed a wet ink splatter off the notepad in front of him. “Bill, there you are.” He sighed with relief. “I was wondering when you’d turn up again.”

Ford looked back down at the new stain on his hand and the ugly black smear on his notes. He’d been working on drafting his pitch before calling up an old friend for assistance. Bill’s proposal was a groundbreaking one. Spectacular and fascinating, if a bit hard to explain. Well, perhaps not to Fiddelford. He was brilliant. Ford was sure he’d understand it, but still, he was going to be asking a lot of him.

Ford’s muse floated around and plopped himself down on the desk. Seated on the shelf just above Ford's writing space. Bill hung one leg over the other and twirled his cane in his hand. “Aw, whatsa matter Fordsy? Miss me?” He cooed playfully.

Ford winced as he reached for some tissues on the desk to wipe off his hand. He could feel the heat rise to his cheeks. It was embarrassing being read so easily. “You could say that.” He replied. Doing his best not to take Bill’s disappearances personally. The last time Bill disappeared for so long was after the most intense night of Ford's life. He woke up to find he’d tattooed himself somehow in his sleep with a sewing needle and one of his quill pens he'd cannibalized. He vaguely remembered Bill showing him how to do it in his dream but that was as much explanation as he could give for his first bit of body art. A bit of alien text scrawled across his rib.

“You just caught me in the middle of something.” Ford apologized.

Bill looked down at Ford’s notepad and hopped onto the lower level of the desk. He walked little circles around the paper reading all the things Ford had written and scratched out. Squinting again and taking his time. “Workin’ on an elevator pitch?” He asked.

“In essence, yes.” Ford replied. Looking back down at his notes. He looked over at the phone beside him. “I was just about to call.”

“This is our project.” Bill observed in a flat monotone.

“It is.” Ford answered. A bit unsure what Bill was getting at. “I was going to ask an old friend of mine to assist. I assure you Fiddleford McGucket is a brilliant man. With him on board, I’m sure I could build the portal in half the time.” Ford couldn't help but beam a little with pride. He knew how talented Fidds was. He couldn’t wait to share Bill’s knowledge with him.

Bill narrowed his eye and stepped on the paper. Crickling it under his feet as he walked. “I never told you to bring in an assistant.” Bill looked up at Ford clearly irritated.

Ford hadn’t been expecting this response. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” He argued.

“Hey!” Bill pointed his cane accusatorily at Ford. “I don’t go around sharing my brilliance with just anyone IQ. If I wanted someone else taking credit for my inspiration I’d have picked someone else. I wouldn’t have proposed it if I didn’t think you could handle this on your own.”

Ford snorted. Struggling not to laugh. Bill was adorable like this. So small and angry. Even still, Ford did feel a little guilty. Knowing how much faith Bill was placing in his abilities. How blessed he was to be bestowed with his insights. Ford reached out a finger and gently stroked the side of the tiny triangle near the top of his head. “I know.” Ford reassured. “And I’m sure with enough time I could do it by myself, but I only have a year. I can’t afford to take my time on this.” He pleaded.

Bill continued to fume but felt delightfully warm under Ford’s touch. He grumbled and looked away but didn’t stop Ford from touching him. “If you don’t think you can manage it in three-hundred and sixty-five days then maybe I should have chosen someone else to gift with my insights.” He huffed. Arms crossed and indigent.

“Oh Bill, don’t talk like that.” Ford pulled his hand away. A bit hurt by his words. “I’m doing my best but this could make or break my whole career. I really don’t want to waste this opportunity. If I don’t make the deadline I won’t have the resources to complete the project without my grant. You want to see this through together don’t you?”

Bill seemed to mull over his words for a moment before he looked back up at Ford. A piercing gaze that told Ford to go on.

So he did. Ford held his hands to his chest as he smiled down at his muse. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you wanted this to be just the two of us.” He apologized. “If you want to do this, just us, I don’t have to call up Fiddleford. As long as you promise to stay and help me.” He leaned down to Bill’s eye level. “I certainly wouldn’t mind having you here more often. You know I love having you around my muse.”

Bill’s eye curled into a coy smile before he burst into a fit of laughter. “Aw, that’s adorable.” Bill hopped up and tapped Ford between his eyes. “You’re adorable.” He teased. “Alright fine. I’ve got better things to do than hang out here all day so if you want help so bad go ahead. We’ll see how your fleshbag does.”

Ford made a light-hearted attempt to snatch Bill up in his hands. Clasping them both around the little golden creature like a child attempting to catch a butterfly. Alas, his hands were empty when he opened them again. Unsurprising. When Ford looked around he heard laughter above his head.

“You know the sooner I make this call the sooner I can get back to drafting the portal.” Ford reminded Bill with a wry smile.

A slight weight landed on the top of Ford’s head. Just the faintest whisper of a touch. Like the hand of a ghost settled in his hair. “We’ve got time.” Bill chided. “Tell me about this buddy of yours.” He asked.

“Oh, well, Fidds and I go way back.” Ford grinned. He looked back over his notes while Bill got comfortable. “We were dormates back in college, best friends. It’s been so long since we talked." Ford hadn't spoken to him since Fiddleford's wedding. Ford had been the best man. For some reason, he didn't feel like calling Fidds up again after that. It felt like an intrusion on his friend's life to call without reason. "It’ll be nice to see him again. If anyone could keep up with us it’s him. You should see what Fiddelford is capable of when he puts his mind to something. He’s a brilliant engineer. If a bit short-sighted. Wasting his time on unambitious pet projects. This'll really put his talents to use.” Ford couldn’t help but let the eggar glee spill out. He was looking forward to seeing his friend again. Reaching for the phone and dialing his number a kind of giddy anxiety set it. He hoped Fiddleford said yes. He could use some company around the lab.

“Fidds huh? Cute.” Bill replied dryly. Clearly unimpressed.

“You don’t believe me?” Ford replied. “I promise you Fiddleford will prove himself in no time. You’ll see. I can’t wait for him to meet you.”

Bill laughed again. Louder this time. He kicked his little feet against Ford’s forehead, prompting him to reach up and swat at the little creature. “Ow! Knock it off!” Ford huffed.

Bill vanished and reappeared again leaning next to the phone. “You can tell him about me if you want IQ but don’t come crying to me if he thinks you’ve gone off the deep end.” He teased.

“I beg your pardon.” Ford replied. Holding the handset and listening to it buzz at him while his other hand hovered over the buttons.

“I’m just sayin’ I don’t plan on talking to anyone else.” Bill told Ford. He propped up one of his sides on one hand, his elbow resting on the base of the phone. Reaching out he walked tiny little fingers up the back of Ford’s hand. “I chose you for a reason Sixer. Like I said. I don’t share my wisdom with just anyone. You’re the only mortal for me.”

He looked back and Ford and his eye flashed red for a brief moment. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” He warned.

Ford felt that gitty excitement sink into the pit of his stomach. The joy drained out of him for a brief moment. He stared back at the phone again. Maybe… maybe Bill was right… What if Bill wasn’t even real? Just a figment of an overactive imagination. Fiddleford would think Ford had gone crazy. Maybe he had. He wanted Bill to meet Fidds because he wanted to introduce his friends to one another, but it was more than that. He wanted to know for certain Bill was real. He felt real, but only Ford ever saw him. He didn’t have concrete proof of his existence like he did his other anomalies. When Bill disappeared it was like he was never there.

But the tattoo? There’s no way Ford could have tattooed himself upside down in his sleep on his own. Bill had to have helped guide his hand right? He had to have helped keep his hand steady enough to draw while he was utterly wasted. Those seizures were a product of something, something real and tangible. Or maybe it was gas leak… some weird mushrooms he found in the woods? A sick prank by some gnomes?

Bill had kissed him that night. In his dreams, of course. Ford wasn't confident Bill had understood the meaning of the gesture. They'd both been drinking. Bill had simply been trying to make his birthday a memorable one. The rats were definitely real. Ford wouldn’t forget disposing of their little cold bodies anytime soon. Bill had to be real. He had to be.

Ford looked back at Bill. If he didn’t want to talk to Fiddleford then there was nothing Ford could do for that. Perhaps it would be for the better just to take his muse on faith and not worry about clinging to another human for validation. Bill was real. Ford didn’t have definitive proof of that but he could feel it in his gut. This creature was real and rare and he’d chosen Standford for a reason.

“Alright then.” Ford assured Bill. He rubbed the little triangle with his pinky. “We’ll just keep our little talks between us.” He promised Bill.

“That’s the spirit Sixer.” Bill purred. He slapped Ford’s hand encouragingly and hopped up into the air. Divorcing himself from gravity once again. “Go get 'em tigger.” He encouraged.

Ford took a deep breath and dialed one Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.

#gravity falls #bill cipher #stanford pines #billford #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #ford and bill are in a situationship #bill won't but a label on it but that won't stop him being jealous and possessive

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dozedoffeugene · 8 days ago

Text

death & romance⚕️⋆⭒˚.⋆

(Moira x Reader)

Chapter 2/10 : 5.8k words

Cross-posted on AO3

Warnings: needles/injections, mild fantasy gun violence

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

When you left Overwatch, you thought you were done.

You had nothing: no orders, no purpose, just some credits to your name and what was left of your pride.

That is, until you received an unmarked letter in your mailbox.

Talon, requesting your presence. No details. Just a location.

You should’ve ignored it. But you didn’t.

What you found there wasn’t just a job—it was her. Moira. Cold hands, sharp eyes, and promises too precise to be lies. She said she could make you stronger. Said there was potential in you, if you let her bring it out.

Eventually, the line between choice and control starts to blur. You keep returning to her lab. Letting her study you. Change you. The injections burn, but the way she touches you afterward: the way she watches you like you’re hers, burns hotter.

In this chapter: You and Moira settle into a new routine. Sombra pushes some buttons.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You arrive at the lab early.

Not dramatically so—twelve minutes, maybe more—but enough to notice how empty the compound feels this morning. The lights seem dimmer in the hallways. The air thinner. Maybe that’s just you. You’ve been more aware of your body lately: the way your blood moves, how your breath slows when no one’s speaking. The second dose hasn’t faded. It’s coiled inside your muscles like it never left.

You haven’t slept well since.

Or rather, you’ve just stopped needing to.

There’s a strange clarity in the hours after midnight now. Like your mind is waiting for a command.

The door hisses open. Inside, Moira isn’t alone.

She stands near her console, half-turned toward an omnic in a sleek, tailored coat. His metal limbs are polished to a mirror finish, voice cool and even as he speaks.

Maximilien. You’ve seen images, fragments in debriefings, but standing in the room with him is something else entirely. His eyes are artificial and unblinking. They snap to you the moment the door slides shut behind you.

The conversation halts.

Moira doesn’t turn, but Maximilien regards you fully, gaze moving from your face to your posture to the tension in your shoulders. He tilts his head.

“So this is the candidate,” he says, voice smooth, processed, but almost… amused. “More intact than I expected.”

“They’re ahead of schedule,” Moira replies. “Initial tolerance has exceeded projections.”

“A weapon made from salvage,” Maximilien hums. “Practical. Efficient. I assume they’re ready for the first assignment?

“They are.”

You stand still, saying nothing. His eyes don’t leave you.

“Let’s hope their usefulness matches your efforts,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he nods—once, curt—and turns to go, walking past you without hesitation or acknowledgment. He does not wait for permission. Moira doesn’t offer any.

The door slides shut behind him. You exhale, not realizing you were holding your breath.

Moira gestures toward the exam table. You move to it without prompting, muscle memory settling into place. Still, something buzzes in the back of your skull—cold and metallic. You can still feel Maximilien’s gaze. Not like a person looking at another person.

Like a number. A product. A line in a ledger.

And Moira didn’t correct him.

“You’re early,” she says without looking up.

“Didn’t want to waste time.”

Her eyes flick toward you then, assessing you. You meet them without flinching, though the way her gaze moves over your frame still manages to unsettle you.

“And the past few days?”

Her tone is flat, but you can feel her eyes on you.

“Any anomalies? Physical. Emotional.”

You think about your dreams immediately. You can’t stop dreaming about the kiss. The way her hand gripped your neck, how she pulled you in like it was nothing.

But Moira doesn’t need to know all that.

“I feel stronger,” you say instead, keeping your voice steady. “Breathing’s easier. Reflexes are faster.

She hums, focused on arranging her tray.

“The dose is ready,” she says. “Lie down. Remove your shirt.”

You strip off your shirt as you cross the room, leaving you in your plain white tank top.

The metal table is cold beneath your back when you stretch out, the lights obscuring most of your vision.

Moira steps to your side, and guides the straps onto your wrists and ankles. She comes to your side, holding the injector. This one is smaller than the last. The liquid inside is almost colorless, with only the faintest violet sheen at its core.

“This dose will accelerate your reflexive adaptation,” she explains. “Neurofeedback loops will tighten. You may experience momentary emotional override. That’s expected.”

You don’t respond. You tilt your head, exposing your neck.

