#backstory snippet

[mysticstarlightduck]

Writing Share Tag!

I wanted to share a snippet of the backstory scene I'm working on for Jordan and Chase from Scrapyard Boys, so here we go! Be warned it is bleak.

PHANTOM Labs Holding Facility, 6 years ago

"Experiment 551 - you have been selected for the next batch of cybernetic enhancement procedures. Head to the operating room immediately."

Inside the cold, sterile cell they called a room, Chase felt his blood run cold. For a moment, the air seemed to still, as if a vacuum had sucked out all life around him into an empty void. He could hear his heart thundering in his chest, his pulse ringing behind his ears ominously like a ringing phone - he had always feared this day would come. And now… it had.

A part of him wanted to scream, to plead and cry on his knees, anything to get out of this nightmare, to keep the integrity of his body, to not be changed into one of the labs twisted creations. But he knew it wouldn't do them any good. The scientists wouldn't listen, they never did. His pleas would fall on deaf ears, as if he were mere cattle - which, for all effects and purposes, he already was. Chase chewed his lip, trying to breathe, but unable to. If he showed any sign of defiance, the scientists could turn their attention to Jordan, and choose his cousin instead of him for their sick games.

He couldn't allow that.

The scientist standing by the door watched him, unamused. "Experiment 551 I expect an answer. It is protocol." The woman prodded, her voice cold, calculating, completely detached from the fact that she was requesting a literal teenager to sign up for the demise of the person he was, of his spirit, right now. Or even to his possible demise, given the 50% death rates all those procedures had.

As if he had a choice in the matter to begin with.

Chase took in a shaky breath, his long, lanky fingers digging into the edge of the hard cot he was sitting down on. In the corner of the room, he could see Jordan, his twelve year old cousin, watching them with wide, horror-stricken eyes. The boy's usually pale face now looked whiter than the paint coating the walls around them, and he could tell Jordan wanted to interfere, to say something, but the words kept dying on his throat much like they did on his.

Not giving the kid a chance to intervene, nor the scientist the time to grow annoyed, Chase nodded, firmly, his eyes now glued onto the woman standing by the door, her face unchanged. "I-" His voice broke, and he had to try again, "Of course, Handler." He finally responded, words barely more than a defeated whisper.

The scientist acknowledged his response with a hum, straightening her lab suit and typing something onto a holographic screen floating in front of her like a clipboard, before it disappeared into thin air with a beep. That beep might as well have sounded like a guillotine's blade falling onto his neck, with the way it kicked the air out of his lungs, the finality of it all making Chase's skin crawl. "Good." She answered, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her waxy red lips, before it was swallowed by cold professionalism, "Then get moving."

Chase willed his legs to move, no matter how they felt like jello beneath him, or how the room seemed to spin around him like a twisted merry-go-round. With a trembling, faltering hitch in his breath, he managed to stand up, leaving the pseudo-safety of the hard cot and walking up to the scientist by the door as swiftly as he could. He knew the drill. So, without the woman needing to say a word, he extended his arms forward to be cuffed.

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@the-golden-comet, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams

@differentnighttale

@wyked-ao3 and OPEN TAG

Taglist for Scrapyard Boys below the cut 🧪

Scrapyard Boys Taglist (-/+): @ray-writes-n-shit, @sarandipitywrites, @lassiesandiego, @smol-feralgremlin, @kaylinalexanderbooks,

@diabolical-blue @oh-no-another-idea

@cakeinthevoid, @clairelsonao3,

@thepeculiarbird

@the-golden-comet, @urnumber1star, @ominous-feychild, @anyablackwood, @amaiguri, @lyutenw @finickyfelix

@thecomfywriter, @the-letterbox-archives, @differentnighttale @wyked-ao3

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[velvserum]

[chaotic-orphan]

Helo helo, just asking...r u planning to update heroic betrayal? 👁👁 NO RUSH THOUGH IT'S JUST REALLY GOOD AND I CAN'T WAIT SJSJHSHSH

GOOD DAY!!

Heroic Betrayal (X)

Read part one // Continued from here

This part is dedicated to everyone who commented under the last part, that made me cackle like a maniac, and everyone who asked for a continuation of this series that warmed my heart— I’m so sorry it took so long, and I hope you enjoy <3

*~*~*~*~*

The concrete cut into her cheeks like a sharp edge, her shoulders hitting the walls and her feet tumbling over her head until she crashed and bashed every point in her body on the way down. She ended up on her stomach, blood dripping from the side of her head. She tried to push herself up, but a hand grabbed the back of her neck and dragged her stumbling to her feet.

She felt like she was going to be sick, stuck in a twister of Supervillain’s strong sharp movements that she couldn’t anticipate with her pounding headache raging.

“Now, here we are,” Supervillain said and he shoved Hero forward again. Hero tripped over her feet, her ankle rolling as they tried to stop her momentum in vain. An edge of something metal caught her around the hips and she fell forward, her torso folding with an oomph. A click and the room flooded with light. Hero squeezed her eyes shut, the light burning compared to the pitch black it was not a moment ago.

Hero squinted taking a quick survey of the room, searching for an escape, but no, no, no, no. There would be escape from this room that was just a concrete square of torture devices. Hero’s heart jumped into her throat as she glanced down at the metal bench below her hands. It was a table. A surgical table. Her stomach bottomed out as she gasped involuntary, stepping back and right into a solid chest.

Her blood ran cold and she couldn’t stop the tremors of fear tearing through her. Two strong hands settled on her shoulders and she flinched despite herself, her entire body trembling, her eyes and brain disoriented from the fall and the lack of oxygen and her fucking pounding headache. And she was really starting to wish she didn’t open her mouth.

Hero let out a sharp breath, a claw of panic grabbing at her chest as her eyes scanned the room searching for a window or anything that would tell her she wasn’t underground right now. She couldn’t… couldn’t breathe, oh fuck, there were no windows, there was a window in the cells, she gasped, pushing back against the chest shaking her head.

“Oh that’s right,” Supervillain cooed behind her, his voice painted with sick delight as his fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Villain told me you were claustrophobic. Does being underground trigger it, Hero?”

Hero drove her elbow back wildly hitting her mark, but Supervillain didn’t flinch or even grunt. Instead he grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm up and around her back, the other going to the back of her neck and slammed her down against the table.

“You really have no manners, Hero, do you know that?”

“F—fff— fuck you,” she said between fretful breaths. Every action, every movement was lessening and lessening, she only had a little bit of oxygen left in her lungs that was stuttering out. The walls pulsing closer, shrinking and she squeezed her eyes shut. At least the metal of the table was cool under her cheek.

Supervillain pushed her wrist further up her back until Hero was crying out, trying to kick back at Supervillain to get him to stop but the lack of oxygen in her lungs was dizzying as she scrambled. Her brain was fried, and she couldn’t remember any of her combat training as panic seized her throat.

She splayed her fingers, mind reaching, the invisible pull of her blades familiar as they rushed back to her hands. If she could just— two clangs against the door upstairs and Supervillain straightened, letting up some pressure. Hero pulled and pulled, trying to rip the daggers through the obstacle but Supervillain grabbed her splayed fingers and pushed them back down into a fist, smothering her connection to her daggers.

“No!” Hero wailed, struggling furiously under him, kicking back, trying to do anything, get anywhere away away away away from the danger, be able to breathe again properly. Her tears hit the metal table with wet, metallic drops, like a leaky tap dripping into the sink.

“What did I tell you about using your powers, Hero, hmm?”

“Let go of me, you fucking psychopath!” Hero cried, anger flooding her veins. With Supervillain’s hand off her neck, Hero threw herself back with a roar of adrenaline mixed with fury. Supervillain’s grip tightened on her wrist, about to push it up but Hero wedged a knee up between the table and shoved until the pair went stumbling.

Hero slipped free of Supervillain’s hold in his stunned state, but he recovered quickly, grabbing at her hoodie but Hero was too quick, and she was ascending the stairs, her breaths getting heavier but her breathing becoming even the closer she got to the surface.

She got to the door and grabbed the handle and shoved it open.

Only.

It didn’t open.

Hero stared. No. No. No, no, no, nonononono!

NO!

Hero slammed an open palm on the metal, screaming. “FLYNN! FLYNN I’M SORRY PLEASE! Please!”

Footsteps on the staircase. Hero slid down the door, banging weakly against it and crying out for Flynn to save her as Supervillain advanced again.

“Did you really think I’d leave a handle on the way out of this room, Hero?”

Hero swallowed the lump in her throat, focusing all her energy into the glare she shot at him, hoping he would melt right on the spot. Which he didn’t.

“You can come down and your punishment will be less severe than if I have to drag you down.”

“Fuck you,” she said, her voice cracking halfway through. She splayed her fingers again and wished, hoped, prayed that somehow they would get through the thick metal door she was trapped behind.

Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! What was she going to do? There was only one option for her right now and that was down, down into a tight, underground nightmare that was threatening to kill her. She needed— she needed to be able to breathe to think clearly, but even thinking was difficult at the thought of being dragged back down to Supervillain’s torture chamber.

Supervillain sighed, a few steps away from her. “Okay, Hero. Have it your way.”

He reached down and grabbed her ankle and turned to walk down the stairs. Hero kicked at him, landing a few solid ones on his arm and back before he was dragging her down and Hero’s head smacked off the concrete steps. She didn’t even have time to scream or groan or whine, small gasps at every bounce fogged her vision until she was back on solid ground.

Supervillain appeared above her, grabbing her, one arm under her shoulders, the other her knees as he bent over and scooped her up. She protested weakly, her brain rattled and her reaction time non-existent. Supervillain placed her on something cool under her skin, but she could feel something wet on the back of her head.

She reached a hand up to find the source of the wetness, but Supervillain grabbed her wrist before she could investigate and strapped it down to table in leather. He pulled the cuff tight around Hero’s wrist, so tight she couldn’t move it left or right, just up and down. She whined when he took her other wrist and restrained it the same way by her side. Then he moved onto her ankles and soon Hero couldn’t move an inch, her eyes glazed over and staring blankly above her.

Supervillain grabbed Hero’s cheek, appearing in her scope of vision, but there was two of him now, a shadow or a clone. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Hmph, you spoiled some of my fun, Hero. I was hoping to teach you this lesson to remember, but, oh well. I guess I’ll just have to leave a reminder for you when you’re more conscious, won’t I? Something you can’t ignore.”

Hero blinked at him, the entire world moved like cotton and she was completely out of it, Supervillain’s words echoing around her head. On loop over and over again, but still seemingly so far away.

“Lemme go,” she pleaded weakly, pulling at her restraints.

Supervillain smiled a wicked smile down at her. “I’m thinking something like a three strike system, Hero. Like tally marks or something to that effect. Something easy to understand, strike one was your insolence at dinner which will not be tolerated. What to do,” Supervillain mused stepped away from the metal table and out of sight.

Hero pulled against her restraints, trying to loosen them as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Flynn… she thought hopelessly. Please, please, rescue me. Please.

Supervillain returned to the table, a hunting knife in hand. “Wait, no, please.” Hero didn’t even know what she was protesting, but the words fell from her mouth anyways as Supervillain grabbed her right hand.

“Three strikes, Hero. While I know I could cuff you in power dampeners and leave you down here to hyperventilate all night I think this will be far more effective.”

“Tell me Hero,” Supervillain began as he started undoing the cuff of her right wrist. “Is it all knives you can summon with your ability?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Any will do.”

“Fascinating. And do they all sharpen your senses when you feel them in your hand?” Hero glared at him as he free her wrist and turned it so the back of her hand was positioned above the metal table. Hero didn’t bother asking him how he knew that, because she knew the answer he would be all too happy to supply. The reason Supervillain knew everything about her; Flynn told me.

“It depends on the knife,” Hero answered, the pained fog of her mind ebbing and flowing allowing some coherent thoughts to pass through her brain. “None are as good as my blades, but that’s because I made them myself.”

“I will never cease to be awed by adepts and their crafts,” Supervillain said fondly, tracing the tip of the hunting knife up Hero’s elbow and forearm before pinching it down slightly on Hero’s wrist. Hero didn’t dare struggle or move, afraid if she did the knife would slip and she would be dead. “But now that you’re more conscious, I’ll repeat your punishment.”

“We will do a three strike system, this is strike one. With every strike I will leave a wound on you, a scar that will remind you not to make another mistake again, okay?”

Hero shivered at how easy he explained his punishment system for her, as if he was telling her that her car needed an service or one day it would just stop. “Three strikes, and I will drag you along to watch Sidekick being murdered and you’ll know it was all your fault. Okay?”

“You’re a fucking—”

“Wonderful.”

In one quick movement, Supervillain slid Hero’s right hand over the rim of the table and plunged the hunting knife in all the way through her palm. A howling, banshee’s scream tore through Hero’s throat as she bucked against her restraints, howling and screaming: please, please, stop! Stop!

Tears and snot clogged her senses as she shook her head, her arm violently trembling against the trauma and Supervillain’s tight hold. Hero splayed her fingers on her left hand, trying to summon the knife out of her hand, but Supervillain’s grip was too strong, or Hero’s pull was too weak, and he twisted the knife in her hand instead, pulling more shrieking screams of pain from Hero.

“There, now. The first two strikes will be in your palms, Hero. To remind you that even if you try to fight back, with your knives or your words or otherwise, you,” he said, stressing the final words, “will fail.”

Hero sobbed as her fingers tried to curl around the blade but could barely move more than a flinch in any direction. Hero wouldn’t be able to summon her blade for this hand for a while, until the wound healed and even then? Would she get physio for the muscles and tendons Supervillain just cut through with a terrifying amount of strength?

Supervillain put a hand on Hero’s hair, brushing the strands from her face like a parent would a child who’s eating an ice cream and threatening to get their hair stuck in it, chiding but fond.

“This doesn’t have to happen again, Hero. We can be civil with each other. You and Flynn, I know you have a special connection. A bond. You can have a nice life here, free from the burdens of being a hero in this city, of always fighting uphill battles hmm? Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Hero was shivering, staring up at Supervillain and she knew she probably looked sickly pale and ashen as she felt the blood harden around the blade in her palm, dripping down to the floor on the other side. She knew it would leave a scar, the reminder that Supervillain wanted her to know in her gut and it made her sick.

“So Hero,” Supervillain beamed, smiling down at her. “Will you behave?”

Hero’s bottom lip trembled as she nodded, warm tears flooding her cheeks as she sniffled. Supervillain’s smile turned softer, comforting, like a concerned parent. “Use your words, Hero.”

Hero sniffed. “Y-yes,” she croaked.

“Yes, what?”

Hero sucked in a breath. “I’ll… I’ll behave.”

Supervillain smiled. “Good. Good. Excellent. Now, let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?”

Supervillain removed her restraints and sat her up on the metal table, and said he’d be a minute getting the things he needed around the room.

Hero sat upright shaking violently and trying to hold her hand steady by supporting it with her free hand at the wrist. She stared blankly ahead, both staring at nothing and staring resolutely at one white painted brick, where the groove was a faded, paler white, less glaring at her while Supervillain gathered supplies.

Before too long Supervillain was in front of her, setting bandages and gauze and rubbing alcohol down on the tray beside the bed. Along with other stuff Hero wouldn’t think was necessary like a ruler and Q-tips and other supplies. He was wearing surgical gloves as well, and despite herself Hero was thinking about what he did for a living.

“Are you a doctor?” She asked, her voice hollow.

Supervillain smiled a secretive smile at the question, as if he just found her out. “Ah. You’ve noticed, have you?”

Every once in a while Hero forgot that Supervillain was her nemesis of the last year, the Moriarty to her Sherlock Holmes, the Joker to her batman, although really more like the Riddler with how elusive he was. When she considered Supervillain’s job back before she knew him, she suspected it would be something as cerebral, like a lawyer, or a judge, or a doctor. She didn’t feel good that she was right.

“Yes, I’ve been a doctor since medschool. Long hours, overworked conditions, but I won’t bore you with hospital tales, snd luckily for you I happen to be an acute trauma surgeon,” he told her, smiling up at her through his lashes. “So your hand won’t have too much lasting damage. I didn’t hit any of the important muscles or tendons.”

Hero gasped, which sounded more like a bewildered laugh, “thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She hissed as Supervillain pressed down on the wound. He smiled. “Sorry, I just have to make sure I didn’t hit anything important. Okay, yes.”

He took a Q-tip from the table and said, “okay, Hero. I need you to remain as still as possible while I do this. Try not to move too suddenly.”

Hero let out a sharp gasp of pain aa Sueprvillain inserted the Q-tip through Hero’s wound until it almost poked out the other side. “You’re doing great Hero.”

But she wasn’t. She was going to be sick as he pulled it out and she saw the blood. The smell had never annoyed her before, but now the metallic kiss hung on the air like a factory that had to suddenly cease operations, a promise of something to come.

He set the Q-tip on the table and measured the blood stain against the ruler. Hero stared down at it, her vision blurring slightly as her mind went woozy and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Supervillain was standing over her hands on her shoulders sitting her back up again. Hero blinked, bile climbing up her throat.

“Here,” Supervillain said and shoved a bar of chocolate into Hero’s hand, the wrapper already opened. Hero blinked at it dumbly, and Supervillain gently guided it to her mouth. Hero took a small bite of the sweet, velvet chocolate. “You fainted. You’re okay. It’s normal with this kind of injury, but I would like you conscious while I tend to it.”

Hero blinked at him and when he was certain she wasn’t going to faint again he released her shoulders and Hero remained upright.

“If you’re a doctor…” Hero said, her head spinning, but she was determined to get this out of her head. “Didn’t you take an oath to do no harm?”

“Ah,” Supervillain smiled. “Yes. The hippocratic oath. I did.”

