#but considering how graphic the games have been so far it’s not impossible we could lean into it more pleaseeseee

[starphenie]

i feel like the north, with all its snowy and honorable knighthood and swordfighting themes did well in having characters like ozeca and zoey as a nod to the contrary (as well as the occasional camo print uniform suit) but IMO, it’s a cop out to simultaneously dilute zoey with 3000 other applesque and knight themes (current diamond arena) and give ozeca -0.8 seconds of screen time but i’m really not here to complain.

i just think that this wouldn’t be an issue if there was inspiration from the right places, because if you want to write a badass military lady you’re at a loss if you allude to everything else but ignore the soul of the contemporary military type, of which i believe to be the usaamerican WTF IS A KILOMETER tactical crayon eater and patriot gun slinger. i’m just saying if the north wants to acknowledge the existence of a modern military lets👏go👏all👏the👏way👏🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

[sanktnikolais]

Feed The Wolves

A/N: your local zoyalai stan neighbor is here yet again for another content but this time it’s for @wafflesandkruge​‘s birthday!!! I went way overboard with this ig but the Vincenzo fever we’ve been on for the past two weeks was still strong and the ending still tugs at my heart. So pls have this mess, Tiff, I’m sorry HAHDKLHJAFDS Happy birthday, dearest! 🥺🥺

Word count: 13 874

CW: graphic depictions of violence and gore. Read at your own risk.

The Lantsovs have finally taken their move to overthrow the Brums’ tyranny to the extremities. They thought they already have the upper hand and that the odds are finally on their side. But in a game that two players have nothing and everything to lose, there is always a catch in every move they make, and with it also comes a price.

How far are they willing to take it?

If Nikolai could be proud of one moment, he knew it would be today. One couldn’t just make an easy audience with the head of the Brum Family; usually it would take nearly a week to set up an appointment. Jarl Brum was one of the first men to establish their own Families, along with the Tabans, Lantsovs, and the Morozovas, and he was the most powerful among them. 

          For now. 

          When one of the biggest Families was in a war and planning to attack another with the same reputation, it was only necessary to play carefully. Especially going against a cunning opponent like Jarl Brum. Today’s predicament was tricky; one wrong move could cost them the chance. Or worse—their lives. Either way, it was dangerous. But if they didn’t at least try to keep the Brums at bay, it would only be a matter of time before they take over all the cities, including Os Alta. And considering how they handled things, lots of lives could be lost. 

          There was still another way out of this, but it involved extreme measures and there would be no returning after that. He could only hope he wouldn’t have to settle for that last resort no matter how slim his chances were.

          Nikolai snapped the lid of his lighter closed, his loud mind finding solace in the metallic clink it made. His eyes caught on the engraving on the side of the lighter. Consigliere Idiot. He fought a smile. The lighter had been a gift to him by Zoya on his birthday a few years back, and it somehow became his talisman ever since. It was a weird kind of gift at first, with Zoya knowing too well that he didn’t smoke that much. But he still got attached to it. 

          You never know, it might come in handy when you suddenly have an urge to set some place on fire, was what she had told him. 

          He scoffed at the memory, and then took a deep breath as he focused on his current situation. The risks of having this meeting turn to the bloodbath Nikolai was expecting were high, and if he were to be honest, winning a fight against the Brums was almost impossible. 

          But he was never the one to believe in impossible. Only improbable. The one thing he could do now was to put faith on the odds being at their side at the end of the day.

          He flicked his lighter open and closed again before checking his watch. The bright numbers glared back at him like a countdown of a time bomb nearing its detonation. 17:48. Twelve minutes. 

          If his estimate was right, Zoya and her men would have arrived by now and started their raid. But knowing the Lantsov Underboss to be careful and precise, they would need a bit more time. It only meant Nikolai had to continue making small talks with the man to try and see if he could settle a score with the Don without the use of violence. Talking proved to be a bit difficult, though, as the head of the Family was being attentive to focusing on his paperworks rather than Nikolai’s presence.

          "The numbers are really unstable in the past two weeks and it's mostly plummeting," said Jarl as his eyes scanned the paper he was holding for the last time. Then with a dramatic sigh, he opened the drawer to his right and put the file inside, plastering a rather fake smile on his lips afterwards. "There's been a lot of visitors."

          Nikolai could see right through the man's displeasure. He almost laughed. At least the feeling is mutual. "Tell me about it," he said with a light laugh. "Having your business overrun without any reason sure does something to you." 