Her hand settles on your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ear. Her grip is steady, but the contact still makes your chest tighten. You try not to let it show.

The injector hisses, and the rush is instantaneous.

You feel it flood your bloodstream with icy precision, followed by a slow burn spreading through your chest and arms. Not painful—just intrusive, like something else has started breathing inside your ribcage.

You exhale through your teeth.

Moira watches your vitals climb on the screen. She mumbles under her breath. “Heart rate elevated… Controlled.”

Her hand lingers for a moment longer before she sets the injector aside, picking up her datapad.

“We’ll run a full physical diagnostics panel. I need to confirm integration efficiency before deployment.”

She activates a scanner overhead. Blue light traces down the length of your body, mapping muscle density, joint responsiveness, nerve condition. You stay still, trying to focus on the hum of the machine instead of the warmth that’s still spreading through your limbs.

Moira’s hand slips beneath your arm, steady and cool, guiding you up from the table with practiced ease. You’re still buzzing, every nerve wound tight. The serum is still curling through your bloodstream like a live wire.

Your legs tremble as you sit upright, lungs pulling in too much air, not enough all at once.

Moira says nothing, just brings the scanner to your chest, eyes flicking between the readout and your face. Then, without pause, she lifts your arm, rotates your shoulder, presses her palm flat against your sternum to measure resistance.

Her hands are bare again today. You notice because you shouldn’t.

“You’ve been training,” she says, brushing your shoulder with the back of her knuckles. “Muscle density has improved.”

“Thought I should be useful.”

She doesn’t comment.

She moves lower—fingertips pressing along your abdomen in short, deliberate intervals, watching how the muscles contract and release under her touch. You manage to stay relaxed, even as her hand grazes the line of your hip.

She says nothing about the tension in your body.

Maybe she doesn’t need to.

Moira’s hand trails down your leg with clinical precision, fingers pressing into the muscle along your inner thigh to gauge tension. You hold your breath as heat coils low in your stomach, pulse kicking hard against her touch.

You wonder if she touches every subject like this. You wonder if they react the way you’re reacting.

You don’t ask.

“Any pain?” she asks, lifting your leg a little higher.

“Not physical.”

She pauses.

Her eyes flick to yours.

There’s something unreadable behind them—something that passes before you can name it. Then she lowers your leg and powers down the scanner.

“Get dressed.”

You sit up slowly, muscles still buzzing. Your skin feels flushed, like the dosage hasn’t finished settling. You slide your shirt back on, and the fabric clings a little more than you’d like. Moira’s already typing.

“Your mission file’s been transmitted to the tablet on your datapad,” she says. “You’ll leave within the hour.”

You nod, buttoning your collar. “Target?”

She doesn’t look away from the screen. “A known associate of Overwatch. Off the grid. Expect resistance. Eliminate cleanly. No witnesses.”

You nod again, slower this time.

“Understood.”

She finally glances back at you.

“Report here directly after completion,” she says. “I’ll need new data before it degrades.”

There’s nothing in her voice to suggest concern or care—just need.

You take a breath, steadying yourself.

Then you nod once more and head for the door, her voice still echoing quietly in your thoughts.

————————

They drop you in a half-collapsed industrial zone somewhere outside the city perimeter. Talon doesn’t name the location, only the target: a rogue researcher with sensitive data and too much conscience.

You’ve been outfitted in a light-impact suit, reinforced boots, and a slim pack stocked with a compact rifle, knives, and a short-range pulse device. The mission file is preloaded into your visor.

You move like you’ve done this before. Well, technically you have. But this time your body hums with precision that wasn’t there before. Every motion lands cleaner, faster. Your sight is sharper; you can see the glint of a rifle barrel two floors up before the muzzle even shifts. When you aim and shoot, you don’t hesitate.

Your gun is a Talon issued pulse rifle—Overwatch design, but heavily modified, with heavier recoil. It fits in your hands like a glove. The guard drops before he can respond.

You breach the perimeter in five minutes flat, dispatching two more with cold precision. One tries to run. You don’t chase. You shoot him once through the back, mid-sprint, and he drops.

You round the corner and crash straight into another guard—his weapon halfway raised before you slam the butt of your gun into his jaw. He stumbles but recovers fast, dragging a knife from his belt and driving it into your side. You grunt, slamming your shoulder into his chest, knocking him off balance. He lunges, but you’re faster, swinging your rifle up and striking again.

You beat him down with the stock, again and again, until the body under you goes still.

By the time you reach the target, your side is burning.

The wound is deep, but it doesn’t slow you. You’re already adjusting. Already pushing forward.

When you reach the target, he doesn’t beg. Instead, he bargains. With shaking arms held up in surrender, he points to his console and offers a vow of silence in exchange for leaving him alive. You shoot him through the eye before he finishes his sentence.

His body drops before the silence settles. You lower the weapon, heart steady.

The serum hums beneath your skin, a radiant pulse in your veins. You don’t feel guilt as you export the target’s findings, loading his life’s work into a usb stick provided by Talon.

There’s no pity. Only clarity—and a phantom pull back to the lab, back to her. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until your finger flexes around the trigger again, itching for more.

You’re back at the lab before sunrise.

Your shirt sticks to your side with blood, and your left shoulder is blown out of alignment, but you don’t limp. You don’t grimace.

Moira is already there.

She looks up from her console, her expression unreadable. The lighting in the lab bathes everything in cold white-blue. She doesn’t ask what happened.

You sit on the edge of the table and begin unbuttoning your shirt.

She crosses the room without a word, retrieving a fresh set of gloves and a sterilization kit. You don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence is heavy—but not uncomfortable. Not anymore.

When her hands reach you, they’re methodical. She peels the fabric back from your ribs with care, and begins cleaning the wound. Her touch is exact, but slower than it has to be. Gentler.

You inhale quietly.

You don’t look at her, but you feel her watching.

“Target neutralized?” she asks.

“Yes,” you answer. “No witnesses.”

She hums, satisfied with your answer. “The compound adjusted well under field conditions.”

She dabs alcohol into the gash. You tense, but don’t flinch.

“I felt faster,” you say. “More controlled.”

“Even with injury?”

You nod. “The pain didn’t matter.”

Moira tilts her head, her gaze dipping to your chest, then back up.

“Noted,” she says.

The antiseptic stings more than it should.

Moira doesn’t react when you flinch—but she doesn’t ignore it, either. Her hand shifts, just slightly, cupping the edge of your ribcage to steady you as she swabs the wound again. The pressure is careful, practiced.

You don’t dare look at her.

Because if you do, you might imagine it again: the feel of her mouth under yours, still and warm, how your body had burned at the contact anyway.

Your breath catches as her hand brushes past your exposed chest.

She notices.

Her eyes lift to meet yours, steady and unreadable. For a moment, she just watches you. Like she’s waiting to see whether you’ll break again.

“I applied too much pressure,” she says softly, and adjusts the gauze with a more delicate hand.

Her voice is the same as always—cool, clear—but there’s a weight behind it this time, something less distant.

You nod, grateful she gave you an excuse to explain the way your body reacted. The way your pulse surged at her touch.

She tapes the bandage down, hands moving with methodical precision. You feel the heat of her fingers through the glove. She steadies your arm next and begins checking for dislocation. You know she’s going to set it. You brace yourself.

She hesitates just long enough to meet your eyes.

“This will hurt.”

You nod again.

She sets your shoulder in one clean motion.

You grit your teeth, biting down a hiss, but your body still jerks. She doesn’t pull away. Her hand rests briefly on your collarbone, grounding you.

You’re still sweating by the time your breathing levels out again. She wipes the blood from your skin in silence, careful with every pass.

Your eyes wander—slowly, involuntarily.

You watch the arch of her brow, the sharp angle of her jaw, set in focus. The slight glow behind her eyes, how one burns colder than the other. You wonder, not for the first time, how a face so still can feel so close to something divine. Something monstrous. Something impossible to look away from.

You want to kiss her again.

You imagine it—her hands not pushing, but pulling at your neck. You imagine her mouth parting, just barely, an invitation. Her breath soft against yours. This time she’d kiss you back.

You catch yourself, heat crawling up your throat. You shut your eyes.

You’re not here for that.

You’re here to be rebuilt.

“I’m finished,” she says, stepping back. The air feels colder the moment her hands leave your skin.

“You’re to return here in two days,” she says. Her tone has already shifted back to neutral, professional, like the last few minutes were routine. “You know what to do in case of emergency. If the compound destabilizes, you’ll be retrieved.”

There’s no thank you, no good work. Just dismissal.

She turns away before you can ask anything else.

You’re left sitting on the exam table, bloodied shirt half-buttoned, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to your skin. You watch her move across the lab: graceful, decisive, already logging your performance.

She doesn’t look back.

You leave.

————————

The walk home feels longer than usual. Your shoulder aches. Your ribs throb. But none of that matters. Not compared to the way your skin still burns where her hands touched it.

You can’t stop replaying the moment she leaned in. The brush of her fingers along your jaw. The way she steadied you, just for a breath, as if you were something fragile she needed to preserve.

You know she didn’t mean it that way.

You know.

But you feel it anyway.

Your apartment is cold when you step inside.

You don’t turn on any lights, moving in the moonlit darkness. The silence wraps around you like static. You peel off your shirt slowly, staring at the bloodstained fabric like it might answer a question you haven’t figured out how to ask.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare at your hands.

They don’t shake. They probably should.

Sleep doesn’t come.

You close your eyes and see her face. Looking down at you, watching. You look back, analyzing the glint in her eyes. Eventually, you lean up and kiss her, replaying the memory. Remembering the way her mouth barely moved when yours did. And the way she let you do it anyway.

You wonder if she’s thinking about it now.

You wonder if she has at all.

————————

The next four weeks enter a smooth routine. At first, you’re there once a week. You arrive early, sit quietly on the exam table while Moira reviews your charts. She says very little at first. A question here. A command there. The injection always comes with the same practiced efficiency: a gloved hand to your neck, a cold hiss, and a rush that leaves your body alight.

But something in the room shifts. Her eyes linger. Her questions become more pointed: about how you sleep, what you dream about, if you’ve noticed changes in your senses, your appetite, your desires. You tell yourself it’s just protocol. You don’t ask what she’s writing in her notes.

That schedule doesn’t last long. Once a week becomes twice. Then, every other day. Sometimes she calls you in under the guise of new variables, a tweak to the formula, a change in your neural chemistry. Other times she says nothing at all, just gestures for you to sit and begins the tests.

Each visit runs longer than the last. She keeps you hooked into machines, makes you run physical drills, react to sensory triggers, and hold still while she maps your vitals in minute detail.

Outside the lab, the world softens into a blur. You stop answering the few people who still try to reach you.

You ignore your messages, don’t check the news.

The ways of your old life feel distant, like remembering a story that wasn’t yours. You tell yourself it’s temporary.

This is what it takes to rebuild.

But in truth, you don’t miss it. You don’t feel like that person anymore. Moira’s work demands everything: your time, your mind, your body. And slowly, it becomes easier to give it.

Because when she looks at you after a mission, something in you melts. Heat curls low, your body aching to prove itself worthy again.

You start to track her moods. How fast she walks, how her tone shifts depending on the results, how her hand steadies your arm when the serum hits too hard. You memorize the angles of her face when she’s focused.

You wake up craving the burn of her experiments more than food, more than rest. You start to live between doses, counting the hours until you see her again.

One evening, you catch her watching you.

Not observing—not collecting data—just… watching. You’re in the lab, reviewing footage, and you look up and she’s already looking at you.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

The moment stretches.

Then she turns back to her work like nothing happened.

Field missions start to feel different, too.

You used to approach combat with discipline, always precise, always controlled. But now, it’s more than that.

The compound sharpened you in ways you didn’t expect. Your reflexes are faster, your mind quieter. Patterns unfold in front of you before they happen: in tells, weight shifts, trajectories. You move before your opponents do, already calculating their next three steps while planning your own.

Every strike is efficient. Every dodge intentional. You don’t hesitate, no need to when your brain’s already done the math.

Your last mission took less than fifteen minutes.

It was a data courier and his two guards—ex-Overwatch. You cleared the building before they could even call for backup.

The moment you finished, you didn’t linger. You never stop to examine your work.

You only think of the lab.

Of her.

When you return, your uniform is still stained, your body still high on adrenaline. You stand in front of Moira’s desk like you belong there. Like a dog with a bone.

She looks you over, barely reacting.

“Clean,” she says, reading the report. “Minimal exposure. No wasted movement.”

You don’t respond.

You just stand there, waiting. Just for something in her voice that tells you she’s satisfied.

She doesn’t always offer it.

But sometimes, after missions like this, she’ll take the time to peel your jacket from your shoulders, clean a cut, brush the dust from your cheek with gloved fingers. Sometimes she just looks at you—long and assessing. Satisfied, like she’s watching her theory proven right in real time.

And only once, after a mission that nearly tore you apart, does she offer you more than that.

You didn’t even think she’d speak.