“Then how can you justify this?” Hero asked, nodding to her hand. Supervillain was silent for a moment, dabbing at the bleeding of the wound, staunching the blood and cleaning around it. His movements were so methodical, so clean and purposeful, Hero found their eyes drawn to it as she took another bite of chocolate.

“Where I stabbed you, Hero, is a very delicate place to be stabbed. There is a flurry of activity in the centre of your palm.” Supervillain squeezed just below the wound and Hero squirmed with a groan. “Here is your carpal ligament that controls the movement of your thumb, index and middle finger.”

He squeezed Hero’s thumb and said: “and here are all the muscles for full use of your thumb. If I went too far to the right I could risk damaging the ligaments that connect to your other two fingers, or hitting a clump of nerves.”

Supervillain dropped Hero’s hand and held up his own, pinching the spot the dagger went through Hero’s palm. “Here, there is a hole in your hand. No bone, no muscle, no nerves or ligaments. Minimal damage and less time for recovery. No need for more than standard hand physio and six weeks recovery at most.”

Supervillain smiled at Hero. “The Hippocratic Oath is an oath all doctors must take to do no harm. However, all doctors must accept that in order to make something better, there must first be pain. To treat the sick they must make the sick endure the pain, and fight infection, the body must fight.”

“Your defiance, in the long run, will make you worse than if I curb it now. So I am doing no harm, by ensuring that you quit fighting me unnecessarily. The same way I am trying to stop this city from running straight to ruin.”

“I must do no harm,” his smile was warm, “as a doctor. But as a civilian I can’t stand by and watch this city burn. Does that answer your question?”

Hero stared. Then shrugged with their good shoulder. “Not really, but I’m kinda woozy from blood loss right now.”

Supervillain laughed. “Mmm, let’s do something about it.”

Supervillain worked fast, careful to only press too hard when Hero gave him a snarky reply, and later on she would wonder how she got so comfortable with the man bandaging her up being the same man that stabbed her in the first place. She would attribute it to blood loss and Supervillain would bandage her head and help her up the stairs he threw her down before, and when they got into the kitchen he gave her painkillers and water.

Flynn rushed through the doors, his heart racing when he saw Hero. Her head bandaged and her hand bound so tight and thick that Hero couldn’t close her fingers even if she wanted to.

“H-Hero?” He asked, breathless. Hero smiled at him when he came in and waved. Flynn was by her side in a second, while Supervillain stopped chatting to her about the reason they chose to replace the black and white tiles for the floor in the kitchen. “Are you okay? Hero, oh—”

“She’s fine,” Supervillain said lightly. “We’ve cleared the air, haven’t we Hero?”

Hero nodded, smiling at Flynn. Something she’d attribute to her concussion later because everything was just a little too smiley, a little too comfortable, a little too easy, and she wasn’t entirely convinced that Supervillain didn’t give her the floating, high end painkillers.

“I’m fine.”

“I heard the screaming,” Flynn said, his hands going to Hero’s cheeks, checking her over and looking for any sign that she was lying to him. Other than her too large pupils she seemed okay. “I— your daggers— you—”

Hero grabbed Flynn’s hand with her unbandaged one and interlaced their fingers. “I’m okay. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Tears brimmed on top of Flynn’s bottom eyelids as he looked at Hero, his Hero, acting so unlike herself. So compliant and soft. It made him ill, the fact that he was the reason Hero was injured in the first place. That she was being subjected to the whims of his family.

God, he didn’t think Dad would do this…

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hero asked with wide eyes.

Flynn ran a thumb over her bruised cheek, his touch featherlight. “Of course. Will you give out to me tomorrow about it?”

She shrugged happily. “Probably.”

Flynn laughed, and leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’d love to.”

Flynn helped her stand, and wrapped his fingers around hers keeping her close. “Be sure she doesn’t sleep for the next hour or two.”

“We can watch a movie!” Hero said, her voice light and chirpy, so like it was when she’d get excited before that it made Flynn’s heart ache.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat as he guided her out of the kitchen, away from his father and up the stairs to her room, terrified that if he dropped her hand for even a second he would lose her forever. “We can watch a movie.”

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call: (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @xenlust @books-are-everything @micechomper @shywhumpauthor @aarika-merrill @0eggdealer @watermelonrandom @tippytappytyping @swift-perseides @gloriousqueen101 @isnortkoolaidpowderteehee @jumpywhumpywriter @bitter-space @lumpofsand

@xxgalgurlxx @silentpotat0 @ladygwennn @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog

[smilingcrittersuniversityau]

Have some Charlie lore folks

[beastwhimsy]

I'm completely enamored with this wizard who is in like 5 episodes total and gets barely any lines and I have found THREE other artists who have ever drawn fanart of him. anyway I have decided that I will rectify this injustice by getting even more unwell about them. here he is I love you life giving magus

they're the kind of wizard to say "wonderful!! ^_^ 🌼🌷💞" and "HOT DOG!!!!!!!!‼️💥🤯" in the same 10 seconds <- he has done this canonically

ID in alt, please consider reblogging thank you I love you

they're so silly I love you gnc wizard teacher who enjoys road trips and making yummy treats with their friends

[prince-liest]

Vox today: the guy who's probably fucking his secretary

Vox alive: the secretary that was getting fucked

[sodamnbored]

Did they ever actually specify who named Jason in any of the books? I can’t remember, but I thought it was just a sort of vague mention of why he was named Jason, as opposed to a concrete “Dad named you because / Mom named you because” kind of explanation?

So now I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be super cute and bolster the only ever implied sibling bonding if it was Thalia that had chosen his name?

Like, loads of older siblings get the opportunity to weigh in on picking baby names for younger siblings anyway. And if we can presume that Thalia had a similar situation to Annabeth in that her mortal parent was fully aware of their godly hookup and was very open about that with their kid and Beryl told Thalia lots of stories about the mythology, or like Piper she got interested in the stories and dug around on her own.

Then Thalia is like, what, seven or so years older than Jason? Totally old enough to have ideas and comprehend at least simple story ideas, but still young enough to work off the easy little kid logic to solve problems.

So she’d have been old enough to notice Beryl beginning to get anxious, beginning to get a little paranoid. She’d hear her mom talking about them being in danger, especially her baby brother to be, and all because Juno was mad at her brother before he’d even arrived.

And she could be reading stories and suddenly the answer presents itself and it’s so simple. And she asks to call the baby Jason because Juno liked and protected the original Jason from the Argonauts story. Therefore little kid logic demands that Juno likes Jason, so if they make her brother Jason, Juno won’t be mad at him anymore when he arrives and will like him too. Problem solved.

It would’ve been the very first time she ever protected her baby brother and she probably didn’t even know how much it had protected him from an angry god. And he hadn’t even been born yet.

[inafieldofdaisies]

Moodboard Monday | Tagged by @neonshrike

WIP: In Hope of Tomorrow / [Redacted Baby Boy]

“Get up.” “You're not here.”, was all he could muster as he tried to ignore her lurking in his peripheral. On most days he welcomed her presence, but not on that one. Not when he couldn't even keep track how long he had been underground anymore. Not when the Herald had taken great pleasure in rubbing that fact in. “It doesn't matter. Get up.”, she moved over to him soundlessly, a determined look on her face, “You promised. You promised you will live. You promised you will make him pay.”

Tagging, @socially-awkward-skeleton @strangefable @lilywatt @imogenkol

@killyourrdarlingss @katsigian @derelictheretic @carlosoliveiraa @voidika

@aceghosts @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @trench-rot

@theelderhazelnut @raresvtm @cassietrn @g0dspeeed @direwombat

@purplehairsecretlair @la-grosse-patate @elligatorrex @mkdecimation @simplegenius042

@simonxriley @cloudofbutterflies92 @shellibisshe and anyone that would like to do the tag 🤍

[forwhump]

a/n; happy new year !!!!!!!!!!!!!! have a little something nobody asked for <3 a little bit of background a little bit of lore and a whole lot of fun let’s gooooooooooooo 😚

tw/cw: captivity, medical torture, kidnapping, human experiments, mutilation, disfigurement, transphobia, misgendering, sexual violence, rape/noncon, racism

living weapon whumpee, outside pov

The most expensive weapon in military history had a budget that was undisclosed. Billions, maybe trillions of taxpayer dollars had funded all the greatest living minds across the world, scientists and surgeons and war heroes alike.

Operation Archangel. They’d nicknamed it Operation Widowmaker. The goal of the operation was to craft the perfect weapon. It was simple — every weapon had a fault. All of the money and carnage in the world at their disposal, and still, no weapon was perfect. Even the very best gun needed to be reloaded. 

The most expensive operation in military history was as simple as it was complicated — billions of dollars to fund the creation of the perfect weapon. It wouldn’t need to be reloaded. It wouldn’t need to stop. It would kill when they tell it to kill and it would only stop when they decided it was done. The perfect weapon was three things; it was pitiless, it was obedient, and it was relentless. 