          A shadow crossed the Don's face, but Nikolai only smiled innocently and held his gloved hand out for a handshake, a sort of formal gesture between a Don and a Consigliere before and after every meeting. Anyone lower than the Underboss aren't allowed to touch the head of a Family, and they could only do as much as bow in respect for the Don. 

          Jarl accepted it reluctantly, his grip firm as if he were contemplating breaking Nikolai’s hand. Nikolai was grateful when the man didn't. Maybe because it wasn't a good sight to have and talk business to a Consigliere with a broken hand. 

          "A pleasant afternoon, isn't it?" mused Nikolai as he took a sip of the coffee. It tasted good, but not nearly as good as Genya's brew. No poison. Or maybe there was and the effects just weren't kicking in yet. He suddenly wished for the woman's knack on any poison. "The perfect chance to kill time.”

          The Brum Don laughed lightly, the sound mildly threatening as if he had just thought of something vile. “Indeed, Consigliere,” he said, leaning back more comfortably in his chair. “Is the coffee good? I apologize if it isn’t, but I do hope the atmosphere is comfortable.”

          Nikolai fought a wince. He had been here a few times before. Jarl’s office was ice white—ranging from the walls, floorings, and the ceiling. Even the chair he was sitting on had been white. The only thing that gave another color to the pasty room were the furniture and a few appliances. At least his couches were blood red, and the view of the huge window behind his desk was different in shade. Nikolai was thankful for the change of scenery. 

          “No, no. Everything is good.” It sounded fake, considering how he despised the man's office. But he shook it off. He tipped the mug up in a toast. “I appreciate it, and thank you for accepting my appointment.” He found it funny and silly, when Jarl’s caporegimes used the term “appointment”. It was as if Nikolai wanted to get his teeth checked by a dentist, and considering how the man’s office looked, maybe it really was one. “I thought it would take me another week to wait for the confirmation.”

          “You’re a Lantsov, from the first pioneers of the Families.” Jarl paused, a hint of a sneer appearing on his face. “You needn’t to be delayed.”

          There was something the way Jarl spoke that didn’t sit well with Nikolai, like the man knew something he didn’t. A thought crossed his mind, but he shook it off. There was no way Jarl knew about that. Or was it? It was not impossible—the Brum Don had a wide network of informants. Rumor had it that there were a few in Os Alta, the city that the Lantsovs had control over. 

          Him knowing about Nikolai’s real father would only give him power against them. But then Nikolai still decided to brush it off, though its dangerous possibility still lingered at the back of his mind. It wasn’t the time to think of it. They had to take back the territories that were once theirs, even if they had to do it by brute force. It’s what Zoya would have preferred, anyway.

          “That’s good to hear,” said Nikolai with a tight smile.

          The man crossed his hands over the table, a glint evident in his eyes. Nikolai didn’t know what to make out of it. “So let’s hear it, Consigliere,” said Jarl. “What brings the Lantsovs here?”

          Straight to the point. Nikolai put his mug back to the desk and removed his gloves, exposing his scarred hands. Jarl’s eyes flitted to Nikolai's hands for a moment before looking away, an uncomfortable expression on his face. Nikolai felt a sneer twitch on his lips. Scars weren’t new to people like them—they had new ones very often, depending on the work they were doing that time. It was their brand, and they wear it with pride.

          But if people knew the history of the scars you bore, especially when you had gotten it from being the vicious Enforcer who once intimidated the streets of Halmhend, you would have an ace against your enemies. And for Nikolai, he exactly just had that. 

          “We’re eyeing the areas in Halmhend and Ulensk for expansion,” he said, and he noticed the Brum Don perk up a little from his chair. Now Nikolai had his attention. “I heard that the two properties in those locations require some...changes. Big changes, if I may add. So I would like to propose an offer to buy the property for double its actual value.” He stopped to consider, putting a finger to his chin. "No, wait. Make it triple." 

          Jarl didn't answer for a while, and his expression was in between being offended and amused. Nikolai wondered if the man thought that his offer was a bluff. 

          "I think you're quite mistaken, Consigliere," he said mildly, his tone having an underlying disbelief. "We do not place our properties up for purchase or any sort of deal." 