But halfway through packing her medkit away, she looked at you, eyes almost sparkling, and said, “You’re progressing beautifully.”

When the adrenaline fades and you finally get a few hours of downtime, sleep comes fast.

But it’s never clean.

In the dreams, you’re in the lab again.

Except it isn’t the lab you know. The walls are darker. The lights are dimmer. Everything feels just slightly off: slower, deeper, like you’re underwater.

Moira’s there.

She’s always there.

Standing at the console, back to you, typing something you can’t read. You’re seated on the edge of the table, watching her. Waiting. Always waiting.

Sometimes she speaks.

Occasionally, it’s praise, with words she rarely offers you while awake.

“Excellent.”

“Perfect”

“You’re becoming everything I imagined.”

Each one makes your chest ache.

Other nights, she doesn’t say anything.

She just turns around, looks at you, and crosses the room—steps measured, coat trailing behind her like a shadow. She reaches for you with bare, warm hands and touches your temple, down your jaw, over your chest.

Not rough. Not gentle. But observing, admiring.

And when you lean in for a kiss, you wake. Before anything happens at all.

The aftershock stays with you, of course.

Your pulse is racing when your eyes open. You feel the phantom touch of her fingers on your throat, like you’re still on the table. You lie there, staring at the ceiling of your apartment, sweat cooling on your skin.

You vow to never tell her of these dreams.

But when she leans in close during a scan—just close enough for her breath to graze your cheek—you’re already holding your breath.

And when she looks you in the eye, you wonder if she knows.

You think she does.

You bet she always has.

———————

One day, you’re outside the lab, waiting on Moira to finish a briefing with other Talon operatives. A few minutes into the wait, a pink flash appears beside you.

Sombra stands beside you, casual, all smirk and sharp edges. You know of her, and have seen her around before. You’ve just never spoken.

Today, she decides to change that.

“You’re the new favorite,” she says, arms crossed as she leans on the wall.

You don’t want to take the bait.

“Little lab pet.” You hear the smirk in her voice.

“I’m useful,” you reply, calm.

She laughs. “That’s one word for it.”

You let the silence return, but she doesn’t leave. Her eyes linger on you: amused.

“Funny. Bet they didn’t train you for this back in your golden days, huh?”

You say nothing.

Then she tilts her head, a smile tugging at her lips.

“You know she used to work with someone else, right? Another subject. A while back. Didn’t end well.”

You don’t answer. You don’t want to ask.

But Sombra catches something in your expression anyway. She grins.

"Careful. That look on your face? That’s exactly how the last one started falling apart."

Before you can respond, the doors open with a sharp hiss.

Moira steps out.

Her eyes land on you instantly. Then shift briefly to Sombra.

Something in her face changes.

Not anger. Not surprise.

She doesn’t say anything. Just gestures for you to follow her with a nod of her head.

Sombra pulls back, gaze dancing between you two.

“Welcome to the deep end, cariño.”

You walk away, without another word to Sombra.

Inside the lab, the air feels tighter than usual.

Moira doesn't speak right away. You wait near the console as she types, a little more clipped than usual. The lines around her mouth are sharper, her movements more exact.

Finally, she says, “I would advise limiting distractions.”

You glance up.

Her eyes meet yours, hard and unreadable.

Your voice comes out lower than intended. “Wasn’t distracted.”

She doesn’t argue. She just turns away.

And the message is clear.

You don’t talk to Sombra again.

And while Moira never brings it up…

She also never avoids leaving you during briefings again.

——————

One day, you stop outside the lab like you always do.

It’s early—maybe twenty minutes before you’re expected—but that’s become routine. You’ve started arriving ahead of schedule more often.

You lean against the wall and glance down at your shirt.

There’s a wrinkle near the hem. Barely visible. A soft fold from where your coat sat too long on your lap during transit. Without thinking, you reach down and smooth it out.

Then your hands move to your cuffs.

You press your palms against your thighs. Adjust the collar. Straighten the fall of the fabric so it sits neater across your shoulders. Sharper. Cleaner.

It’s automatic. You’re not doing this for the mission. Not for the squad. Not because some protocol demands it.

You’re doing this for her.

So that when you walk through those doors and Moira glances at you—not for long, never for long—she’ll see what she’s made. Still evolving. Still useful. Still willing.

You tell yourself not to read into it.

She probably speaks like that to all her subjects. You’re nothing special.

Except—

Sometimes, you swear she lets you linger a little longer. Lets her gaze hold just past the threshold of necessity. And in those moments—when her voice drops a fraction too low, when her hand brushes your arm a second too long—you think maybe, maybe you’re not just data to her.

Then you hear mention of you during a conversation with other Talon operatives, and she calls you “Subject 09B.”

And you remember: she’s never used your name in the lab.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That the kiss wasn’t an accident. That it meant something. That you mean something.

But it’s getting harder to tell where the experiment ends and you begin.

Every touch. Every word. Every look.

You pick them apart in your head like you’re the one running the trial.

You’re not in control anymore.

Maybe you never were.

You stand up straighter. Breathe in.

Then you reach for the panel and open the lab door, pretending your heart isn’t racing.

———————

Moira doesn’t speak much when you arrive. She doesn’t need to.

You strip your coat and sit on the table like always. The chill of the metal beneath your legs grounds you, barely.

She glances at you after a moment, just enough to make you sit straighter. Then she turns back to the console.

“Early again,” she notes.

“Didn’t want to waste time.”

Moira doesn’t respond. She taps something in, finishes her notes, and finally rises to cross the room toward you.

She glances at her notes from the previous day, then back at your face. “Have you been sleeping?”

You nod. “Enough to function.”

She steps closer, attaching a cuff to your arm, pausing to check your blood pressure. “Any neural spikes since the last dose?”

“One,” you say. “Yesterday morning. It passed.

Her fingers linger on your arm a moment longer than necessary. “Appetite?”

“Improved.”

She hums at that—barely a sound. Then she moves to the console, scanning something you can’t see. You watch the side of her face.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

Moira doesn’t look up. “Not yet.

“I’ve adjusted your injection window,” she says, finally stepping back, then looks you up and down. “You’re metabolizing the serum faster than projected. From now on, you’re to report here daily.”

You don’t hide the flicker of relief. Being here feels better than anywhere else, even if you don’t understand why.

Moira removes the cuff. Her gaze lingers on you longer than usual. “Your body responds well to close proximity.”

“To you?” You ask before you can stop yourself.

Moira doesn’t answer. Not directly.

She stops beside you, lifting a hand to your face like she’s checking for fever. Your eyes follow her hand.

Her fingers slide down, brushing your cheek. The contact is soft. Measured. Her thumb pauses near your lip.

“You’re very receptive,” she says quietly. “Most subjects grow to resent physical touch.”

You can’t breathe for a second. Not with her finger right there. She’s so close you can smell that faint, metallic scent again, laced with something almost floral beneath it.

It’s intoxicating.

You feel yourself lean toward her touch, instinctive, almost desperate. She doesn’t pull away. Not at first. But your body betrays how badly you want it.

Her thumb grazes your lips, then lifts suddenly. The loss of contact leaves your skin burning.

She steps back half a pace, gaze already clinical. “Lie down.”

You obey without hesitation, lowering yourself onto the table, spine flush to cold metal. Your pulse jumps. You steady it with a long breath through your nose.

Without a word, Moira fastens the first restraint around your wrist. Then the other. They’re more secure this time, leaving very little wiggle room. She moves to your ankles next, and you let her.

“Why so tight?” you ask, your voice soft.

Her eyes flick down to the readout on the console. “This dose will be stronger,” she says. “I want to observe a full reaction. Without interruption.”

She places a hand lightly on your shoulder as she moves to the tray.

You don’t ask what she’s watching for.

You already know it’s everything.

The injector hisses louder this time as it draws from the vial—thicker, darker than before. Moira steps back to your side, presses a palm to your neck, and steadies you with quiet precision. Her fingers rest right on your pulse.

The needle bites, and the compound rushes in.

A wave of heat floods your chest, followed by something colder, like ice in your veins that somehow burns. Your muscles seize against the restraints, your back arching against the table. Your vision flares white. You gasp, but your lungs seize, and you choke on your own breath.

Moira’s hand never moves.

Your vision blurs. The world distorts.

Your body is breaking and building at the same time, nerve endings reconfiguring mid-fire. You strain against the cuffs. Moira leans closer, watching your face, her free hand pressing to your sternum.

“You’re holding,” she says, calm. “Let it finish.”

Your chest rises in short, broken gasps. The restraints creak. You taste blood.

And then, slowly, it begins to settle.

The seizing stops. Your breath returns in ragged pulls. You lie back against the table, drenched in sweat, your limbs twitching even as they go limp. The cuffs stay on a while longer.

Moira doesn’t leave your side.

She’s silent, gloved fingers pressing to your neck as she feels your pulse. You let your eyes drift toward her, and for a moment—just a breath—her gaze softens.

Or maybe you imagine it.

Her gloves are still cold.

But the way her hand lingers isn’t clinical.

You whisper, “Still here.”

She looks down at you. “Well done.”

The restraints come off one by one. She unbuckles your wrist last, holding it briefly before laying your arm flat again.

Your throat is raw. You don’t try to sit up yet.

She brushes your hair off your temple without comment, and you don’t even have the energy to lean in.

She stays by your side as your body recalibrates, monitoring the tremor in your limbs and the way your breath slows. Neither of you speaks. The moment stretches.

Once the tremors fade from your fingers, Moira leaves and returns with a portable scanner, then passes it slowly over your torso.

The soft hum of the device is the only sound in the room.

She doesn’t explain what she’s looking for. She never does. But you watch her eyes as they track the readout—focused, sharp, flicking briefly from the data to your skin and back again.

“Enhanced oxygen saturation,” she mutters. “Neural voltage sustained longer this time.”

Her hand presses just below your ribs, fingers splaying against the bare skin. You tense, but not from pain.

She tilts your chin next, checking your pupils. They’re still dilated, still not fully adjusted. Her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

You hold still. Breath still.

Then her touch vanishes.

She takes a small blood sample from your arm without a word, draws it into a vial, and sets it aside. You sit up slowly with her help, body still reeling from the aftershock of whatever just rewired inside you.

She leaves you at the table, and you watch her at the console. The slope of her shoulders. The tilt of her head as she logs the data. You want her to look at you again. For her to touch you again. To feel her fingers on your lips again. You want—

You’re not sure what you want.

When she returns, she brings another scanner with her, humming softly as it passes over your chest and abdomen.

“Stand,” she says, once she’s satisfied with the final readouts.

Your legs are shaky, but you obey.

She watches you for several seconds. Her expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind her eyes—just for a heartbeat.

She steps closer, almost close enough to touch again. The space between you tightens. You lean back on the table, not just for balance, but because if you don’t, you might reach for her. Might pull her the rest of the way.

Your hands clench the edge, holding yourself in place as her gaze drags over you.

The serum burns through you like wildfire long after you’re upright. The pain is past now, but your body can still feel dull shocks echoing in your muscles, your lungs stretch too wide, your skin prickles like it’s still mending.

You feel stronger already: your limbs humming, instincts sharper than before, but the ache behind your ribs stays.

Moira didn’t warn you. Not really. She told you it would be stronger, but not what that meant. That stings more than anything.

She didn’t trust you enough to say how much it would hurt. Not because she wanted to spare you. But because she wasn’t sure you’d accept if you did.

Something hot and stupid stirs in your chest.

“You could’ve warned me.”

Moira pauses for a moment. Her voice is calm when she responds. “You would’ve hesitated.”

Your jaw tenses before you can stop it, and your eyes narrow just enough to give you away.

“If you can’t even trust me with the truth, what the fuck am I doing here?”

The words leave you before you can think twice about it.

Your words get her attention though. Moira looks straight at you, slow and deliberate, her eyes narrowing as she steps away from her console. She tilts her head slightly, not in curiosity but calculation. Each step towards you is slow, silent, with a level of control that makes your pulse spike.

Her gaze never leaves you, and something in it burns—cold, assessing, inescapable. By the time she stops in front of you, the room feels smaller.

She steps even closer, just enough that you catch her scent: faintly floral under the lab antiseptic.

“You came here to be changed,” she says, a smile growing on her lips, “And now you flinch when it starts to work.”

You swallow, throat dry. The words land deeper than you expect, because she’s right. Because you hate that she’s right.

Her gloved hand rises, hovering so close you swear you can feel her body heat through it.

She doesn’t touch you. Not quite. Just lingers there, letting the moment drag, like she knows exactly what it’s doing to you.

The serum still hums through your blood, tuning every nerve toward her. You’re aware of every inch of your body. Aware of her, how still she is, how close. Her restraint feels like a challenge.

Moira tilts her head, gaze slipping to your lips. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to.

You move in—fast, breath catching—and kiss her. Your lips on hers, hesitant, searching, almost pleading.

And for a second, she lets you.

Her fingers glide up to your cheek, then down your throat, resting lightly where your pulse hammers.