Its name had been Silas Park, and it was only nineteen when they had gotten their hands on it. 

Clip can still remember, surprisingly vivid, how cold that room had been. He’d been standing at Grieve’s left, Spider at his right. Grieve was sitting between them, at a table in a cold room tucked away in the lowest level of the prison. Overhead, one of the lights flickered, humming loudly with the strain. There were two requirements for the weapon — he had to be violent, and he had to be somebody nobody would miss. 

They’d narrowed down the prospects, and the General, Grieve, had wanted to meet with them himself. 

It was going to be Park from the second he had been escorted into that room to meet them. It was obvious. 

He was a big kid. Park was tall in a way that was imposing, almost intimidating. He had to duck his head to fit through the doorway, forced down by the prison guards leading him in, and when he lifted it, he grinned at them. He had a wide, boyish smile, handsome and charming, dimples carving his face on both sides. Arrogant. From the corner of his eye, Clip had seen something twitch in the side of Grieve’s face and he knew that he knew it then, too. This kid was their weapon. 

The guards sat Park at the table across from Grieve. They shackled his hands to the surface and his ankles to the concrete beneath. A guard stood just inside the door, while the rest filtered out to wait behind the safety of the two way mirrors. The entire time, Park grinned at them. 

Park was actually kind of a crapshoot and it was hard to believe that it was going to be him. Clip had been kind of skeptical when his mugshot had come across the table — they were looking at some truly awful men, deplorable criminals, the worst of the worst, and some random Asian kid doing a couple years? 

He had a record of violence going back as young as thirteen, but a lot of it had been excused. Included, with his mugshot and his criminal record, were a handful of newspaper clippings where he was lauded, in fact, for his violence. Some considered it vigilantism, it seems. This last time, over the age of majority, he was tried as an adult for an assault on a twenty five year old tattoo artist that had put him in the hospital on life support and with permanent brain damage; it was Park’s brother in law, and he’d beaten his pregnant sister so badly she’d miscarried at twenty eight weeks. 

There had been a huge outcry for Park not to do any time; he was given three years because he got on the stand and openly admitted to trying to kill him. He was violent. It didn’t seem like he maintained a lot of impulse control. There was a likelihood he would reoffend.

However, he had family. There were people that would miss him. According to the records the prison had given them, there were people that would visit, and they would visit often. He had four sisters, and they each came to see him, one notably more often than the rest, almost every second day; the sister from the incident, if Clip has to guess. His parents came to see him every Sunday. 

His parents, fortunately, were both immigrants, and immigrants, fortunately, were easy to incentivize, especially with roots as deep as grandchildren. The threat, however, the surveillance, would need to be constant, and the buyout, substantial; it added quite a chunk to the weapons budget. Clip hadn’t been able to imagine that being worth it for some random kid. 

He could understand now. Whoever had put his mugshot in that pile must’ve already met him, because they must’ve known. It was something in the way he held his shoulders, in the way he looked at them, in the way he sat, cocky, confident, smug, but something else, too. Something a little more dangerous. He was the biggest person in that room. 

With a grin and a lift of his eyebrows, he’d said, “what can I do for you, gentlemen?” 

On account of the vigilantism — and phenomenal lawyers, and, probably, if Vein had to guess, being young and handsome — Park only got a few years, but realistically, he should’ve done more. A lot more. It wasn’t so much that he had tried to kill his brother in law but the messy, cruel way he had done it. It was the crime that had gotten his mugshot thrown in with all the others. No person should ever have to experience the level of violence this kid had inflicted. He was fucked up. And he’d never been sorry. Vocally, he’d never been sorry. 

It was obvious in the way he had looked across the table at them, young and arrogant and amused. He was a constant danger to the people around him. He was going to be the perfect weapon. 

A generous donation to the prison and the deportation of Park’s parents and his fate was sealed. 

He’d serve them for years, but his life ended that day, at nineteen. 

Weaver and Carver were names everybody knew, high and low, even outside the reaches of surgeons and medical journals. Pioneers, some called them. Unconventional. 

Really, they were mad. Their surgeries and their treatments, all experimental. Surgical and biological engineering, they called it. 

Really, they were human experiments. 

Thread had been flattered when he had gotten the call at the hospital, when he’d been pulled from his residency and hand selected to work under renowned Carver and Weaver at a highly classified, government funded medical program. They didn’t tell him what to expect. 

His name had been Park once. They call him Park still, but there isn’t a lot of Park left. He’d been a big kid when they brought him in, but he hadn’t been big enough, not as big as they needed him to be. The first line of offence, for any predator, is fear — they needed him to be fearsome. They needed a weapon that wouldn’t only kill the enemy, but made sure they died scared. 

There wasn’t a bit of him left untouched. Bone was transplanted, plated, organs replaced, flesh grafted. He’d woken on the surgical table as the scalpel had split the sensitive skin of his forehead, just beneath the line of his hair. He’d been shivering so hard his teeth had rattled against each other, his breath coming in short, wet pants. 

His brain was next. They needed him violent, but they needed him obedient. Pliant. 

“What,” he manages, and exhales sharply, trying to speak through clenched, rattling teeth. “What did you do to me?” 

Above him, Weaver makes a trilling sort of sound, the kind that passes as laughter. “At ease, Park,” he says. “You won’t remember any of this. We’ll make sure of it.”

Park was a fighter. 

He woke during surgery, and he woke with a strength they had just given to him. Three nurses died at his bedside before the soldiers were able to restrain him and he was sedated again. 

The first three lives he took in the district were before he was even off the table. 

They would be far from the last. 

Beneath the neon glow of the surgical lights, what was left of Silas Park sat up on the surgical table. 

A lot of him was still in there, was the foundation for what they’d created; it was impossible to tell by looking at him. If Thread hadn’t seen the construction, if he hadn’t had a hand in sewing him together, piece by piece, he imagined looking at him now, coming back to life, would make him retch. He was horrific. There wasn’t a kinder way to say or describe it, that’s as cut and dry as Thread could have been — Park was horrific. A grotesque patchwork of grafted flesh, of military grade technology, and the wounds were still fresh, the staples still raised. The jigsaw lines of his flesh, pulled tight and stitched together over the bulk of him, all looked strained and sore. It looked like it hurt. 

Park looked around the room at them, and he looked at them vacantly. 

“Can you tell us your name?” Weaver had asked, and he couldn’t. Weaver’s eyes had crinkled above his surgical mask. He always had very animated eyes — a byproduct, Thread wondered, of always wearing a mask. “Excellent,” he said. 

Park was kept in seclusion until a team had been chosen for him. 

He was shaping up to be a phenomenal weapon, to be exactly what they needed him to be. Every field test, he passed with flying colours. He could take a bullet and it wouldn’t slow him down. 

He was perfect. 

John Darren Grace was a formerly decorated captain and strategist, living at home after active duty with his wife and young children. He’d been bored, and when Operation Archangel had beckoned him out of retirement, he’d gone without much of a fight. 

John was Darren to anybody he cared about enough to tell his name, and Point to the men he worked with. He’d always been Point because of his cane, his precious Little Debbie. It was hooked on one end, scythe like, barbed on the other. He’d been known to do a lot of damage with the point of that cane. 

It was strapped to his back when he descended into the darkness of the district for the first time. 

Darren was to oversee the unit where the weapon and its team were being held. A branch of Operation Archangel were the super soldiers — an entire, unstoppable battalion to work alongside the weapon. Being the first trial, they didn’t risk any working men. They went for the reserves. 

Darren was assigned, specifically, to the select few chosen to work directly with the weapon, directly under him. The team was selected without Darren’s approval, or his knowing why. His first job was to track them down and bring them in, any means necessary. No witnesses. 

He had a lot of fun with this first job. 

Point found the girl in Texas. 

They’d gone down in search of her brother, Robin. He’d done three tours during his time, but Point couldn’t say what he’d done during those tours that had warranted him being assigned to the Freak Weapon Team. Frankly, he didn’t read any of the information he’d been given on any of the assets. He looked at the photograph and their general vicinity and went sport hunting. 

Robin was wandering the streets of Texas somewhere. He was last seen near Dallas. He was blonde. 

They found him, with ease they found him, because Point always found them. But with him, he found the girl. 

She was just a little thing, kneeling on the floor next to Robin, who didn’t have a lot of his teeth left and looked like he’d definitely seen better days. Point had no sympathy for the ones that fell off, he never had — if he wasn’t strong enough to be a soldier, he never should’ve enlisted. If he couldn’t handle it, he should never have wasted their time. 

Except it wasn’t a waste, because he had a girl with him. She must’ve been his sister — they had the same shock of white hair. Only hers was long, almost impossibly, pulled into a braid that looked soft and made her look a bit like a schoolgirl. She looked young — she could’ve been eighteen. It made Point angle his head. He’d always been very imaginative. A creative type, his wife always told him. Kind of a visionary. And he’d envisioned that little girl in a little pleated skirt, bent over the desk in his office back at the district, and the course of her life changed forever. 