          The properties you had taken from Families by force, Nikolai wanted to say, but he bit back his tongue. The feel of the lighter in his other hand was enough to ease the sudden flare of anger in his chest. He put on his signature grin to cover it up. "Ah, but I thought your numbers were plummeting for the past two weeks? I think my offer would help the numbers to be friendly and rise up nicely again." 

          "Is that what your father told you to do?" Jarl asked as he leaned back further into his chair. The look on his face had gone from slightly friendly to threatening. "To try and sway me with money?" 

          "Don't we all want to be swayed and pampered by money?" countered Nikolai, the grin never leaving his lips. Jarl’s expression only became darker, and it made Nikolai want to goad him more. "Think of the numbers finally rising, Jarl. I know you want that." 

          "It’s foolish to think that I’d willingly sell properties that we have the ability to look after just quite well, Consigliere.” The Brum Don shook his head with a disappointed expression. “I never thought you would be this desperate.”

          This ticked something inside Nikolai, and he found himself suddenly saying, “Is that why you worked with the Radimovs to overthrow our territories?”

          There was a tense silence, and the expression on Jarl’s face turned from angry to mildly surprised, like he hadn't expected Nikolai to know about the Brums involvement with the assault. They weren't the only Family with spies stationed in different cities; the Lantsovs had just as much informants as the Brums have, if not a bit less.

          Nikolai took the silence as his chance to continue. "Ah, let me make that clear. The Radimovs doing the dirty work and the Brums happening to ‘buy’ the two properties the following day from them. That's pretty much all of it, right? And it's not different from what you did with the Tabans and the Demidovs. And somehow the Morozovas too." He chuckled darkly. "Though it's probably pretty much the Morozovas' payment to your Family for protecting their ass, so I wouldn't really take that into account. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

          Jarl’s jaw was set, as if determined not to admit to the accusation. His eyes were hard, but Nikolai could notice the man's hand suddenly fiddling the pen within his reach in tense movements. He has such an obvious tell. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." 

          "Oh, I'm merely joking, sir. I mean, I am indeed a genius in certain aspects, but I didn’t learn about that information by connecting the dots. I knew about your tactics from an informant," said Nikolai with a kind smile. "We may have been spiraling a bit out of control since the attempted murder of my father, but we're not as stupid as you think."

          The Brums had used the Lantsovs’ distraction in prioritizing the Don’s security to their advantage, going as far as making frequent appearances in their properties, and even in Os Alta. One of the instances he couldn’t forget were the three Brum soldiers who had caused disturbance in their bar in Kribirsk, and it stirred up the brewing dispute between their Families. 

          Nikolai wouldn't even be surprised if the Brums had something to do with the assassination. And if he were to really think of it now, it was most likely possible. The Demidovs weren't that powerful enough to do something as bold as trying to take down one of the most powerful Dons in the country, unless there was a much bigger hand controlling them. 

          The only Family who had the ability to pull off a stunt like that was the Brums. But knowing them, they always used someone else to do their dirty work for them as they wanted to maintain the 'clean slate' of their name. 

          They could always put out the fire, but they can never cover up the smoke. 

          Jarl considered Nikolai for another moment, and then he let out a loud laugh. “I get why Alexander appointed you as Consigliere and not your older brother. A clever boy, you are,” he said. "Can't be fooled easily." 

          "I'd take that as a compliment, sir," said Nikolai. 

          He reached over to the mug of coffee again, but his hand suddenly felt stiff and rigid as if something was keeping it from being able to move. Then his vision blurred slightly for a moment before it sharpened again, making him blink. 

          It took him a second, and a quiet laugh bubbled from his chest. His suspicions were right, then. He gripped the lighter tightly in his hand like it was the only source of his strength. Coffee was the last thing he had expected to have poison in it, and disbelief muddled his mind. 

          Cheeky bastard, should have put it in brandy or whiskey instead of slandering coffee this way.

          Nikolai held the mug with a bit of effort in his outstretched hand, trying not to let his strain show. But when he looked up back to the Don again, there was no denying that he had already noticed Nikolai’s difficulty in moving, and the beginning of a smirk was evident on Jarl’s expression. The knife hidden under the lapel of Nikolai’s coat suddenly felt heavy.

          This was going to be a pain to get through again. 

          "How's your father, Nikolai?" the man asked. Even his voice sounded faraway now. "Is he recovering well?" 