Her mouth brushes back this time, just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to ignite something deep in your chest, a heat that coils low and spreads like fire.

Your body arches closer, starved for every inch she gives. You drag her just a little nearer, needing more.

You could fall into her. You want to. You’re already unraveling, drunk on the contact, on the unearned grace of her touch.

Then her other hand finds your chest, stilling you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just absolute.

When she breaks the kiss, it’s with a quiet, deliberate breath.

“You’re becoming quite predictable,” she says, voice low.

You freeze.

Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens.

“I was curious how long it would take,” she continues. “Apparently not long.”

You stare at her, numb. Embarrassment, fury, and something worse twisting behind your ribs.

“This fixation of yours…” she says, turning slightly. “It’s not uncommon. You’re not the first to misinterpret attention for affection.”

The shame hits hard. Like a blow. You blink once, barely breathing.

She adjusts her gloves, turning back toward her console, already pulling up your vitals. The moment is over. Filed away like every other result.

“You next mission is in an abandoned facility outside King’s Row. Off in Sector 12. You’re to eliminate the data and the one guarding it.”

Her words drift past you, dull under the heat still rising in your chest. You can still feel the shape of her mouth on yours.

She doesn’t walk you to the door. She never does.

You dress in silence, and she watches only long enough to confirm you’re stable. Not stumbling. Not resisting the compound.

“Report immediately after completion,” she says. “If the serum begins to spike, activate your recall signal.”

You nod once, gripping the strap of your gear bag.

She turns back to the console.

Dismissed.

#overwatch #overwatch 2 #ow2 #ow #overwatch fanfiction #moira overwatch #moira ow #moira o'deorain #moira x reader #moira overwatch 2 #moira ow2

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linoone · 2 years ago

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i think I’ve been following you for like a loooong time. You were my scarecrow mutual I think? Love your aesthetic + your neocities is so cute. have a nice day ^_^/

OMG HI ANON if youve been around since the scarecrow era youre a real one 🫡 i hope youre doing ok! im glad you like the aesthetic even though i dont post much comics anymore. i am still a kinnie so some things dont change

#📱#anomalys mailbox #anonymous

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ask-stan-and-ford · 9 months ago

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Wowza! We’re hitting these so quickly! We couldn’t have done it without all of you! Thank you so much for your support! Because we have such a big following now, there are just some things Sixer and I wanted to talk about.

For starters, we really do appreciate all of you immensely. You are all crucial to this blog and we really couldn’t have been here or reached these milestones without all of your devotion, and patience. On the topic of patience, please understand that we are getting many asks everyday, and that we cannot answer them as quickly as we get them. Both Stanley and I are very busy anomaly hunting and caring for Mabel and Dipper.

Sending us a ton of asks at once won’t get them answered faster, it’s just fills up the ol’ mailbox, ya know?

We love getting your questions, we just need time to get to them! We also try to answer in order as much as we can.

Sometimes we get an ask that’s hard for us to answer. Like oc asks.

What’s an “oc”?

Original character

Why do you know that?

Anyway, we love your characters and enjoy engaging with them, but sometimes they are a little too in depth for us to freely talk to. We don’t know your characters, or you, like you do. We don’t know the storyline, and we aren’t ones for stories that much either. We like ocs asks but we’re trying our best to stay an ask blog and focus less on the role playing aspect, we want everyone to be able to see our questions and enjoy our content without focusing on one person too much.

Stanley, how do you know that term?

Don’t worry about it.

(We will discuss this later) Lastly, we really just want to thank you all. Please keep asking, and we hope you enjoy talking to us as much as we enjoy talking to you. Thank you.

Thanks!

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internals1ut · 5 months ago

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Continuing the childhood friend AU plotbunny - what if Haku finds out his family is going to move so he starts trying to distance himself from Leo instead of telling him the truth (because a part of him feels bitter about it and doesn't want to accept it either even though there's nothing he can do). Meanwhile Leo is hurt and confused like, "why are you pushing me away? Did I do something wrong? What's going on-" but by then it's too late and instead of clearing the air one day Haku's family just up and vanishes.

For months afterwards Leo makes the trek to Haku's old address and leaving letters in the mailbox until it's too full to hold anymore. Every envelope left unopened as the property is never resold to a new owner. Leo goes online and tries to find Haku on social media but has no such luck. Eventually he decides ‘One day I’ll become so famous to the point that wherever in the world he is, Haku will have to have heard of me’ and then Haku could reach out and contact him… even if it’s a long shot. It’s the kind of harebrained scheme only a child could concoct but only someone like Leo could pull off.

Fast-forward to Darkwick and in his first year during a mission Haku is granted permission to leave campus and subdue an anomaly that's decided to haunt his old neighborhood (his heart leaps at the thought of running into the boy with golden eyes). He walks around but realizes the street Leo used to live on has been reconstructed. Where there once stood houses are now railroad tracks and concrete pavement. Defeated he chuckles to himself wondering what he was thinking - that everything would remain the same? 'Would he even forgive me?' He wonders as with age came regret and the realization his child self really could've handled the situation better. With these thoughts in mind his legs mindlessly guide him elsewhere until he somehow he finds himself once again in front of his old residence. The first thing he sees is that the old rickety mailbox isn't quite closing - opening it reveals a bunch of crinkled yellowing letters with his name messily scrawled across the front in childish handwriting. Heart in his throat, he completes the mission in a daze waving off concerned team members with his thoughts a million miles away. At the dorm he opens the letters one-by-one and is met with the soul crushing reality Leo had been leaving letters here because he didn't know where else to send them.

For the first time in ages, he finds himself filled with resolve and pulls out his phone to send a long overdue message.

Flashforward to the following school year. Darkwick is strict about outsiders visiting the campus and the only way Leo was going to step foot on its soil was by becoming a student. He's walking past messenger cats when he spots a speck of green in the distance - without conscious thought his feet are already flying across the pavement. The sound of rapid footsteps is the only warning Haku gets before a weight slams into his back. Startled, he stumbles forward a couple steps before twisting his head to catch a glimpse of dark silver hair. "I got your email." Leo mumbles into his blazer and Haku's breath stutters.

"You-did you actually pass the aptitude test just to come see me?" He says in disbelief turning around and trying to detangle himself but Leo just clings harder. He raises up chin up at Haku stubbornly. "You never answered my question from back then." He says in a sulky tone but Haku can see his eyes wavering.

"...Yes, we're still friends if- if you want to be." He chokes out feeling overwhelmed. Now that Leo's here there's so much he wants to say, 'It wasn't your fault. I was angry at my family and ended up taking it out on you. How can you still care about me after all this time? I'm so- so sorry-' but what comes out is. "I missed you." Leo huffs out a watery laugh as Haku finally moves to wrap his arms around him. "Yeah, you'd better."

(Also I'm happy you're okay with people sending telenovelas to your inbox. Thanks for being so receptive to the rarepair! 💖 Maybe one day I'll stop being a coward and come off anon when submitting these asks.)

Ksjskshsjishd PLEASE ANON I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR WHO YOU ARE

I wanna talk HakuLeo

Speaking of HakuLeo

👀 you guys got me in this rabbit hole and @haku-leo

I made an account for the pair so if you would wanna send all the hakuleo you can do it there

I love this ship and I love the fans of the pair too!

And onto the inbox,

Reading this 🥺

Was actually something I wanna write a fic on.

This is such a good way to see them reunited made my heart happy 🥺

I got this at work and I was giggle and kicking my feet I love it so much

I need to see these two interact

Or just standing next to each other 🥺

#tokyo debunker #tkdb #leo kurosagi #tokyo debunker leo #haku kusanagi #tokyo debunker haku #hakuleo #leohaku #leo x haku #haku x leo

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ceo-of-sloppy-women · 5 months ago

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Ten Miles West Of Eternity

so... remember when i said i wanted to write something for Oppy?