“You’ve got a girl,” he’d purred. 

She’d looked at him, and she was probably trying to look indignant, but if she managed it went over Point’s head. She was very pouty, that’s all he noticed. Cartoon princess sort of mouth. 

He’d always wanted a pet. 

As the door grinded open, Bleak looked up, eyebrows lifting slowly as he watched Point and his extraction team filter back into the barracks. Everybody seemed to be present and accounted for, with the addition of the blonde slung over Point’s shoulder. A girl. Completely naked and long legged, her hair a white sheet at Point’s back. 

“What the hell?” He said. 

Point flashed him a grin as he passed his bunk. He’d always had a weird sort of grin, Bleak thought — didn’t reach his eyes. But, generous, he said, “gonna have to hurry and get in line if you want a turn with her.” 

“What?” Bleak said. “Are you serious?” 

“‘Course,” Point agreed, not breaking stride. “Wouldn’t be right if I didn’t share.” 

Bleak cracked a grin. She was limp over Point’s shoulder, unconscious. He thought, poor thing has no idea what she’s in for. 

None of them did, turns out. 

The walk back to the barracks was a solemn one. Over Point’s shoulder, the girl cried the whole way, but she was crying so hard she wasn’t making any noise, just these pathetic, hitching things. On a very shallow, base level, they made Vineyard kinda hard; they sounded a lot like the sounds she made when he was inside her. On a deeper level, if he thought about it too hard, he knew he would finally lose the steadily loosening grip he had on his composure — he would lose his fuckin’ mind. What does she have to be crying about? 

The walk back to the barracks was a solemn one. They each left bloody footprints behind them, uniforms soaked through by what little had been left of the soldiers not fortunate enough to make it out of that unit with them. About half of them hadn’t. The dog had killed so many of them. 

The dog had slaughtered so many of them. 

It was getting out of control, that thing. It was getting too strong — too sentient. It was becoming too aware. 

It was never supposed to think all that much for itself, that was the thing. It was supposed to bite and kill and do whatever vicious attack dogs do, the genetically engineered weapon, but that was it. It was supposed to turn off and back on again. They were supposed to say attack and it was supposed to do just that. It wasn’t really supposed to think. It wasn’t supposed to be able to form attachments. 

But that fuckin’ girl. It was fault, with her soft little noises and her wet little cunt. She was trouble. Vineyard had called it from the very first time he had laid eyes on her. Point never should’ve brought her here. 

It wasn’t his fault, though, not really, not entirely. The girl was to blame. The dog was dumb — it was simple. It had been modified that way. The girl had found a way to take advantage of that — she was manipulating it. And they had made it so easy for her; they took this pretty, pathetic thing, and thrown it in a cage with a monster that hadn’t been around a pretty girl since even before they had gotten their hands on it. 

Point never should’ve brought her here. 

For a long time, the unit was as close to silent as it had ever been. Not entirely silent, not ever — Bleak didn’t think this place was capable of that. There was always some sort of chaos. The girl still cried, Point made these snarling, animal sort of sounds, and her body was making these wet noises that Bleak was sure would be enticing to him any other time. 

But he had the girl face down, bent over the corpse of the dog, so freshly dead it was still bleeding. When it had died, it had been messy. There had been so much blood. Point had used leaking fistfuls of it as lube, right from the cavity of the dog’s opened throat, leaving shimmering handprints on her bare skin as he had fucked her and that thing had taken its last, gurgling breaths beneath them. Bleak had never heard anybody cry like that girl was crying. 

Crowded close together on the other side of the common room, the assets had gotten really quiet, the junkie and the brown guy and the dyke. They usually wore grey — that day, it was shades of rust and ruby, splattered with blood and chunks of the dog. 

Bleak stood with his men, and he watched just as silently. He watched as the dog got cold and he watched the way the girl kept one of her small hands twisted in his bloody sweatshirt the whole time. It was hard to feel bad for her, she made it hard to feel bad for her, but it wasn’t quite sitting right, not with Bleak and not with any of the rest of them, if the tense, curdling silence was any indication. 

There was a hysteria to Point, a frantic sort of mania, a frenzied sort of cruelty. Something wasn’t right, but nobody stopped him. The girl begged for help, and none of them helped her. Silently, they watched. 

They should’ve known something was wrong when Point first cracked that girl in half in the basement, and they should’ve stopped him then, as he fucked her on top of the body of her dog.

But they didn’t.

Bleak tilted his head back to look up, up, up at the dog, standing tall so many feet above him. 

The precious weapon. The greatest achievement in the history of military weaponry. Park. 

He’d only been a kid when he got here. Looking up at him, Bleak could remember that kid but he couldn’t see that there was anything left of him in there anyway. Park stood tall above him, above where he was slumped against the concrete wall, both of kneecaps crushed. Park’s hands were bigger, probably, than dinner plates, and he had a strength that had grown more than they had anticipated, more than it was ever supposed to. Every day, he was getting more dangerous. Every day, he was getting harder to control. 

Head angled down towards Bleak, his hair was hanging in his face, long and inky, shadowing his scarred face. When he grinned, it was a flash of teeth from the shadows and Bleak had never felt the way that made him feel before, not once in his life. 

“I didn’t touch her,” he said, and his voice was coming out all shaky, trapped behind his chattering teeth. His legs hurt so bad — he didn’t think he’d ever been in so much pain before.

Park watched him closely. Fuck, he was big. “Yeah,” he said, and his voice was just as awful as the rest of him, a rumble so low it was almost distorted. “You did.” 

Bleak shook his head against the wall, trying to take a full breath in. Failing. “I didn’t,” he said. “I swear.” 

Slowly, Park angled his head. “You can keep lying,” he said. “You’re gonna die anyway.” 

“Please,” Bleak tried softly. He was thinking about his girlfriend — his fiancée. They were supposed to get married next year. What was going to be left of him to send home to her? 

“Wren begged,” Park said, and his voice had gone flat. Bleak was going to die. “Didn’t he?” 

Bleak didn’t mean to flinch, but he did. Park flashed his teeth at him again and it was unkind. 

Bleak’s last words were a series of please and stop and oh, god. 

Park was picking chunks of Bleak from his teeth and from under his fingernails for days. 

Standing in the gallery, Thread watches closely as the bonesaw cracks into the weapon’s skull once again. 

Weaver and Carver weren’t ready to give up on him yet, but he had officially been declared a hazard. He was no longer within their control. The soldiers had lost so many — Point was down over half his men, and Thread had doubts that any of them had died quickly. The weapon was made to hurt, to inflict suffering, but it was always supposed to be at their behest. He was supposed to be their strongest weapon, but he was never supposed to be stronger than them. He was out of control. 

This was a Hail Mary before he was deemed defective and they had him put down. The girl was to be removed from the unit, placed somewhere else, somewhere she couldn’t influence him, and the dog was to undergo a series of chemical lobotomies before he was released back to the unit. 

Wipe the slate clean again, Weaver described it. Cut out the cancer. 

In the dredges of the basement, locked behind armoured steel doors, the dog had started to lose his mind. 

Working the guard shift outside, Vineyard could hear the dull, rhythmic sound of him beating his head against the wall again, again, again. 

It made him smile. The captain, Point, had been gone a few weeks, furlough, and he’d missed a lot while he’d been away. Vineyard wasn’t looking forward to what he would do when he found out the girl had been transferred, but he figured the dog would lessen that blow a little bit. He was fucked up. He was getting worse every day. 

They’d tried to have him execute one of his subordinates. It was a test in obedience, and he hadn’t passed. For whatever reason, at whatever turn, there was a stubborn dredge of Park left in there, fighting to be let out. It was too much of a risk and he’d been forced into isolation. It had the desired effect. 

Every so often, inside his cage, the dog would lose it. He would start shouting, bellowing, but he hadn’t been able to speak since the lobotomies and his shouting was always unintelligible. 

Use your words, Vineyard would tell him. I can’t help you until you tell me what you want. 

He was looking forward to introducing Point to this new dog. They were waiting to start his obedience training until he came back. 

Of course, Point never came back. 

[wikiangela]

fuck it friday

tagged by @tizniz @bidisasterbuckdiaz @honestlydarkprincess 💖💖

still on my bucktommy bs, I'll be back to buddie but i'm too obsessed with tommy/lou to think about anything else rn lol

so here's a bit of something short I'm wiriting for 7x05 from tommy's pov, idk what this is, what it's gonna be, but I wanna finish it tonight or maybe by the end of the weekend so posting it here to motivate myself and also tell me what y'all think bc the more i reread all of it the more i doubt myself lol

___

It took him some time, plus a lot of self-reflection and just taking it one step at a time, letting himself look at other men, this time consciously and sometimes deliberately, noticing how hot they are, how they make him feel. He let himself feel how they make him feel. It took a minute to stop feeling guilty and ashamed, and to rework all those internalized prejudices that had been ingrained in him his whole life.