          "He is. Quite well, I'll say. He might get discharged next week," Nikolai replied before raising the mug to his lips again. It was only when he took another sip of the coffee did he finally recognize the slightest difference in the taste of a purely black coffee. Genya would have scolded him for not recognizing it right away. Cyanide. Cheap. "He sends his regards, by the way." 

          Jarl smiled. "I appreciate it." He paused, his eyebrows furrowing in mock concern. Nikolai wanted to laugh. "Are you alright? You seem to be looking quite unwell."

          Nikolai shrugged, the movement requiring much more effort as he was still adjusting to the toxins in his body. "I'm fine, just a bit stiff. The coffee had a bit of a kick in it."

          "Ah, but you did like your coffee without sugar, right?" 

          "Yeah, makes it more bracing." He gestured to the mug with a nod before placing it back to the desk. A dull tremor shot through him, and he fiddled with the lighter in his hand to keep it from going completely numb. "So, is your answer really a no?" 

          "You make me laugh, Consigliere. Here you are, alone, wanting to have an appointment to meet with me just to offer some nonsense." 

          “I wouldn’t actually call it nonsense I would say ultimatum, but that sounds too threatening so I think I’d tone it down for a bit,” said Nikolai, his tone light. He checked his watch. 17:58. Almost there. But then another tremor shot through him, and this time, he wasn’t able to stop a pained groan from tearing in his throat. He raised a finger. “Wait, give me a second.”

          Nikolai closed his eyes and breathed deeply, flexing his fingers open and close. This was becoming rather embarrassing for him, to give threats to someone of a much higher rank than him while looking he was about to throw up, but he took his time. After a few more moments, he finally regained his composure. When he looked back up to the Don, Jarl had an amused expression on his face as if he were thinking of Nikolai as a big joke. 

          "Consider it a friendly warning," Nikolai said with a grin. “I wouldn’t want to spew threats yet when I still haven’t tried to convince you to change your mind.”

          Jarl’s expression darkened. "This is a three-hectare property. No one would notice the Lantsov Consigliere not coming out of here." 

          "Oh, dear me. Are we doing threats now?" Nikolai laughed, or more like wheezed, and shook his head. "Three hectares, you say? So if I burned down this side of the compound, firefighters won't arrive in time, no? Or even just shooting you, I'm pretty sure no one else would hear." 

          "You're in my compound, Nikolai. My territory." 

          Nikolai shrugged. "Hasn't stopped me before." 

          "There are guards patrolling around right outside the hall. They will immediately barge in the moment I hit the alarm." 

          "Ah, let them. I like that kind of attention. Boosts my ego exponentially." The watch around Nikolai’s wrist beeped softly, and he glanced down at it to confirm that the numbers had already turned to 18:00. "I also did like my coffee without poison, actually. But I appreciate the improvised addition. Cyanide as an alternative to sugar? Genius. Gave a rush of thrill in my blood." 

          If Nikolai could frame the look of the evident shock on Jarl’s face, he would have made a whole exhibit just for it. People needed to see such a rare sighting of the Brum Don getting caught off guard. The man blinked repeatedly, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing in front of him. 

          Trust me, this will get useful at some point, Genya's voice echoed in his head. Nikolai silently thanked their caporegime's insistence for him to develop poison immunity. All those days of handling mild paralysis and unconsciousness was worth it. 

          "Oh, pardon me. Was I being too straightforward with that?" He chuckled lightly. "I can repeat it though. You got me good there, I can already feel it kicking in. But if you wanted to kill me, I think I would prefer a bullet to the brain just to be sure. That's a hundred percent chance I wouldn't walk out of here alive, or just mix in as much cyanide as you have. A sprinkle won’t be enough."

          Jarl let out a laugh of his own, but the sound came out nervous instead of threatening. The man was evidently pale and he was now holding the pen so tightly in his fist he could have snapped it in half. "But that would be messy now, wouldn't it?" he said with a grin. Even his smile looked forced. "As you've told me, we don't do the dirty work.

          "Hmm, fair. But there would be no thrill at all, would it? Having to hide behind your coffers and let others do the labor? That's icky." Nikolai shook his head. There was another tremor that shot throughout his body, but it was much weaker than the ones before it, and he almost smiled. At least that was over. Bless you, Genya. He leaned forward for a bit, his eyes narrowing curiously. "Do tell me, Jarl. How would it feel when someone else takes over your business by force, and brutally kills your men and innocent workers in the process? They’re not a threat, Jarl. Much less an enemy. Why involve them in the mess? We don’t do that. That is against our principles. But I guess that's never in your book, was it? You just do things that would satisfy your greed and thirst for blood."