Ship: Oppy/Driver Fandom: Pacific Drive Rating: mature CW: alcohol, blood, injury, post-canon non-compliant Read it on Ao3

~~~ /// ~~~

Ten miles west. That’s all you have to cross. Realistically, it’s not very much at all – sure the zone could be one Hell of a thing to cross, but it’s not as if you don’t have a teleportation equipment that will send your ass right back home if you need. Without the exclusion zone, it’s barely thirty minutes. Most jumps are three hours away! She’s so close you could touch her. Besides, you were invited; ten minutes ago, you had received said invitation over the radio: “Driver, come and find me. If you dare.” You’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, trying to decide if you should or not. Her original message had made it seem like suicide to chase after her, and who knows what’s waiting out there for you! … but it’s not as if you haven’t been out west before. To get to G4 you had to go all the way west, nearly to the damned coast, you didn’t even have to go through any walls. You’ve done stupider trips for less (even if you weren’t quite sure why she was asking for you to come).

How hard could this be?

Gods, you are way too down bad for a woman you’ve never even actually spoken to.

Forcing yourself out of the front seat, you go about repairing your car and upgrading it as best you can. Even if this is just a ten-mile drive, you need to actually make it there in one piece. Coordinates flash on the map pinned up against the garage wall – it’s not terribly far, maybe a little closer to the wall than you would have guessed, but you know that’s just a general area. Oppy’s hideout is buried somewhere amidst the trees, anomalies and old buildings you’re bound to find there. Despite this area of the zone being far safer than the other two, you chuck some armoured doors on, strap down the luggage racks extra tight, and pack a week’s worth of medical supplies and provisions.

Once you’ve gotten all you can think of, you punch the location into the map and swirl your car keys around your finger. Just as you’re about to take a seat in the front of the car, the “mailbox” rattles to life, calling your attention. You pluck the metal tube from the “in” box, popping the cap and shaking its contents onto your hand.

A garage door opener with a key that has a four-leafed clover for a head dangling off of it.

Clutching it to your chest, you head back to the car and clip it onto the sun visor. Ghosting your fingers over the cool plastic, the charm clatters against your knuckles. While Oppy’s message had been an offer, this is explicit permission – no need to signal your arrival in order to enter, the door’s open, come right in. An extension of trust that pulsates in your chest; rapid heartbeat.

Making sure to shut off the garage radio and flip the battery charger a second time (just to be safe), you finally settle down into the car and do up the seat buckle. Flicking the radio on, turning the key, squeezing the gearshift and whispering a prayer between your teeth, you push your foot to the floor. The car rumbles forward and flies down the drive, rocketing you toward the jump gate and your open invitation.

The gate spits you out in a haze of cyan a moment later, your radio whirring to play “Save Us Sarah” – a song you’ve become intimately familiar with, as it seems like there’s only the same twenty or so songs in the whole exclusion zone. Or your car really likes the same twenty or so songs. Though, that doesn’t explain the garage radio… It's probably a zone thing. Whatever the case may be, the thumping beat of the song fills your veins as you coast down unfamiliar asphalt. Trees surround you on all sides, beckoning you further into the zone like old friends. You grin to yourself as you put the car in park, glancing at the ARC display. Not a damn marker is lit up here – there’s several buildings and a few anchors, but no green diamonds marking Oppy.

“What, you didn’t think I’d make it easy for you, did you?” Oppy’s voice comes from over the radio as if she’d read your mind.

You sigh in exasperation, knowing damn well she can’t hear you.

“Good luck. And, don’t keep me waiting, Driver,” Oppy chuckles, the music starting to fade back in.

If it wasn’t for Francis, jumping into the conversation: “Wait – Oppy, what’s happening? You spend thirty years holed-up there without even letting me and Tobias come visit you, yet you let the Driver visit you on what? A whim?”

Francis sounds worried – genuinely worried – making your stomach drop. What if he’s right and this little whim is an actual emergency? Oppy’s way of crying for help without actually asking for it. You didn’t even stop to think if you should have packed extra... something. You do have medical supplies and backup spare parts (and a working vehicle to find more). Okay, if this is seriously an actual emergency, you’ve got it covered. Maybe not mentally – but is anyone really prepared to play hero to the grouchy old woman who you’ve fallen way too hard for from just her insulting you over the radio? You’d tell yourself to get higher standards if you weren’t voluntarily trapping yourself in the Olympic exclusion zone for the rest of your life. It’s not like higher standards exist around here.

“Oh, quit your whining; the Driver’s already on the case. Maybe I just finally wanted to meet this mysterious variable after everything we’ve been through.” Oppy sounds far more raw under the careful scrutiny of your now-focused mind. Gods, maybe she actually does need your help.

That sinking feeling in your stomach refuses to fuck off as you put the car into drive and tear off down the road. The best you can do is search every nook and cranny of this place. If Oppy wasn’t willing to give you the exact coordinates, then the emergency wasn’t an emergency (yet – if it exists at all), which means you have a little time.

“Oppy –“ Francis tries to continue.

“Don’t worry, Francis. If they’re willing, I’ll let them say ‘hello’ to you too over the radio,” Oppy dismisses, cutting him off, and with him, any hope of insight into the actual reason she called you out here.

“That’s not – Oppy, you know I meant –“

“And, that’s enough of you,” Oppy says, disconnecting Francis’ voice. She must’ve glanced at your readings because she quickly follows it up with: “You’re worse than he is, Driver. You don’t have to speed so damn fast, I’m not going anywhere. Francis just worries too much.”

You really want to believe her, but her voice has turned uncharacteristically unconvincing. Instead, you pick up the pace, scanning the sides of the road as you head toward the first cluster of buildings. Oppy doesn’t continue to try and persuade you further, which is arguably a hundred times worse since it leaves you in a state of instability. Every moment that ticks past in silence creeps down your back like a cold sweat. She could have crashed out at her monitor for all you know, leaving you to find her dead at her desk! Okay, well, that’s probably extraordinarily unlikely, but given that the most reclusive woman in the world suddenly became super open to the idea of inviting a near-stranger over doesn’t help Oppy’s poorly plead case that she’s fine.

The first cluster of buildings is a bunch of research mobiles. While they hold some great salvage, there’s no sign of Oppy. You grab what parts you can find, praying you won’t need them until you get back to the garage. Yet, you squirrel them away nonetheless, just in case.

Building after building, you avoid anomalies in the feeble pursuit of home. You even find a Big Dan’s before her! The small top-up of fuel doesn’t do much to assuage your worries, but the candy bar you find inside does. It’s a Nerd Rope, which you tuck in your pocket for when you find Oppy. Maybe she’ll want to share it! The vain hope pushes you onward, the steady press of the candy against your chest grounding you.

The radio doesn’t help either, as it won’t stop playing sad songs no matter what channel you switch it to. Until it tunes out and Francis’ voice tunes in: “AH HA! Finally, okay, Driver if you can hear me stop the car.”

You oblige, hitting the breaks.

“Yes! Excellent!” Francis cheers, a weary edge to his triumph tinging the taste in your mouth.

“What are you doing now?” Oppy cuts in, her voice rough as if someone rubbed it with sandpaper. Your stomach flips at the sound, white-knuckling the steering wheel as you kick the car back into gear, peeling off down the road

“Helping out the Driver since you clearly aren’t okay. You sounded better when you were fighting sleep after being awake for forty-eight hours with twelve cups of coffee,” Francis protests, the sound of dials and buttons being pressed crackling through the radio with his voice. “Driver, take a left and cut through that field.”

Trusting Francis implicitly, you veer off the road and do your best to avoid any unseen rocks in the tall grass. You pass underneath power lines, their metal legs sticking up from the ground and towering above you. Eyes glued to the tree line you scan the horizon for any sign of a building.

“Damned kids,” Oppy grumbles despite Francis being in his fifties (if not sixties). Yet, she doesn’t argue further. The pit in your stomach sinks further, making your foot grow heavier.

“Okay, straight for a bit then you’re going to want to take a right. That’ll lead you to a dirt road; keep following that. She should be on your left after that.”

You can’t answer him verbally, so you pick up speed to let him know you’ve heard him. Following his directions, you eventually find your way back to the dirt road with only a few scratches on the car. The radio fizzles out, your lovely melancholic soundtrack disappearing into the ether as you near Oppy’s place. Your mouth grows dry as you worry over what you’ll find – Oppy doesn’t seem to be putting up much of a fight anymore, which isn’t sitting right with you or Francis. The radio is quiet between the two of you, tension settling over the air like butter.

Until a building peeks through the tree line, it’s an A-frame cabin with a tall roof that leaves enough room for a second story. It has a red door, dark paneling on either side of the roof and a chimney that reaches toward the sky. Despite Oppy’s grouchy attitude, the cabin looks homey compared to the rest of the exclusion zone. You image Francis’ place is in the same state, as well as any other building in the zone that still has someone left to tend to it. There’s a well-kept deck out front, as if someone’s been replacing the deck boards in the last few days. Next to it is a free-standing garage that looks large enough to double as a workshop that you have no doubt Oppy utilizes frequently. You’ll be lucky to have space to park your car inside.

Hitting the garage door opener, you watch as the door pulls upward and reveals a chaotically organized interior. But there’s space for your car, and that’s all you need right now.

“Glad you got there safely, Driver. Maybe next time you can come and visit me – just under less dire circumstances. I’ll give you the coordinates properly, too, instead of sending you on a wild goose chase. Now, go! Make sure that old bat is just faking it to make us worry,” Francis says over the radio, sounding as antsy as the broiling worry in your gut does.

Shutting off the car, you pocket the key and hop out. On your way, you grab the garage door opener, almost clicking it after you’ve stepped back outside. The full force of your nerves hits you, and you spin back around, popping the trunk to your car in order to grab your emergency medical kit. Satisfied you’ve got everything, you shut the garage and speedwalk over to Oppy’s front door.

The key fits easily into the lock, letting you into the cabin.

There’s junk everywhere, piled on bookshelves, the coffee table, a forgotten kitchen table and even on the stairs to your right that lead up into the loft above. There are coffee mugs and alcohol bottles on every surface there isn’t science equipment. A couch brown to your left has a pillow and blanket haphazardly thrown over it, as well as a random plaid shirt. And across the floor, amidst the sea of books, lab equipment and scavenged materials, is a trail of blood. You follow after it to a room tucked under the stairs with the door left open. Blood is smeared on the door handle.

Sitting on top of an old toilet is unmistakeably Oppy, a stained plaid shirt lying in a puddle at her feet. Thick, curly white hair falls off of light-brown shoulders. She wears a grey tank top tucked into green camo cargo pants that you’re not sure if they’re hers or she scavenged from a nearby building. She’s absolutely gorgeous, signs of aging littering her body from wrinkles to old scars, stunning you for a short moment before you look down.

Blood drips steadily from a nasty gash across her side that she’s trying (and failing) to staunch with gauze.

“Holy shit, why didn’t you tell us!?” you gape, staring at her in horror.

“It’s not a big deal, just needed an extra set of hands to deal with it,” she says dismissively, reaching for another piece of gauze and making the wound start bleeding profusely again.

“Not a big deal?! Oppy, you’re – you’re bleeding! For fucks sake stop moving –“ you grab her wrist, stopping her from continuing to aggravate the wound. Your knees sink into the sticky puddle of blood at her feet as you work to get your medical kit open. “I would have gotten here faster if you’d just told me about this. I would have –“

“Driver, shut up. You’re not helping matters,” she says gruffly, applying pressure to her wound with her free hand and making absolutely no move to take her other one back from you.

“My name’s (Y/N),” you correct her as you pull on plastic gloves. It’s more of a reflex than anything; after all this time rendered quiet by a one-way radio, you can’t get yourself to shut up now that you can finally speak to her. “Now, pull your hand back; I need to see what we’re dealing with here.”

“You’re going to get blood all over my bathroom,” Oppy gripes, pulling her hand back nonetheless.

“I’ll clean it up later,” you say dismissively, prying the soaked gauze from her skin.

It’s a nasty gash sunk deep into her skin, yet from what you can tell, it hasn’t hit anything major. It won’t stop bleeding because of how big it is and the fact that Oppy keeps reopening it by moving about. Relief floods through you as you grab a piece of gauze and dampen it with disinfectant.

“This is going to sting,” you warn her before you wipe the blood off her skin. She flinches back from your touch with a shuddering breath but makes no real move to stop you. “I can patch this up, but you’re going to need stitches. Do you have any painkillers squirreled away here?”

“Alcohol mostly,” she grunts through gritted teeth. “Make sure I don’t die, and maybe I’ll give you a shot.”

“I don’t need incentive to want to keep you alive,” you say quickly, having her hold a fresh piece of gauze to her stomach while you get the needle out.

“Careful now, an old woman like myself might go getting the wrong messages if you say things like that,” Oppy teases you, watching you work with trepidation.

“Maybe it’s the intended message,” you say without thinking. The room falls silent, and you desperately want to stuff the words back into your mouth. Full of shame, you say: “Can you lay on the floor for me? It’ll be easier to do these.”

“Playing a dangerous game asking an old woman to get on the floor. Don’t you know we struggle to get up off of these?” she grumbles jokingly, laying on the ruined plaid shirt you spread out for her. She pulls her tank top up slightly to give you more room, exposing her ribs that press against her skin. Laid out before you with a trickle of blood drooling down her side onto the plaid shirt, she looks like a Renaissance painting to a near distracting extent. “This work for you?”

“Er – yeah, yes,” you stammer, steadying your hands as you glance from her face to the wound. “Painkillers now or later?”

“Little late for them now, don’t you think? I’m not getting off this damned floor until this thing is shut. It’s not as if you know where my booze are, and a wild hunt will just make you break the little sterility those gloves have left,” she gripes, staring up at the ceiling with a huff. “Just get it over with.”

“Sorry, I’ll try to be quick,” you offer – it’s far from comforting, but you can worry about that later.