He gave himself time, a lot of time, started with just chatting with guys on dating apps, later got the courage for some casual dates, and when he met the man who would be his first actual boyfriend, his first gay relationship, that he genuinely liked, he felt ready to pursue that. It didn’t work out then, that’s just life, but it was a good relationship, because he was ready for it. Now he feels settled and comfortable with himself, feels confident, and knows what he wants. And he wants- he wants love. He doesn’t want to put any pressure on any relationship he might start, but ultimately, that’s the goal. Love. 

He really doesn’t mind being this first to Evan. He likes Evan. He has those bright blue eyes that seem to shine their own light, and that wide, excited smile that makes it impossible not to smile back, with that adorable dimple accompanying it, that makes Tommy melt a little every time he sees it. Plus, those perfect, kissable lips he can’t wait to taste again, and the distinctive birthmark just adding to the charm. And he’s big and strong and so hot, too. And he’s just so nice, and so adorable and endearing, and he’s so easy to talk to. Tommy just wants to keep getting to know him, spend time with him, develop this relationship and see where it can go. And with any luck, maybe this one could last, could be something real.

The thing is, Tommy is ready for serious. He can take it slow, give Evan time to figure everything out, but he’d also like to know where he stands. He would never want to pressure him to come out before he’s ready, but he also knows he doesn’t want to be anyone’s dirty little secret. Been there, done that.

Still, he would be fine with keeping it just to him and Evan for now, for as long as Evan needs. But then…

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @thebravebitch @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @neverevan @weewootruck @loveyouanyway @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @spotsandsocks @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg @rogerzsteven @giddyupbuck @sunshinediaz @underwater-ninja-13 @exhuastedpigeon @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @theotherbuckley @buddieswhvre @dangerpronebuddie @diazsdimples @fortheloveofbuddie @hoodie-buck @your-catfish-friend @hippolotamus @daffi-990

[tspstuff]

"What else do you want?"

[stressedjester]

Eel O'Brian being in Caped Crusader made me realize how much of a loser I am because I nearly cried from happiness after learning he really was in the show and I didn't just imagine it

[acerikus]

guuuuuys im getting. so attatched to my funky lil space clover now

[chaotic-orphan]

Hey! Excitedly waiting for the next intoxicating fear update, no rush tho take your time:)

Intoxicating Fear (XV)

A foreboding calm

Part one // Masterpost // continued from here

If you noticed Kit’s face-claim change, ahahah… no you didn’t ;)

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ambrose didn’t come back for days. Kit didn’t have any of the strange headaches, there was nothing. No shred of contact. No stupid texts, no phone calls, nothing.

It was eerie. Strange.

Kit had to re-learn how to be a person again. How to exist without the constant threat of violence or pain, or Ambrose. The further they got away from Friday, the greater Kit’s anxiety grew that Ambrose would come back.

It was a quiet Saturday, too quiet. Kit woke and checked his phone to see if Ambrose text but nothing. It was… unsettling. As if there were tiny ants crawling through his veins and scurrying along his nerves pulsing to see if they could sense Ambrose’s presence lurking.

Every electric pulse of stranger’s nerves sending signals their brains prickled Kit’s fight or flight just in case it could be Ambrose. He couldn’t escape it in the shops, walking down streets, on the metro, in his apartment block because he could feel someone walk up the steps to his floor… and walk right past it.

He couldn’t seem to relax, to find any sort of peace on his own. Music didn’t help not even when he blared it on max volume in his ears. Tv shows barely served as a distraction and by the time Sunday rolled around Kit decided he needed to go back to work, just to be somewhere he knew Ambrose couldn’t ambush him.

That’s what found him staring at the Hero Tower as he emerged from the sea of commuters. He took the overground train on the raised train tracks that ran through the city. The Hero tower loomed above them all in the old-town, inner district at least. Maybe if they built it in the business district there would be some competition. Maybe it wouldn’t look as impressive.

It still managed to make Kit’s thoughts turn static, almost mute, as if he was staring out at the sea, bare feet on the sand and listening to the waves come in and out.

Even with all the cars and honking noises of the city’s traffic. Kit disentangled himself from the bustle and took the revolving door into the lobby of the Hero Tower, and for the first time in days? Weeks? months, he felt safe. The familiar smell greeted him with a sudden burst and he almost sighed at the scent. It smelled refreshing, clean, but not to the sickening degree of a clinical, hospital smell. It was more personal, more like a showroom in a beautiful house on the outskirts of the city— that was definitely outside his budget— would smell of.

A small voice in his head said that it smelled like how Mentor’s house smelled when he was a teenager, but Kit ignored it and continued to the lift. It was directly opposite the lobby entrance and had a keypad in front of it. Kit lifted his hand to key in the passcode when tanned, lithe fingers beat him to it.

Kit’s alarm system had alerted him to the individual approaching him, but it was the smell of the pungent cologne that identified them.

“Well, well, well Mallory. Risen from the dead. Poor Superhero was worried sick,” a voice dripping with mock concern slithered from his left. Kit tilted his head up to watch the numbers on the lift drop, ignoring the idiot.

24, 23, 22—

“Are you sure you’re able to come back to work? We were coping just fine without you, Hero of Heroes.”

“I figured you’d miss me if I stayed away too long, Sawyer. God knows what other poor soul you’d make suffer your company.”

The doors opened and Kit stepped towards them, but it was Sawyer who got in first. Seeing Sawyer’s weasel-like face put a dampener on Kit’s mood. Sawyer had a long face, with a pointed nose and long thin lips that were always a little bit unsettling. Not to mention his mocking jade eyes that judged your every move.

Though, to Sawyer’s credit, he wasn’t Ambrose, and Kit joined him in the lift with that reassurance, pressing the button for his floor.

“Just the atmosphere when you were gone was so refreshing, Mallory. It was as good as the academy days after you left. Everyone was happy, not having to look at the moping orphan and listen to his poor excuse at humour.”

Kit leaned back against the corner of the lift, as far as he could get away from Sawyer and let out a small scoff of a laugh.

“I’m sure they got plenty of laughs out of seeing your ugly mug everyday.”

“Wow, playground insults,” Sawyer deadpanned, swiveling his head to Kit. Kit smiled. “What’re you? Five?”

“Outta five.”

Sawyer scoffed and looked back to the numbers go up in the lift.

To be fair to Sawyer, he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He had a sort of elegant charm working for him, with his slicked back hair and strange features. It was mostly his personality that was hideous, cold and distant like his powers. His shadows always kinda creeped Kit out, even in their academy days. That fear seemed laughable now; compared to Ambrose… Sawyer was a saint. Not to mention the fact that Sawyer was actually a competent Hero, unlike Kit.

“The class prodigy. The crème de la crème,” Sawyer said. “The poor orphan graces us with his presence. How marvellous a day. Aren’t we all blessed?”

“I’m not feeling very blessed to have to stand this close to you, pal,” Kit retorted, smiling sweetly at Sawyer. “Especially in such a confined space.”

Sawyer scoffed. “You’re so full of shit, Sparky.”

Kit shrugged. “I eat a lot of fibre.”

Kit barely had time to enjoy the retort before a giant, shadowed hand slammed against his chest and pinned him to the metal wall behind him. His head bounced off the metal on impact, but Kit didn’t make a sound or struggle. He just stayed still as Sawyer closed the distance between them and slammed a hand beside Kit’s head, leaning in even closer.

Sawyer’s smile was lopsided as he stared down at Kit, but his eyes burned like two coals. “You don’t even know what it’s like for the rest of us normal, mere mortals, do you?”

Anger flared hot in Kit’s chest and he was about to retort when Ambrose flashed into his mind and he faltered.

“Us heroes and villains, we’re all where we are today because we didn’t fit into the normal life…” his silver tongued voice repeated in Kit’s mind. “A normal person would be dead if they had that much electricity coursing through their body.”

“God,” Sawyer said with an exasperated sigh, pulling Kit back into the moment where he was. In the lift, with Sawyer, at the Hero tower not basement where Ambrose kept him chained. “You’re not even paying attention are you? What? Too good to respond to me now? Hey!”

Sawyer slammed his hand on the wall again and Kit flinched. Wide eyes shot to Sawyer’s black and it was as if all oxygen had left the lift and Kit was horribly aware of the confusion that was painted clearly across Sawyer’s features.

The shadowed hand dissolved from Kit’s chest but he didn’t move. He stood frozen. Sawyer the headlights, Kit the deer.

Kit never flinched.

Never.

Not even when they were in the academy.

Not when Nemesis beat the shit out of him and told him run back to whatever whore he crawled out of.

Not when he was assigned his first mission as a hero in training under Mentor.

Sawyer’s eyebrows drew down over his eyes. His voice softening as he asked: “why—”

The ding of the lift snapped them both out of a trance and Sawyer jumped back to the other side of the lift, hands behind his back and staring at the doors as they slid open. Kit did his best to appear normal too, though the heaviness in the elevator was suffocating.