          “Getting bolder now, aren't we, Consigliere? I would watch that mouth of yours if I were you. Do you think the Lantsovs could handle another loss, especially their Consigliere?” The Brum Don shook his head, a look of disappointment on his face. “Who would try to handle things diplomatically?”

          It was threat after threat. “That is a good question, sir,” said Nikolai. He flexed his fingers on both hands and put them on his knees. “I know Nazyalensky can be diplomatic if need be. But I also know she prefers to use rather drastic measures than talking. ‘It’s the easier way’, she always says. I would have to agree with her at certain times.”

          “Are you implying something?”

          Nikolai plastered a grin on his face. “Only the fact that you’d be facing lesser diplomatic meetings with the Lantsovs if I ever not make it out of here alive,” he said. A soft ping resounded, and he took out his phone from his coat pocket. He checked the alert, his grin turning smug and menacing, the kind that people rarely see the Lantsov Consigliere ever did. “And that you’d probably be dealing with it sooner than you thought.”

          A look of confusion bloomed on the Don’s face, and then, as if on cue, the telephone on the side of his desk blared, the sound startling Jarl and making him jump slightly on his seat. He looked at it with suspicion. Nikolai wanted to laugh, but he figured that it would be rude. Besides, the whole ordeal wasn’t done yet—a lot could still happen, and he was still reeling from the effects of the poison. But he could already see the odds on their side.

          “I would answer that if I were you,” Nikolai said calmly, his fingers finding the lid of his lighter again. He flicked it open and back close. He could still feel the strain in his hand, but at least it he could move it properly again. “It’s probably important.”

          Jarl narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s your deal, Consigliere? Why are you really here?”

          “Just answer the telephone, sir. Maybe it will give you the answer.”

          There was another tense silence. The Brum Don suddenly didn’t look like he was having fun trying to get him cornered. This was the best part for Nikolai, the thrill he always got whenever the upper hand his enemies had against him was suddenly taken away from them and he would watch them crumble slowly and back away until they were the ones cornered instead of him. It was such a satisfying view to watch. 

          And Nikolai were to look at it now, it was exactly how he wanted it. One didn’t just easily get Jarl Brum on the edge of his seat. 

          “Well?” Nikolai mused.

          The frown on Brum Don’s face only deepened, and then reluctantly, he reached for the telephone and slowly raised the receiver near his ear. A few beats, and then, “Yes?”

          Nikolai watched the man’s face pale, his eyes shifting everywhere with the look of evident panic in them. His hand tightened around the receiver until his knuckles were almost white from gripping it too much. There was just so much anger radiating off of him that Nikolai was surprised the Don hadn’t even pointed a gun at him yet. 

          Then Jarl’s attention snapped to him after a moment, his eyes murderous with every intent to kill. Nikolai returned his look with an innocent grin, and the Don’s jaw was set in complete rage. If were some other person, he knew he would have cowered back in fear. But years trying to prove himself he was worthy to be an official member of the Lantsov family despite his bloodline contributed a lot to the name he had built for himself. 

          The Demon Prince of Halmhend—the people had whispered his name in both awe and fear. And with each dark and nasty scar and blood he got on his hands, the stronger his reputation grew. He would get the job done, and he would use whatever method he had to, even if it meant having to have a staredown with death himself.

          It would take much more than some Don’s murderous look to derail Nikolai from his goal. 

          He watched patiently as the Don put back the receiver to the cradle, his dark gaze turning from enraged to cold fury, like he had finally accepted whatever was said to him in the call. Jarl stared down at him for another long moment, and Nikolai could practically see the gears in the man’s head working. 

          “Alright, Consigliere. You made your point.” The Don kept his face expressionless, but his eyes told Nikolai otherwise. “What do you really want?”

          Finally. “Stop the unnecessary attacks and killings,” Nikolai said. “You can’t keep that act up and expect the others not to turn against you.”

          “No one would dare go against us. We both know that.”

          “It’s because we’re still holding back.”

          A shadow passed over Jarl’s face, and his expression darkened even more. “Is that a challenge?”

          “Maybe,” replied Nikolai. He reached up to fix his tie. “If I were to be honest, the Tabans could take you any day. They just don’t choose to. Waste of resources, they say. But really, I understand. It would be too easy for them.”