The sickening squelch of a needle piercing flesh is not how you wanted to meet Oppy for the first time. After all those weeks of her helping you over the radio, you had expected maybe a hard drink and some awkward silence. Instead, your hand is splayed out on her stomach, pushing and pulling wrinkled skin to manipulate it shut while you sew it. There’s blood on your gloves, smearing against her skin as you do your best to work fast without botching the job. Oppy hisses and groans, fists curled into balls as she tries to take the pain on the chin. You can feel her tremble beneath your hand, working a little faster on the last two stitches in an effort to get it over and done with.

It still feels like an eternity before you can tie off.

“There, that should hold,” you state, pouring some more disinfectant on gauze to clean the area.

Oppy hisses through her teeth as the gauze presses against her skin: “Fucking better; I’m not going through that again. There’s not enough liquor left in this dump for that.”

“Just let me bandage this up, and we can see about getting you a drink... and probably letting Francis know you’ll be alright,” you say, reaching for the clean bandages.

“I’m impressed, (Y/N), I half expected you to fumble about or let me bleed out. You’re surprisingly competent,” Oppy comments, glaring at you when you make her sit up so you can properly bandage her. “Maybe too competent.”

“It would be pretty shitty after all you’ve done for me if I just let you like that,” you shrug, trying to not tie the bandages too tight. “You still should have told me; I would have come quicker. Your initial message made it seem like you wanted me over for something casual – low stakes and all that.”

“That was the original intention – oh, don’t look at me like that, of course I’m curious about the stranger who helped me finally finish my life’s work. I was going to give you a mic first, see what you’re actually like for the first few days… then some jackass of a creature ambushed me during my daily rounds. I didn’t even get a chance to see what it was – one moment I was fine, the next I was bleeding onto the forest floor. Wasn’t about to die out here after all of that, so I rushed things.”

“I’m glad you rushed them,” you say quickly. Realizing how love-drunk you sound, you follow it up with: “If you bled out like this, knowing I could have helped would have killed me. It’s not as if Francis or I would have any way of knowing, either. We’ve already lost so much, to lose you to…”

You trail off, testing her bandages to make sure they’re loose enough. Oppy’s gone quiet, staring at the floor while you work. Nervous tension floods the bathroom, yet you persevere (you have to).

“There – are those okay? Too tight? Too loose?”

She turns a little, testing them out to see if they’ll slacken. Nodding her head slowly, she says: “They’ll do. Good job.”

“I’m not exactly an expert, but I’m good in a crisis. I’ve taken a few first aid courses – which have come in clutch more than a few times the last few weeks,” you explain, dumping the medical waste into a garbage bag you found under the sink. Oppy gives you a strange look – almost melancholic, with just an edge of something you can’t quite place your finger on. You’d almost call it pity, except this is Oppy; pity just ain’t her style.

You let her sit there while you chuck the garbage bag into the matter deconstructor. It spits back out at you sterile plastic and cloth, which you put in a box nearby. Not quite sure if it’s entirely disinfected… a problem for later. Returning back to the cabin, you find Oppy leaning against the wall, staring at the midground between the stairs and the kitchen cabinets.

“What do you need?”

She startles as if she’d thought you’d left. Without the mask of the radio, you can see the owlish look on her face as she processes your presence. A scowl flickers onto her face like a dying lightbulb, finally gulping down enough energy for a dim glow. She opens her mouth to speak and starts to sway, the shock finally wearing off. You barely have a moment to realize what’s about to happen before she’s tipping sideways, and you’re lunging toward her. Her fragile body sinks into your arms, barely weighing anything, having lost too much blood far too fast. Arms full of Oppy, you carry her up to the loft, careful not to slip on the stairs.

Her bed is absolutely massive, surrounded by stacks of books and equipment, with a radio set in the corner that has more than a few dirty mugs on it. You lay her on top of the duvet, not wanting to dirty the sheets as undressing her felt like far too much of a violation of privacy. However, you do pull her boots off, setting them by the foot of the bed.

Then you raid her kitchen. You search everywhere for anything sugary to help her – the kind of stuff they give you when you donate blood. In the back of a cabinet, you find a half-eaten roll of OREOs, and in the fridge, there’s a carton of orange juice. Given that it’s been thirty years since the zone was sealed, you know for certain this came from a breacher. Especially given the up-to-date packaging. Pouring her a glass and taking the whole pack of cookies, you return to the loft. She’s surfacing back to consciousness now, so you sit on the edge of the bed, setting the offered food on the side table.

“Welcome back to the land of the living – you kinda fainted back there. I figured your bed was probably the best place for you right now,” you inform her, rubbing the back of your neck.

“The lengths you go to take care of one doddering old woman,” Oppy mumbles, reaching for the orange juice. Her hands tremble slightly, yet she’s able to hold the glass steadily enough.

“I might not have gotten to talk back over the radio, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t grown fond of you. Kinda hard not to after all the shit we’ve been through,” you confess, staring at the duvet rather than meeting her gaze. The duvet cover is a floral pattern, deep green with various plants and cryptids across it, and old enough to be from before ARDA shut down everything.

A fond smile grows across Oppy’s face and she opens her mouth to say something, until the radio crackles to life to cut her off.

“OPPY?! THE DRIVER’S NOT PICKING UP, PLEASE PICK UP!!” Francis practically screams, panic evident in his voice.

“Oh, shit! Francis!” you yelp, scrambling over yourself to get to the desk. You glance around for the on-switch for the microphone, finally finding it once Oppy tells you it’s at the base. Leaning close to the microphone you reply: “Francis, calm down, we’re both okay now.”

“I – who is this?! What have you done with Oppy?”

You chuckle to yourself softly, wishing Tobias was still physical to see this go down. “Francis, it’s me: the Driver. Or, well, (Y/N).”

There’s a long pause, and you nervously coil the wire around your hands, waiting for his response.

“I want to speak to Oppy, just to – just to make sure. Please?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Oppy groans, leaning forward as far as her stitches will let her. “Francis, I’m right here! That’s the Driver – do you really think I’d let anyone else use my microphone?”

“Satisfied?” you add.

“Thank God,” Francis mumbles softly to himself. “(Y/N), it’s lovely to finally meet you properly, but Oppy –“

“Oppy’s fine, Francis. She – Okay, well, she wasn’t fine; we were right to worry. I got her all stitched up and resting in bed now. I would have radioed in earlier, but it was touch and go for a hot minute.”

“Touch and go?? Dear God, what happened?”

“I got attacked! I’m fine now – oh, don’t make me shout,” Oppy groans, falling back against the pillows.

“Anomaly got her; the wounds not deep, took a few stitches, and it’s holding for now. Made a mess more than it hurt her. It would have been worse if you hadn’t stepped in to help me find this place, though, so thank you – truly.”

“I would have stepped in sooner if I had known,” Francis admits softly, and your heart sinks in your chest.

“Francis, it’s okay, we did good; Oppy’s alive, that’s all that matters. The floor took the worst of it – it’s covered in blood,” you assure him, doing your best over the microphone.

“I think I aged twenty years just from this conversation alone,” Francis groans, rustling coming from his side. “Dishwashing detergent and steel wool for bloodstains on wood – at least according to Tobias. If you can’t get it out, use bleach, but sparingly. Soak up what you can first so you’re not just smearing blood across the floor.”

“Thanks, I was wondering what to use. Think I’ve got some steel wool in my car – found it in one of the science stations around here,” you say, drumming your fingers on the desk. Glancing outside, you see that it’s almost nighttime – you’d left midafternoon, so it wasn’t too unheard of for the moon to have crested over the horizon by now. “I’m going to go get that cleaned up now. Should probably let Oppy rest and all. Get some sleep too. I’m not planning on any late-night excursions, so I won’t be needing anyone to watch over me.”

“Take care of her, Driver. That old bat is the only other person in the zone left in the zone willing to talk to me,” Francis chuckles nervously, trying to play it off as a joke.

“I can hear still hear both of you, ya know!” Oppy protests from the bed. “Stop being so damn sappy and hang up already!”

“I’ve got her, Francis, I promise. Signing off for now,” you say through your giggles, clicking the mute button on the microphone. Your hand hovers over the stereo volume as you glance back to Oppy – she’s managed to shove a mountain of pillows behind herself, old book in hand. Round spectacles sit on the bridge of her nose. “Radio on or off?”

“I don’t care which,” Oppy shrugs, glancing at you over the edge of her book.

“On it is then,” you hum, turning the volume. Ghost On The Road rumbling throughout the entire house. “Woah, sick!”

Oppy gives some sort of non-committal hum, watching you like a hawk as you grin. “The house got lonely after Allen passed.”

“Yeah, I get that; it’s lonely out here,” you bob your head, heading for the stairs. “I’m going to go get that blood cleaned up. If you need anything just holler.”

“You don’t have to –“

“I know, but I want to.”

Oppy scoffs as if she doesn’t quite believe you yet makes no further effort to stop you. So, you head downstairs and out to the garage. There is, in fact, steel wool in your trunk. You borrow a bucket from her garage, filling it full of water from the pump outside. Oppy has dish soap sitting on the counter, so you add a drizzle to the bucket and stir with your hand until it’s soapy. Then you assess the damage that requires cleaning.

Due to the disorganized chaos of Oppy’s house you have to move a significant amount of books and other junk out of the way to even start. You shove them onto shelves, refill empty cabinets and wall hooks – everywhere you can think to put away the various inventions. She can reorganize them later, but you need them out of the way now.

Once everything’s out of your way, you get to work. The floor is easy with Tobias’ trick, blood coming away as you transfer it to the bucket. You have to change the water several times, pouring it out a good distance away from the house. The last thing you need is an anomaly attracted to blood coming to sniff about.

Time flies until the entire house is clean, with not a speck of blood remaining. Already motivated by the music, you wash your hands off and set about preparing the two of you something to eat. Oppy has considerably better provisions than anything you’ve scavenged from the rest of the zone. You find a box of mac and cheese in the cabinet that makes your stomach grumble – while you don’t have milk, water works just fine to rehydrate the cheese as it bubbles away on the stove. Food hasn’t smelt this good since before the zone (you’re really going to have to get on a breacher’s delivery list or tack a few things onto Oppy’s).

Once finished, you bring the bowls upstairs, declaring at the top of the stairs: “Dinner is served!”

Oppy shuts her book and stares at you with wide eyes. You shift in place under her hard gaze, worrying you did something wrong. You really didn’t want to fuck this up – the last thing you needed was to have overstayed your welcome or cooked the box of mac and cheese she was saving for a special occasion or –

“You’re too kind. A guest in my home yet you’re making me dinner while I sit on my ass,” she says, waving you over. “Please tell me you found the alcohol; these sutures are killing me.”

“Er, no, I haven’t. I can go look if you need,” you admit sheepishly, setting the bowl down in her lap.

“Top shelf, left cabinet closest to the fridge. Glasses are with the bottles,” she instructs you, taking your bowl too so you have your hands free.

You nod, riding the railing down and darting over to the kitchen. Grabbing the first bottle, you see you pour two glasses of whiskey, eyeballing two shots for Oppy and yourself. Hopefully, she won’t kick you out immediately so you don’t have to drive impaired. Glasses poured, you return to Oppy and set them down on the nightstand. She takes a hearty swallow immediately, sighing contently.

“God, you’re too good to me,” she hums, passing you your bowl of mac and cheese.

You take it, sitting at the foot of her bed and digging into your dinner. Your starving stomach leaps at the chance to finally have something substantial. Together, the two of you eat in silence, occasionally downing whiskey, mostly shoveling dinner at a pace that would be appalling to any onlooker who hadn’t experienced the zone before. When you’re finished, you set the bowl on her nightstand and lay back across the foot of her bed, hands folded across your stomach.

“So, was it worth it?” you ask, staring up at the stickers stuck to her ceiling in the shape of constellations.

“Was what worth it?” she asks, laying back as well, swirling the last dregs of whiskey in her glass.

“Inviting me over,” you clarify, turning your head to grin dumbly at her, whiskey running hot in your veins. She’s smiling back, thinner and far more true to her grouchy nature.

“If I’d know you were going to clean my cabin and make me dinner, I would have invited you over when you first rolled into my garage,” she says, chuckling at her own joke. Then, she tips the glass back and laps up the final swallow.

“I enjoy taking care of people,” you shrug, the whiskey taking over your brain. You run your hand up and down her leg, massaging it absent-mindedly.

“Why don’t you stay the night then? Just in case I need help in the morning, we wouldn’t want me to reopen my stitches, would we?” she offers, humming softly as she melts into your touch.

“Definitely wouldn’t want that,” you murmur, putting more attention into massaging her leg.

Your brain is screaming at you to go further, to read too much into these mixed signals and kiss her, yet the rational part of your brain holds you back. Instead, you gaze at her with a broad grin, massaging her legs, enjoying the warmth of her body under your hands. She watches you lazily, eyes drifting closed as exhaustion finally catches up to her. Eventually, when she’s on the verge of sleep and your heart is thundering in your chest, you pull back and stand up, stretching out. Her eyes follow you lazily, her brow scrunched in annoyance.

“I should let you sleep; that’s the only way your body’s going to heal,” you say sheepishly. You desperately want to stay with her, yet the couch has already been allocated to your usage.

“Bed’s big enough. I’ll let you sleep up here if you massage my shoulders.” She lets the offer hang in the air as your brain flickers between agreeing and denying – weighing the pros and cons of following the whiskey’s lead. Unfortunately, the whiskey is already leading, so you grab the hem of your shirt and toss it onto the floor, uncaring if you’re standing there in your sports bra.

“Got any oil?” you ask, stretching out your hands.

She stares at you, cheeks flushed for a moment before she blinks and shakes her head, sitting up in bed to get her own shirt off. “It’ll just make the bed dirtier than it already is. As it is, I have to change the duvet tomorrow.”

“Fair point,” you shrug, opening your mouth to say more until she pulls her tank top off. The lacey bralette underneath barely conceals her small breasts, nipples poking against the well-worn fabric. You swallow thickly as she turns around to lay out on her stomach. Tight muscle stretches across her back, echoing her active lifestyle to keep up with the field research the zone required. Suddenly, your mouth is very dry.