Kit’s eyes flicked up to the floor number, 19, then went to the doors that were to reveal Tides. Kit’s heart stopped seeing her. She smiled at the two of them as she stepped into the lift.

“Hello boys,” she said in her bright happy way.

Kit swallowed, trying to force moisture back into his mouth while the doors closed again and Sawyer asked Tides what floor she was getting off on. His tongue was heavy and felt like sawdust, and practically scrapped his already chapped lips instead of soothing them, because Tides was the Hero who was with Kit on the docks that day.

She would have to remember Ambrose, right? Unless he made her forget, but did he even have time to do that? A million thoughts zoomed through Kit’s mind, some too fast to even catch because what if she remembered? Could she help him? Could he tell her about Ambrose, describe him even if she didn’t? Probably not with the fucking conditions of Kit’s freedom cemented into his brain and… Kit’s glanced at Sawyer from the corner of his eyes, whatever that was.

The lift stopped again at floor 27 and Sawyer walked out, saying bye to Tides, and it was just Kit and Tides left. Tides worked out of the same floor as Kit so they could ride the lift up together. This was his chance. He had to say something.

It was Tides who spoke first. “I’m happy to see you’re feeling good, Kit,” she said, and Kit looked at her. “Superhero said you had a bad flu.”

“Yeah,” Kit began, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. It’s good to see you actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that night on the docks.”

Tides turned her body to face him, resting her back against the opposite wall. “Of course. You saved my life.”

“Do you…” Kit began, but trailed off. How was he going to word this? “Do you remember the Villain we were fighting?”

“Of course. It was Omen.” The words hit Kit’s chest like a freight train. She remembered! She knew! That would make explaining his current predicament so much easier. “He’s…” Tides began, but shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself, a distant glaze coating her eyes. “I still have nightmares about that night.”

Kit’s heart lurched in his chest because he knew exactly how she felt. He knew exactly what being Ambrose’s puppet felt like. As if she was covered in a layer of dirt that she couldn’t shake, like a film of grease around her entire body and inside of her, violated. A small voice wondered if she flinched at the thought of Ambrose too.

“Can you explain the feeling?” Kit asked, voice gentle. Tides’ bright green eyes found his, almost pleading.

“Kit…” she said instead, reaching forward and wrapping her hand around his forearm. “I know you must be thinking about Mentor and how he felt, but you can’t let vengeance consume you. Omen is a monster, you can’t torture yourself with this. We’ll catch him.”

“It’s not—” Kit began but the words caught in his throat and he wanted to curse. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and let out a sigh. He let out a huff of a breath and lifted his gaze to meet Tides’s green eyes, “it’s not about Mentor. It’s about you. About… why he was there that night, on the docks. When there was a co-ordinated attack on the city.”

Tides hummed thoughtfully. “You think Omen recruited a group of Villains to attack me on the docks?”

Kit shrugged. “Maybe not Omen,” he said as the lift doors opened again onto their floor and the pair stepped out. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Ambrose would do, he didn’t exactly seem like a team player. “Maybe some other Villain is pulling the strings.”

“Have you told Superhero this?” Tides asked, flicking her dyed pink hair over her shoulder.

“It’s just an idea that’s been bouncing around my head,” Kit told her honestly. There was something about that night that he felt like he was missing. Some part of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. It almost seemed like Ambrose was waiting for him, but then again… his reaction to Kit the other day was strange, so maybe not Kit? Maybe he was waiting for someone else.

Tides pulled him out of his thoughts as they rounded the corner to Tides’s desk. “I think you should clue Superhero in on your theory. Maybe he can help you paint a fuller picture.”

“Yeah,” Kit said with a nod, moving to leave. “I think I will. Thanks Tides.”

Tides hand shot out, wrapping around Kit’s forearm stopping him in his tracks. Her smile was reassuring, as she said: “and Kit, seriously, don’t beat yourself up about that night. You saved me. Remember that.”

Kit swallowed a scoff.

Oh he would remember if he could, if Ambrose hadn’t taken that memory from him. He just smiled in reply and squeezed her hand on his arm before stepping back. Maybe Tides was right, he thought, walking straight to Superhero’s office, he could use a second opinion on all of this.

He couldn’t talk about Ambrose or Omen, or what he did to Kit personally, but he could talk about it in a roundabout way. He was sure he’d find a way. Ambrose wasn’t always flawless in his commands, Kit proved that when he was able to stay in his childhood home, he’d find a path through if he was careful.

Superhero’s office was half a flight of steps above all the other desks that the normal heroes worked out of. It’s walls were made of a tinted glass which meant that he could see out but you couldn’t see in. A good security measure for the boss, Kit remembers Superhero telling them with a self-depreciating laugh when the architect was installing the new glass.

Kit remembers humming in response, watching as Mentor’s normal two-way glass was removed and couldn’t help but feel the difference in authority immediately after Superhero took over.

Now, Kit didn’t really care what kind of wall Superhero’s office had as he climbed the short flight and walked into the office without knocking.

Superhero wasn’t alone, and Kit felt a conversation die as he entered the room. “Oh, sorry,” Kit said, standing in the doorway. “I didn’t realise you had company.”

Kit met Superhero’s bright eyes over his guest’s head and he made an effort to smooth out his pinched up features. He offered Kit a smile, “not at all, Kit.”

The grey suit Superhero was deep in discussion with turned his body and smiled when he saw Kit. Kit offered a grin back, letting the door close behind him. He would recognise those warm silver eyes anywhere.

“Kit,” Mr Silver said, taking Kit’s outstretched hand and clapping his other hand to Kit’s elbow, squeezing it reassuringly. “How have you been?”

Kit shrugged, patting Mr Silver’s shoulder in return as they let go of each other’s hand. “Good, good. It’s good to see you, it’s been a while.”

“Indeed it has,” Mr Silver replied with his smooth voice. “You’ve already made your mark on the city.”

“Wouldn’t be able to if people like you didn’t keep it running,” Kit shot back. Mr Silver wasn’t a hero, but he was a gifted individual. His power lay more in his mind than a physical, typical Hero power. He had a gift for patterns, facts and numbers, all very cerebral he told Kit when they had first met. Mentor had taken Mr Silver on as a liaison between the Hero agency and the government, but he was more like a family friend than business associate.

Kit looked between Silver and a disgruntled Superhero, who was trying very hard to hide his expression below a pleasant façade. “What’re you doing here today?”

Silver straightened his posture, inclining his head a little and Kit’s eyes went to Superhero and back again. “I’m sure Superhero will fill you in on the details,” Silver said, fixing his suit jacket. “I think that’s my cue to leave, Superhero.”

Superhero smiled with thin lips as he nodded politely to Mr Silver. “Of course, Mr Silver. Always a pleasure.”

Silver raised his eyebrows as he passed Kit, and Kit frowned, following the man with his eyes. Silver opened the door and paused just before he stepped out, glancing back to Kit, his features conflicted. “Give Mentor my best when you see him again, Kit.”

“I will, Silver,” Kit told him earnestly. Silver smiled before he left the office and closed the door behind him. Kit’s head snapped to Superhero who had his back to Kit, hands on his face, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“What was that all about?” Kit asked, watching as Silver walked through the office towards the lift and press the call button.

“Bureaucratic bullshit as usual,” Superhero said with a huff behind him. Kit turned to face Superhero once the elevator doors opened, fixing his gaze to Superhero instead. “I need a cigarette.”

“You’re a hero, Superhero,” Kit told him lightly. “You can’t save the world if you’re out of breath rescuing kittens.”

“Mmm, a drink then,” Superhero said, walking around his desk and settling heavy into his chair with another sigh. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He raised his eyebrows to Kit who shook his head in reply. Superhero shrugged and poured two fingers of whiskey, almost slamming the bottle onto the table.

“Why was Silver here?” Kit asked, taking the seat in front of Superhero’s desk, reclining into it.

Superhero shook his head, as if it was too serious a subject to remember. Kit stared at Superhero expectantly while he gulped down the whiskey in one shot.

“Jesus, Superhero, are you okay?”

Superhero shook his head, going to grab the bottle again. “What did you need?”

Kit watched as Superhero poured out three fingers of whiskey and screw the cap back on the bottle before reclining into his seat.

“Uh, yeah, I was just talking to Tides on the way up about a theory I have about the villains uniting.”

Superhero paused, eyebrows furrowing, casting deep shadows over his already deep set eyes. “Thank god I’m already drinking,” he said, tone anything but humourous. “Continue.”

Kit leaned forward in his seat and began, careful to avoid saying anything about Ambrose. “I don’t think the day Tides was attacked on the docks was a coincidence. That the attack just happened to coincide with the attack in first and in the business district.”

An unreadable expression flashed across Superhero’s face, more like how it was when Kit walked in on him and Silver. Kit almost winced at it, and said after: “listen, I don’t want to pile shit on your plate—“”

“No, no,” Superhero said with a sigh, leaning forward too and setting his glass down on the desk. He rubbed his eyes with his palms and let out another long frustrated huff. Then he looked up at Kit almost sheepishly. “How did Mentor do this for so long?”