          “The Tabans don’t choose to fight because they’re cowards,” Jarl said with a huff. “Not because they don’t choose to do so.”

          Nikolai wrinkled his nose. “Tell that to Madam Makhi’s face, and you’ll see your throat by the end of her sword,” he said. He leaned forward as if to tell a secret. “She keeps a very sharp sword in her office, by the way. And she knows how to use it, so I don’t really suggest going against her.”

          Jarl shook his head, the smirk still evident on his lips. “And if I don’t agree to your motion? What can you possibly do with—”

          “You would find my family retaliating,” Nikolai cut him off, and the Don reared back in mild surprise. “The attacks would continue, and I will let it go on. Don’t try fighting in a war where you’re going to lose.” 

          The Don didn’t say anything after that. Nikolai gave him a smile, feeling a bit more confident than before that maybe they had driven Jarl Brum into a corner. Then, to his astonishment, Jarl did something entirely beyond his expectation.

          He laughed.

          And it wasn’t the desperate type but rather a genuinely amused one, like he had just heard the funniest joke that Nikolai could have ever done. Instantly, his grin faded. Jarl Brum was actually laughing. Nikolai could only look back at the Brum Don with utter confusion as uneasiness settled in his gut. The man acted as if he was one step ahead of them, and whatever confidence Nikolai had in himself the moment he stepped inside the man’s office was gone. 

          “The White Island, huh?” Jarl said through his laughs. He shook his head, dramatically reaching up to wipe the nonexistent tears from his eyes. "That hotel is quite a sight, but its location in Ulensk is utter shit. You can burn it down all you want, I wouldn't mind. You didn't have to hide the fact you would raid it just to make a point."

          Dread washed over Nikolai. It felt like this was the real poison taking effect in his system and halted his thoughts completely. How in the saints' name did Jarl know about the raid? Were Tolya and Tamar safe? Which part of the Don's terrified look had been real? 

          He watched the Brum Don stand from his seat and walked to the drawers behind his desk. He bent down to pull a bottle of wine out along with two glasses, humming happily as he went along. It was a baffling sight to see Jarl’s shift in his demeanor, especially from the perspective of a person who knew their way around manipulating their own emotions. 

          Was this how he looked like to other people? Awful and terrifying? 

          "You're a lot silent now, Consigliere," mused Jarl as he poured wine onto the two glasses. He didn't even need to turn around for Nikolai to know that the man was having fun having the upper hand once again. "Did I surprise you?" 

          Nikolai's hand clenched into a fist to keep it from trembling badly with suppressed fury. It wasn't the right time to act yet. He glared at the Brum Don's back, and with slow, silent movements, he carefully reached for the knife under his lapel and slipped it in the edge of his sleeve. The distress and fear clouding his mind may have been overwhelming enough to make him unable to answer, but he wasn't going to let any chances slide. The Brum Don took his silence as a cue to continue. 

          "Ah, don't worry. Your guys leading the raid in White Island Hotel is fine," said Jarl with a light laugh. "I didn't put extra security there tonight on purpose. So your guys are probably done turning the place upside down by now." Then he paused, lifting his head up to stare out the glass window in front of him. "It's actually your people who went to the arms factory I'm worried about." 

          Whatever composure Nikolai had in himself crumbled to nothing. No—

          "You're probably wondering how I knew about it. Well, like you, I have my informants too. And that huge shipment of firepower last week? What other reasons did the Lantsovs have to have that kind of shipment aside from going to war? Doesn't need to take a genius to figure that out." Jarl walked back to his desk and placed the other glass of wine he was holding in front of Nikolai. "And what's the most convenient thing to hit during a war? The arms factory and its warehouse. It's only our luck that you sent Nazyalensky to her own demise. I did put more security in that place." 

          For once, Nikolai didn't have anything to say back. He usually prided himself of being able to make people bow down to his wishes, even if it meant threatening them to the extremes or just simply having a conversation with them. 

          And yet the mere thought of Zoya in danger was enough to spiral him out of his thoughts.

          "I did surprise you now, didn't I?" Jarl chuckled, taking another sip from his glass. "You see, this is what I meant when I said no one dares to go against us. I'm always a step ahead."

          Nikolai gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists to keep himself from lunging at the Don. "What did you do to her?" 

          "Do settle down, Consigliere. She's not in danger. Oh, at least not yet. I haven't given them any orders." He paused, frowning as if he had said something wrong. "But that may change in a moment. Unless you do something for me." 