“You going to just stand there all night?” she grunts, snapping you out of your stupor, and you realize you’d been standing there, staring at her for far too long.

“Sorry,” you squeak, the bed dipping underneath you as you settle on your heels over her back. You don’t dare put any weight on her lest her stitches strain and pop.

Oppy merely grunts as you push your thumbs against her. You’re not a trained masseuse, but you do your best from having given a handful of partners massages over the years. The stress of the world weighs heavily on everyone’s shoulders, so you picked up a few tricks to ease the tension. Oppy melts with a contented sigh underneath you, trying to become one with the bed. You have to bite your tongue as she moans, expressing unbridled joy at the healing touch of your hands. You can’t help but wish you were doing more than just massaging her back, but you’re not going to push your luck. You’re only going to push a few knots until they untie.

By the time you’ve finished, Oppy is barely awake, having become one with the bed, fully relaxed.

“Be careful, or I’ll keep getting injured, so you’ll come back and give me another massage,” Oppy mumbles into the pillow, patting the bed next to her.

“Please don’t; just ask me, I’m more than happy to give you one,” you assure her, shucking off your pants and ducking under the covers. A moan of relief escapes you as Oppy’s wiggling out of her pants. “So much better than my car.”

“Isn’t there still a cot in the garage?” Oppy asks incredulously, her brows furrowed together.

“Not that I found. Been sleeping in the front seat of my car for the last few weeks. Even your couch would have been an upgrade,” you admit, tucking your arm under the pillow and getting comfortable.

“Well, then enjoy this. It’s not every day I let someone into my bed,” Oppy states as if the two of you are doing something far more scandalous than literally sleeping together.

You giggle, the whiskey still in your system. “Wake me up if you need me, especially if you pop your stitches. Got it?”

“I’m not stupid,” Oppy huffs, settling onto her back.

“I know, just felt necessary to say. Just in case.”

“Get some sleep; you’re delirious,” Oppy sighs, clearly done dealing with you.

“Mm will do ma’am,” you hum, closing your eyes.

Sleep takes you a moment later, Oppy within arm’s reach, heat radiating through the bed and swallowing you in blissful happiness.

#ao3 link #pacific drive #pacific drive fanfic #oppy #dr ophelia turner #ophelia turner/the driver #self indulgence at its finest #oppy pacific drive #wlw #cw blood #cw alcohol #angst #hurt/comfort #fluff

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dark-lord-of-awesomeness · 2 months ago

Note

I'm imagining in the InnoStan AU, all the anomalies know about the beef. The Gnomes, the Unicorns, the Mailbox, etc. Gossip spreads quickly in Gravity Falls.

Now imagine that, instead of the pre-offered "Camelpelter admits he's the one that broke the project" idea (props to the person who thought about that, AMAZING IDEA, FORD ANGST FOR THE WIN!!!), Ford finds the mailbox. After testing it a little, he decides to ask it how to one-up Stan for good.

The mailbox spits out Make an actual working perpetual motion machine, not one that just falls apart after a few minutes like the one in high school.

Ford is confused. What do you mean? He writes, Didn't Stanley break the machine?

No. He did not. You've antagonized your brother for years for something he did not do.

Cue Ford Angst™

I think, in the spirit of ridiculous fairness, they know the exact details of the fight (due to Stan and Ford yelling at each other all the time) and each one has their own personal opinion on who was right or wrong, and how much them yelling at each other is annoying/funny/entertaining.

I'm not sure the mail box would be so ... personal? here. I don't think Ford making an actual functional perpetual motion machine would be the thing to one-up Stan, as all that would do is make him angry/pettier about the whole situation. It'd probably suggest the grand theory of weirdness, or to impress Stan by actually being the bigger person and apologizing. Then Ford being petty and writing back about how he has nothing to apologize for, then get hit with "Yes you do, because Stan didn't break the machine and was framed, and you didn't believe him."

Cue Ford Angst, which goes in a similar vein of him going to apologize, then getting punched for his troubles. Then going back to rant at the mailbox and the mail box just doing the letter equivalent of shrugging and saying 'well it was never going to be easy, being the bigger person' making Ford fume.

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #ford pines #magic mail box #innostan au

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tobiasdrake · 1 year ago

Text

Digimon Adventure 01x09 - Clash! The Freezing Digimon / Subzero Ice Punch

Previously on Digimon Adventure: Devimon proved himself to be a remarkably talented centrist, working between the aisles to bring both parties together for a single goal. What goal? Doesn't matter. What matters is that he achieved unity, and isn't that what's really important here?

With File Island broken up, things seem awfully dire for our kids.

We open on Devimon's home gradually descending from dark clouds onto the top of Infinity Mountain. Surprisingly Greco-Roman in architecture, but this is Digimon World. Dub Tai calls this his "castle" but it lacks the defining qualities of a castle. It's more of a megaron or possibly a temple.

But Taichi has bigger things to worry about right now than a lesson in historical architecture.

Inside, Devimon announces his intentions to the audience: The Chosen Children are still alive, but they're isolated. He'll be able to pick them off while they're stranded out there. Devimon conjures up more Black Gears, sending them off into the scattered fragments of the island.

He's stranded on a frozen shard of what used to be File Island and will shortly die of hypothermia. Dub Tai comically exclaims, "Okay, so Mom was right; I should have worn a sweater!" which doesn't make much sense contextually. They can't all be winners.

By pure coincidence, all of his clothes happen to be on this shard, which he finds immediately. This is a bit of a plot contrivance, but one I'm sure we will all accept without question because it means Taichi doesn't have to spend the rest of this arc in his underwear.

His clothes are frozen solid, but Agumon thaws them out with a couple precision shots of Baby Flame. His shirt comes out great, but Agumon gets overzealous with the shorts and singes them.

Standing in front of another Digimon World anomaly, a long line of post boxes, Taichi takes out his telescope and scouts the surrounding area. While he scouts, he takes a moment to chat with Agumon and reflect on how bad this situation is.

Taichi: (examining Infinity Mountain) We're getting steadily farther from Infinity Mountain. I wonder what happened to Leomon? ...oh, and everyone else. (scans other island fragments) Everyone else is gone; We've all been separated. Agumon: Hey, Taichi? Where do you think we're headed? Taichi: How should I know? Agumon: (nervously) I don't know anything outside of File Island. Taichi: What about the other side of the ocean, that Devimon was talking about? Agumon: I know nothing about it. Taichi: (gazing across the ocean) The world on the other side....

This is the worst it's ever been. The kids are alone and crossing the ocean in every direction as Devimon's planned invasion of the rest of the world gets underway.

Taichi doesn't mention the post boxes. But in the dub, Tai's pretty interested in them.

Tai: What? Mailboxes? Agumon, maybe people really lived here at one time! I wish we could mail ourselves home... (examining Infinity Mountain) ...but it looks like the only way we'll ever leave Freeze Land is to take a real long, cold swim back to Infinity Mountain!And I have a feeling that... (scans other island fragments) ...if the mountain is drifting farther and farther away, then our friends are too! They must all be out there on those other islands! Agumon: Where will we end up if we just keep on drifting around like this, Tai? Tai: Why would I know that? Agumon: Because you're from another world, Tai; I've never left File Island! Tai: But Agumon, I've never left my world either! Agumon: Well, I guess it could be worse. There could be evil Digimon attacking us; It's too quiet here!

Dub Tai never mentions Leomon and is instead more concerned with the fate of his friends. Which. Y'know what? Fair. He met that guy this afternoon. He's known the others for at least five days!

But there's also a tone difference in how they talk about their separation; Taichi describes it passively, while Tai sounds determined and motivated to find them.

The dub also snips all the conversation about the other side of the world. They keep in Agumon's trepidation surrounding leaving File Island but snip out the talk of their destination.

All of this serves to distract from the important context of this dialogue: Tai's worried about his friends but more interested in seeing the other side of the ocean. This is vital context for what will become the plot of this episode.

Suddenly, Dub Agumon's tempting of fate conjures a new menace to the both of them.

Yukidarumon bursts out of the ground, roaring his own name like a Pokemon. Identifying him as an Adult-stage Vaccine-type Digimon, the narrator gives us his rundown.

Narrator: Yukidarumon. A freezing Digimon made up of icy snow. His special attack, Zettai Reido Punch, can freeze anything!

His name is derived from "yukidaruma", the Japanese term for "snowman". Meanwhile, "Zettai Reido" is the Japanese term for Absolute Zero, the theoretical coldest possible temperature. So that's an intimidating attack name.

The dub calls him Frigimon, based off the word "frigid", and has Agumon take over his rundown.

Agumon: Frigimon is a food-friendly snowman. But don't worry, Tai; He's a good Digimon!

What the hell does "food-friendly" mean? Weird. Though I appreciate the dub this time getting in on the "He's a good Digimon OH GOD HE'S ATTACKING" bit this time around.

Yukidarumon hurls a giant snowball at the boys, forcing them to slide down the ledge they were scouting from. As they slide, Agumon exclaims in confusion that Frigimon's a peaceful Digimon; He doesn't know why this is happening! The dub cuts that line because they already took care of that bit in the rundown.

As they slide past Yukidarumon, the problem quickly comes into view.

Yeah, that makes sense.

Yukidarumon turns on them, throwing his Zettai Reido Punch. The dub calls it Subzero Ice Punch, which is slightly underselling the coldness but nonetheless works. The boys dodge, causing his attack to hit one of the post boxes and demonstrating its power.

Let's not get punched by that.

Confidently insisting on taking care of this problem, Agumon lets out a Baby Flame. Yukidarumon blocks it easily.

(I don't know what he expected to happen there. Got a little cocky, Agumon.)

Plan B: The boys run for their lives and try to avoid being punched. Taichi asks Agumon to evolve, but as with last episode, Agumon's still tired and starving. He doesn't have the energy for evolution.

(At least he was able to put out a Baby Flame. The last one he tried petered out.)

Typical of corrupted Digimon, Yukidarumon's dialogue isn't sensible. All he says is his name. "Yukidarumon!" as he attacks. "Yukidarumon!" as he blocks Agumon's Baby Flame. Chanting "Yuki Yuki Yuki" as he chases them.

Yukidarumon corners Taichi and Agumon against a wall. At that point, they have no choice but to fight. Agumon has a plan: He wants Taichi to throw him so that he lands on Yukidarumon's back. Then he can destroy the Black Gear with a point-blank Baby Flame. Problem is, he's too heavy to lift.

Surprisingly, it goes pretty well, as Taichi and Agumon end up sliding between Yukidarumon's legs and avoid another icy fate. Yukidarumon's fist slams into the ice wall that had been behind them, burying himself in an avalanche.

While they have a moment to breathe, Taichi modifies the plan. He instructs Agumon to curl into a ball. Once Yukidarumon emerges from the snow, Taichi declares, "I'll show you the miracle kick of an ace striker!!!" and shoots.

Perfect shot. Agumon flies over Yukidarumon's head and manages to come down on his back. Just as planned, he vaporizes the Black Gear with his Baby Flame and frees the Digimon from its corruption.

With Yukidarumon released, he sits up and reveals his much more polite persona.

Yukidarumon: Huh? Why was I acting so violent? Agumon: Devimon was controlling you with his Black Gear. Yukidarumon: And you got rid of it for me? (bows) Thank you. You're not hurt, are you? Taichi: We're fine. We don't have a scratch on us.

The dialogue in the dub is mostly the same, but... uh... Except for this one thing....

Frigimon: Ugh, what am I doing laying here? What happened? Agumon: A Black Gear was on you and you almost turned us into ice sculptures! Frigimon: Oh, I'm so sorry! I just hate when I do that! But... (bows) Thank you for destroying the Gear. I'm glad you're both alright.

Hey. Uh. Hey, localization team? What the fuck is "I hate when I do that" supposed to mean? XD Apparently, murdering travelers with Subzero Ice Punch by mistake is a regular occurrence for Frigimon. We may need to review his Vaccine-type certification.

Moving along, the good news is that Yukidarumon saw another one of the kids land nearby. A boy with a Gabumon. The bad news is that he landed over there.

Ehh, we can walk, it's no biggie!

That is, in fact, how we get over there. As thanks for saving him from the Black Gear, Yukidarumon offers to use his Zettai Reido Punch to freeze the surface of the ocean as they walk, forming a path they can cross to get to the other island.

Meanwhile, on the other island, Yamato's not doing so well. His island's caught up in a blizzard, but he's exposing himself to the elements in desperation. Freezing cold, weak, and coughing, Yamato has only one thing on his mind.

He keeps going until his legs give out and he tumbles into the snow. Gabumon pleads with him to find shelter and points out a nearby cave. Yamato springs to his feet and races to it, screaming Takeru's name as he enters with hope in his heart. But the cave is empty.

Gabumon makes a small campfire using some kindling and his Petit Fire, and urges Yamato to stay here and get warm. He's already starting to come down with a cold. But Yamato insists that he's fine and wants to go back out to look for Takeru.

As a compromise, Gabumon volunteers to go look for Takeru in his place, explaining that his fur coat can insulate him from the cold. Yamato relents and stays behind, staring silently into the flames. But after several seconds, his anxiety gets the better of him; Shrieking Takeru's name, he abandons the fire and goes back outside.

The dub adds a bit of internal monologue to break up the long span of silence.

Matt (V.O.): Poor little T.K. It's just not right! He's my little brother. I should be the one out there looking for him!

Meanwhile, we check back in with Taichi, Agumon, and Yukidarumon. It's still a long way to Yamato's island, and the boys are getting tired. Taichi and Agumon want to stop for a break, but Yukidarumon points out how counterproductive that would be: The island's moving, so it will get farther and farther away the longer they linger.

Taichi laments that Agumon can't fly, with Tai in the dub directly comparing him to Birdramon. Agumon takes offense to that, forcing him to backpedal in the original.

Taichi: It's just a joke! Don't succumb to an inferiority complex. Agumon: I don't have an inferiority complex!

While in the dub, he tries to puff up Agumon to make him feel better.

Tai: Birdramon probably can't fly in the cold anyway. No one toasts my clothes like you! Come on, laugh! Agumon: No way!

They both try and fail, but American Tai makes the better attempt. Nobody has ever been made to feel better by being told they're having a complex or episode or what have you.

Yukidarumon has a solution for this whole thing. Picking up Taichi and Agumon, he rests them on his shoulders and gives them a ride for the rest of the ice march.

(Uh, be careful with that, American guys; Sometimes Frigimon murders people by accident.)