Kit’s face broke into a sad smile. “I honestly don’t know.”

“He made it all look so easy, even the government visits.”

Kit licked his lips, the question written all over his face. Superhero scoffed and shook his head before standing and walking to the window that overlooked the office. He stood there, looking onto the floor like a disappointed parent. His hands on his hips, shoulders slumped, head dipped slightly.

“Silver’s not really the government, though, Superhero,” Kit said standing too. He didn’t join Superhero by the window, instead he turned and sat back against the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s part of the regulatory—”

“Regulatory Office of Powered individuals,” Superhero said over Kit, cutting him off. “Yes thank you, Kit. I know.”

“So what was the problem?”

Superhero sighed again. He was sighing too much. Too despondent. Did Silver say something bad? Has he noticed something that the world was skimming over? Something substantial?

“He said the same thing you’re alluding to, something I don’t want to know about.”

Kit straightened, his stomach bottoming out. “What?”

“There’s something big coming, apparently. Some new villain in town that has been, as you hypothesised, recruiting villains to a common cause.”

Kit’s mind raced at the information, his mind too slow to process it. Was he right? Was it Ambrose? Omen? Was he organising a group of Villains for god knows what?

“Do you know—”

“No, nothing,” Superhero said gravely. A soft slightly hysterical laugh burst from his lips. “We’re barely managing now, Kit. I don’t think the Hero agency will survive this! It’s ridiculous. Nobody wants to become a Hero after what happened to Mentor and most people have either resigned like cowards or decided they want to keep their powers to themselves.”

Kit frowned. “What do you mean? When I left the Hero academy it was—”

“Full? Yeah.”

Kit bristled as Superhero turned to face him again, expression grave. Superhero walked over to the two armchairs at the far side of the office, settling heavy into one of them.

“You were one of the last classes to graduate. Well,” Superhero paused, eyes flickering almost sardonically to Kit’s, “not you obviously, what with Mentor taking you in.”

Kit ignored the silent accusation in Superhero’s voice as he said that, but it must have been written plainly on his face.

“No, no, I don’t mean— in a bad way, Kit. You were the best in your class, obviously Mentor would take an interest in you. You’re a good kid. A good hero. A good guy. Everyone likes you, I just…” Superhero continued with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Kit swallowed, sensing the tension that was weighing Superhero down. He walked over to the armchair opposite Superhero and sat down.

“What is it?”

“Some parents pulled their kids from the academy after Mentor was attacked.”

Kit stared at Superhero. He hadn’t heard this. Surely Sawyer would’ve told him, or someone would have messaged him to tell him.

Sawyer’s words replayed in his head: “Just the atmosphere when you were gone was so refreshing, Mallory. It was as good as the academy days after you left. Everyone was happy, not having to look at the moping orphan."

Maybe he misread his friendships at the Academy. Maybe they all just secretly hated him but Sawyer was the only one with any guts to tell him to his face. Or maybe someone did reach out and tell him but he couldn’t remember because of Ambrose’s stupid compulsion.

“But… what?” Kit blurted out, bewildered. “Why? I don’t understand.”

“Mentor was a symbol more than a man, Kit. He was hope. It wasn’t just a dark day for you when he was attacked. The city mourned with you.”

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat. This wasn’t at all how he expected this conversation to go. That’s what was wrong with Superhero, he had lost hope, but Kit didn’t— well, he didn’t know the current situation was so bleak.

You didn’t know because Ambrose didn’t want you to know.

“But you’re Mentor now, Superhero,” Kit said, his voice insistent. Superhero lifted his head, eyes wide like a boys. “You’re the new symbol of hope. We can stop this new villain like we’ve stopped every villain before them. Together.”

Superhero let out a breath of startled laughter, running his hand back through his hair.

“Who’s supposed to be who’s support again?”

Kit stood from the chair, shrugging with a charming smile and said: “I’m the Hero for Heroes, remember? That includes you.”

Superhero laughed, shaking his head.

“One good press release and you’ve already let it go to your head.”

“What can I say? The people love me. The masses love me. The heroes—” hate me “love me. It’s so hard to be everything for everyone all at once.”

“Uh huh. How about you do some work instead of talking me to death?”

Kit paused once he opened the door to the office. “If you need another psychiatrist session you can always come to me.”

“Get out before I kick you out," Superhero said and Kit laughed as he left, closing the door behind him. He descended the steps with the smile on his lips until he got to his desk and sat down, facing the small partition. Only then did he let his concern morph his features, safe from anyone else's scrutiny.

Superhero's worry was more than just the standard concern for the city. The very Hero profession could be at stake if they didn't find and stop this new villain on the scene, and Mentor had worked far too hard to let it all be for nothing.

He needed to talk to Ambrose, find out what the bastard knew. Only then could Kit plan properly… but after Ambrose stormed out of Kit’s apartment he had been quiet as a mouse. Kit could only hope that he would drop by again.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @tippytappytyping @stefaniesblogs @shinokoro

[jessicas-pi]

For the au ask game! Sabezra in a *flips through my au ideas list* private detectives au

so. yeah. this. this is egregiously late. But it's HERE! At long last!

....to be entirely honest I don't even know what this is. it's sabezra. they're private detectives. let's just leave it at that.

---

"Ezra, what are you doing?"

Her partner in preventing crime (and occasional partner in actual crime---they may or may not have broken into a house once; no one could prove anything) had stopped in the middle of the grim alleyway, staring at nothing in particular.

"Sabine..." he said slowly. "I think this is where I met you."

Sabine did a double-take, looking around with keen eyes. The place didn't seem familiar, but she'd been so distracted on that day, she probably wouldn't know it if she was there.

"Is it?" she asked, strolling back to him, hiking up her long skirt and stepping cautiously around the filth on the ground. "You think so?"

"Mm-hm." A nostalgic smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "You know, I've still got the handkerchief you gave me."

Sabine grinned at him. "Of course you do. You were in the throes of violent yearning. You couldn't bear to part with it."

"And my nose was still bleeding."

"That too."

"And if you recall, I did try to give it back to you---later." His smile grew proud. "Tracked you down with just your monogram and a glimpse at your face. First bit of detecting I ever did."

Sabine slipped her arm through his, hopping lightly over something that could have been a filthy rag or maybe the carcass of a large rat, as they continued on their trek towards home. The streets cleared up when they got to the main roads, but there was still the inevitable splash of mud.

Mud was everywhere in London.

"I thought you might have been a princess when I saw you on the stairs then," he blurted out, and she tilted her head up to look at him from beneath the brim of her large flowered hat. He gave her a sweetly bashful smile and a shrug. "With those big white puffs in your hair---"

"Ostrich feathers," she filled in automatically, turning her attention back to the pavement and nodding politely to a gentleman and lady who passed by them.

"---and that white dress, too." Ezra laughed to himself. "Golly, you're lucky you kept it. Your old lady wasn't gonna give you a nickel for another one."

Sabine squeezed his arm affectionately. "I could have worn any dress."

"Well, no one would have thought it was a proper wedding if we hadn't got you in white."

"No one thought it was a proper wedding when we did," she retorted. "They thought I was degrading myself."

"Then the joke is on them, because I hit the big time pretty well, didn't I?"

Sabine arched an eyebrow. "You wouldn't have amounted to anything if I hadn't got us into the illustrated papers."

Ezra paused on the pavement as they reached the steps of their lodgings, looking thoughtful.

"You're right. I wouldn't have."

"Then it seems you're lucky you've got me."

He looked right into her eyes and grinned boyishly, slipping into his most intolerably trans-Atlantic accent. "We do make a pretty bang-up team, don't we?"

"A jolly good one," she nodded in prim agreement, adopting an obnoxiously posh tone, and they both giggled, smiling at each other for a moment more before a distant clock chimed the quarter of the hour, reminding them that they were on a schedule.

"Well, I suppose we had best go on in. Our client will be here any minute now."

"I guess so."

And with that, the unstoppable team of Bridger and Bridger ascended the steps of their home at 221b Spectre Street, arm-in-arm.

[setmeatopthepyre]

Jumpstart

[@118dailydrabble day 21] [set earlier than the most recent two] [part of the dead probie saga / tommy begins snippets]

Tommy was lacing up his boots, listening to Eli patiently answer Emmerson's questions about being a paramedic, when Mills poked his head back into the locker room.

“Thought you left ages ago,” Tommy said. What's up?”

Mills groaned, wiping a hand down his exhausted face. “Car broke down. Pat tried to jumpstart it, but no dice. I was hoping someone from B-shift was still in to give me a ride.”

Tommy checked his watch. Yeah, definitely not enough time for anyone from A-shift to get him home and be back in time.

That's when Emmerson stood up. “I could check out your car,” he offered. “Auto repairs is the family business.”

Mills looked about ready to kiss him.