Yukidarumon walks in silence, but Frigimon has an anecdote for the boys. "Did I ever tell you about the party I went to that the Numemon crashed?" he starts as we shift focus back to Gabumon.

Back on Yamato's island, Gabumon laments his inability to find Takeru. But as he heads back to the cave, he comes upon exactly what he didn't want to find out here. Yamato unconscious and half-buried in the snow.

Gabumon brings Yamato back inside the cave and sets him up on a bed of leaves, but it's not enough. Though he's reluctant, Gabumon recognizes that extreme circumstances call for extreme measures and takes off his fur pelt, giving it to Yamato to keep him warm before curling up with him to share body heat.

Then Gabumon lays down to rest beside Yamato and we zoom out, lingering for a moment on a shadowy Digimon watching the cave from outside.

By the time Taichi's group finally arrives on Yamato's island, the sun's already come up. The boys seem to have gotten some cold but otherwise fairly restful sleep, riding on Yukidarumon's shoulders.

(Dawn of the Sixth Day)

In the dub, Frigimon is still telling the Numemon story.

Frigimon: This one Numemon kept following my sister but I handled it. A little Subzero Ice Punch show and tell! Hey, you two, wake up! We're here!

I'm not sure how much sleeping they got to do given that he's apparently been telling this story all night. He does tell them to wake up, but the shot of the boys yawning and stretching is reframed to them shouting "HOORAY!"

Yukidarumon directs them to the forest in the center of the island, which is where he thinks he saw Yamato and Gabumon land. It doesn't take them long to find Yamato's discarded bed.

Taichi and Agumon set to work, calling out for Yamato and Gabumon.

Meanwhile, back in the cave, Yamato finally wakes up. As soon as he stirs, Gabumon takes his fur coat back and flees around a corner, putting it back on as quick as he can. Recognizing what Gabumon did for him and that Gabumon caught his cold doing it, Yamato expresses his sincere gratitude.

He's so grateful that the art bugs out and accidentally gives him a thousand-yard-stare during his bow.

Those were not the correct eyes for this moment. XD That expression is not, "Thank you for saving my life." That expression is "Yamato has seen what must not be seen and he will never be the same again."

Clearly, Gabumon was not fast enough in retrieving his fur coat.

Suddenly, they hear Taichi calling their names and race out into the daylight.

Taichi explains that he found Yamato thanks to guidance from Yukidarumon. Yamato asks if Yukidarumon saw anyone else, but he insists that Taichi and Yamato were the only ones who fell on these islands. He speculates that their friends would have landed on other islands.

Gabumon sneezes, revealing his cold to the new arrivals. This gives Yukidarumon an idea, and he stomps off without explaining himself.

It takes these boys no time at all to start bickering again.

Gabumon: (sneezes) Taichi: (playfully) Oh, so even Digimon can catch colds! Yamato: (grabs Taichi by the arm) Stop making fun of him! Gabumon was-- Taichi: Oh come on, I was joking! Why are you getting all worked up!?

This harkens back to Taichi threatening to steal Gabumon's fur way back in the Seadramon episode. Taichi's a jerk to Gabumon sometimes.

Though the dub takes his side over Yamato's.

Gabumon: (sneezes) Tai: How'd you get sick? You're the one with the fur around here! Matt: Stop making fun of him! Leave him alone, Tai! Tai: Hey, why don't you chill out, Matt!? I was only trying to see how we could help him!

Instead of Tai acknowledging that he's being a dick here, the scene is painted to make Matt look like the unreasonable one. Tai's trying to check up on Gabumon's condition and Matt flies off the handle for no reason.

Agumon takes Gabumon into the cave to rest while Taichi and Yamato discuss next steps.

Taichi: Now then, what should we do? Yamato: Isn't it obvious? We're going to look for the others. Taichi: Okay but how are we going to look for them? I'm sure everyone's separated and they're all on different islands now. How can we look if we can't fly? Yamato: I'll swim if I have to! Taichi: You idiot, this place is like the North Pole. We'll die of heart failure within a minute. Yamato: Then I'll build a raft from the trees, okay!? Taichi: Yamato, calm down. Everyone is fine! I'm sure everybody's getting along fine even though we're separated. More importantly, aren't you concerned with where this island is heading? Yamato: "More importantly"? Taichi: I think it's heading to the other side of the world, just like Devimon said. Yamato: What do you mean, "more importantly"!?!? (shoves Taichi) Is there anything more important than looking for the others!? What's all this talk about "the other side of the world"!? You can go there yourself; I'm going to save Takeru! And the others!

Taichi's curiosity about the other side of the world crops up here again, in the worst possible way. He slips up, revealing priorities that Yamato violently disagrees with. No sooner are they reunited than the boys are fractured once more, as Yamato bails on Taichi to go figure out a plan for himself.

The dub translates all of this almost completely faithfully, with only one significant difference: The part about Yamato wanting to swim and Taichi pointing out they'll freeze to death is removed and replaced with a different option.

Matt: So I guess we'll ask Frigimon for help. Tai: Weren't you listening to me!? He said they're scattered all over the place. He only has two arms; He's not an octopus!

The delivery here's a bit off. Matt's line is delivered in a sarcastic tone, with a jealous sneer as he says Frigimon's name. He says this like he's being passive-aggressive about Tai's new bestie. But from the context of the conversation, he's clearly supposed to be proposing this idea sincerely; Yamato/Matt's desperately grasping at straws to find any possible way to reach the other islands.

Additionally, when Tai blows off the wellbeing of the others with his whole "Ehh they're probably fine it's fine" bit, his dialogue is written to be more sympathetic.

Tai: Matt, calm down! Wow, what's eating you, dude? I'm on your side; I'll help you get off this island if we have to build surfboards, okay? Look, the others will be fine without us for now; We gotta focus on the real deal.

The core sentiment, that Taichi is more interested in riding this island to its destination than in going to look for the others, still gets expressed. But his flippant dismissal of them is replaced by an expression of concern and solidarity for Matt.

This tonal difference in their argument continues into the next scene.

Putting those soccer legs to work, Taichi runs Yamato down and tackles him into the snow.

Taichi: If we go to the other side of the world, we might find a way to see the others again! I understand how you're feeling but-- Yamato: Like hell you understand how I'm feeling! (punches Tai in the face, knocking him off) Your insensitivity is pissing me off! Taichi: What did you say!?

Tensions explode from there as the boys' argument devolves into a full-blown bare-knuckle brawl. The dub censors out multiple shots of Taichi and Yamato punching each other in the face.

Dialogue-wise, the dub version is basically the same, but Tai gets to talk more which weakens Matt's side of the argument.

Tai: Nobody runs away when I'm still talking; Now listen! Maybe there's something across the ocean to help us find the others! Why do you have to get so bent out of shape!? I know how you feel, Matt. Matt: (punches Tai in the face, knocking him off) You haven't got a clue how I feel, Tai; You're acting like such a jerk! Tai: Who are you calling a jerk, jerk!?

It's a bit more unfocused, again pulling the attention away from Tai's insensitivity, as Yamato put it, to instead focus on Tai and Matt here in the moment.

Watching their fight in the original Japanese, Taichi comes across like a complete asshole in this argument. Yamato may be a little too gung-ho about finding everyone; He almost died last night because of it. But it's super easy to take his side over Taichi, who's ready to abandon the rest of the group to their fates in order to satisfy his curiosity.

But in the English version, it's Matt who comes off like a total dick. Tai's the one who now seems like he's grasping for ideas to solve this problem, with "the other side of the world" being more sincerely expressed as an idea to save their friends. Meanwhile, Matt comes across like he's just freaking out, too overcome by his anxieties to think straight for five minutes and see Tai's point of view.

Either way, it all comes to a head when their fight nearly takes them off a cliff, and Yamato opens up.

Once Taichi sees this, he understands and relents. The fights ends on a softer note, as Yamato expresses his feelings about Takeru. Feelings that are slightly different between versions.

Yamato: Takeru... he can't do anything on his own!

Again, this harkens back to the Seadramon episode. Remember that moment with the cooked fish, when Yamato wanted to de-bone it for Takeru but then Taichi taught him how to eat it instead? This is part of Yamato and Takeru's arc through the series.

In the dub, we get:

Matt: It's T.K. He's out there on some strange island and he's all alone!

We get Matt's concern for T.K., the love and terror that's driving this moment, but we don't get the signaling to Yamato's chief character flaw with regard to his relationship with Takeru. It's a purely sympathetic moment, missing that little nugget of poison buried in the original.

And then the ledge gives out and they go off the cliff anyway.

Taichi catches Yamato and hangs on to a branch, swearing to hang on.

Taichi: I won't let go, even if we both end up dying!

That's a little dark for the dub, so they go with:

Tai: Whatever you do, just don't let go of my hand!

Notably, Matt can't let go; Tai's holding him by the back of his wrist. Yamato has no control over this situation.

Agumon and Gabumon climb down to try and help, but there's little they can do. They're both still hungry. Fortunately, backup arrives to make things much worse.

Oh good, it's that guy that was watching the cave earlier. He's an Adult-stage Vaccine-type Digimon. The narrator gives us his rundown.

Narrator: Mojamon. He's an elusive rare animal Digimon said to live deep in the snowy mountains. Normally, he has a quiet personality and does not pick fights.

For the diegetic rundown, Agumon skips the part about Mojamon's elusive nature and goes straight to the Good Digimon gag.

Agumon: Mojamon is a peaceful mountain Digimon that doesn't like fighting! Gabumon: You'd better tell him that! He doesn't look very peaceful right now!

Seizing a perfect opportunity to kill the children, Mojamon strikes with his Icicle Rod, destroying the ledge and sending them all tumbling to their intended deaths.

The dub calls this Ice Cloud, presumably to pull attention away from the gigantic icicle spear he uses for it.

By purest of luck, the kids land directly on top of Yukidarumon, breaking their fall on his big floofy snow body. He's on his way back from foraging for food as well as herbs for Gabumon's cold.

In the dub, Frigimon quips, "It's raining kids and Digimon again; I'm going to have to start carrying an umbrella." XD That's a good one.

(If he had a nickel for every time children plunged from the sky these last couple days, he'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice.)

Gabumon eats the herbs while Agumon finally satisfies his hunger. But the fight isn't over yet; Mojamon descends the cliff to finish the job. While the kids run for cover, Yukidarumon steps up to fight Mojamon.

He tries his best, and briefly knocks Mojamon back into the cliffside hard enough to expose the Black Gears moving the island.

But Mojamon quickly overpowers him nonetheless, slamming him into the ground in front of the kids with a shoulder throw. Mojamon then reveals his other signature move, Hone Hone Boomerang; "Hone" being the Japanese word for "Bone", as previously seen in Ogremon's Hone Konbou. It's a curved bone that he throws in a curved arc, returning to his hand.

The dub calls it "Boomerang Bone", which flows better in English than Bone Bone Boomerang.

The kids and Yukidarumon narrowly avoid the boomerang, and then it's Agumon and Gabumon's turns. Finally getting their strength back up, they evolve to Greymon and Garurumon, the latter of whom shows Mojamon exactly what he thinks of Hone Hone Boomerang.

With Mojamon disarmed, Greymon lets off a Mega Flame. But Mojamon's too nimble to hit; He dodges the blast and kicks Greymon in the face, knocking him to the ground.

Creeping up behind Mojamon, Yukidarumon has a solution for this problem.

The full nelson. If it's good enough for Raditz, it's good enough for Mojamon. Yukidarumon holds him in place while Greymon lets off another Mega Flame, nailing the Black Gear and sending them both hurtling back into the wall. The impact exposes even more of the Black Gears responsible for the island shard's motion.

Garurumon lets off a Fox Fire to take care of those too.

No longer corrupted by the Black Gear, Mojamon shrinks down to about half his previous size. The Digimon explain the situation to him, while Taichi and Yamato revisit their argument.

Yamato still wants to go out and find Takeru, but before they can talk about it, the damaged Black Gears suddenly throw into reverse. Their island piece begins moving back towards Infinity Mountain, returning them to Devimon.

Recognizing that they have bigger problems right now then their previous difference of opinion, Taichi and Yamato agree to focus on this. Taichi offers Yamato some reassurance of his main concern.

Taichi: I'm sure Takeru is doing his best. Yamato: Yeah. He is my little brother after all.

While in the dub, the boys ignore T.K. and instead just agree that they're very cool.

Tai: Hahaha! No stinkin' Gears are gonna stop us! Matt: Yeah! Together, we're gonna be allllright!

Glad to see you boys are gung-ho about this.

Then we close on the boys waiting at the shore with their Partners, as well as Yukidarumon and Mojamon. Waiting in silence for their island shard to return to Infinity Mountain, and for the battle ahead.

As it often does, the dub fills this space with dialogue.

Matt (V.O.): And now I know my little brother will be alright because he has Patamon to take care of him when I can't be there. And I think, as long as we can all trust each other, together it's a sure bet that we'll be able to fight and beat Devimon!

...he says "I know T.K. will be fine because he has Patamon" like that's a valuable lesson he learned over the course of this episode? But. Like. The only place he could possibly have learned that was when Gabumon took care of him, and that was before the big fight with Tai.

Probably should have just stuck with "He'll be fine because he's my brother," which isn't so much a lesson learned as it is Yamato trying to reassure himself because he has no other options.

Assessment: Yeah, like the Meramon episode, this is another one that the dub butchers. They screw up the core argument between Tai and Matt which serves as the episode's emotional core. Taichi wants to see what lies beyond the ocean and Yamato wants to go save their friends.

Taichi's kind of a dick in this one, but that's okay. He's a flawed character. They're all flawed characters. Taichi's defining characteristic is his courage; He takes bold action and assumes everything will work out for the best. In this bitter fight with Yamato, we see the dark side of those assumptions.

But we also see the dark side of Yamato's overprotectiveness towards Takeru and to an extent the rest of the group. The way he nearly kills himself because he can't bring himself to just be still even when he's dying of hypothermia. Not if Takeru's in danger. Yamato is the kind of person that those airplane "Put your own mask on and then help your child with theirs" notifications are for.

We get that in this episode for Matt. We see plenty of Matt's rough edges on display here. But the dub of this episode sands off a lot of Tai's, resulting in an asymmetrical conflict that leaves Matt looking bad - sympathetically so, but still the sole aggressor - and Tai looking good.

#digimon #digimon adventure #revisiting digimon #revisiting digimon adventure

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