          "What do you want?" 

          Jarl raised an eyebrow. "That was fast, I haven't even blinked," he said. "It's quite a sight to see the great Lantsov Consigliere quickly bow down just because his woman is in danger." 

          "Just say your conditions, Jarl." 

          "You will agree to sign a contract that would legally make the Lantsovs as the Brums' subsidiary." 

          Nikolai looked at the Don with utter disbelief like he had just grown another head on his shoulder. Jarl must have been joking. Maybe Zoya was alright and had already handled the situation at Halmhend. Nikolai's irritation suddenly flared. His thinking was becoming too unstable—which wasn't ideal for his current situation. And if he continued to let Jarl’s words get to him, he would certainly lose this fight. 

          "In fact, it's still quite a generous offer." Jarl tipped his head in respect. "It's for seeing through that coffee I gave you. And even surviving it." 

          "And what if I don't?" Nikolai asked, voice nearly a hiss. 

          Jarl smiled. “Then Nazyalensky dies. Very simple.” 

          “How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

          Then as if on cue, Nikolai’s phone rang again, tearing his attention away from wanting to lunge at the Don. He looked at the screen, and it showed a restricted number was trying to make a call. And even though it didn't exactly show who was calling, Nikolai already knew who was on the other line. 

          "I would answer that if I were you," said Jarl, his tone smug as he repeated Nikolai’s line from earlier. With a confident smile that almost ticked off the last Nikolai’s patience, Jarl added, "It's probably important." 

          Nikolai looked down at his phone again, thinking that maybe if he stared hard enough at the bright numbers glaring back at him, the call would stop and prove that the Brum Don was just bluffing. 

          But when it continued to ring, it stabbed fear into his heart. Zoya never called him during an operation, only quick signals and messages. 

          "Well?" Jarl mused. He took a sip from his own glass and raised an eyebrow. "Nazyalensky won't wait all night." 

          The urge to act upon his anger was now stronger than his will to keep on a neutral face, and yet Nikolai still held back. He wouldn't do anything unless he was sure he had every reason to. 

          But the mention of Zoya's name from this despicable man's lips was making it hard to keep himself from killing the Don. 

          "If you lay even one finger on her," Nikolai said, voice low with threat, "I will burn every single place you have until the flames reach you and you will be burning down with them." 

          A shadow passed on Jarl’s face, but it was gone as soon as Nikolai could blink, and there was the sneer on his face again. "Just answer the call, Consigliere." 

          Nikolai did what he was told and he swiped the icon to the right. He slowly put the phone to his ear, his gaze never wavering from Jarl. 

          The other line was quiet, except for the occasional strained breathing in the background. He fought the urge to call out for her name—it wasn't the time to give the Brum Don more leverage against him. So he waited. 

          Zoya, he pleaded in his mind. Please be alright. 

          It was a desperate thought, one he hoped that would be true, because he would have to settle for the last resort and the Don wouldn't see another sunrise after tonight. 

          There was another silence, more ragged breathing. Nikolai's vision was starting to tunnel as he fought for composure, and Don's smirk was only adding fuel to the fire in him that was waiting to be ignited. 

          A beat, and there was a pained voice that said, "Nikolai—" 

          Something in Nikolai snapped, and he was suddenly flicking the knife out from his sleeve and then hauled it at Jarl Brum. 

          It hit the man on his shoulder hard enough for his chair to tip back, and he fell over with a shout. Nikolai shot up from his own chair and slid over the Don's desk, landing on the ground next to the man and kicking the man's arm even before he could reach for the alarm button under the edge of the table. He kept Jarl's arm pinned to the floor with his foot, and when the Don tried to reach for Nikolai's ankle with his other free arm, he pressed his foot harder against the man's arm he was sure he heard a soft crack.

          Dizziness hit nim like a tidal wave that almost threw him off balance. His vision swayed. Waiting for his body to adapt to the toxins would still take a bit of time, but he was being driven by his rage that he almost forgot he wasn’t here to kill the Don.

          "Did I catch you off guard?" Jarl asked with a strained laugh. "She really is your soft spot, eh? If I had known earlier I would have—" 

          Nikolai didn’t let him finish and brought his foot down with force, completely breaking the man's wrist. Jarl opened his mouth to let out a scream of pain, but Nikolai's other foot had already hit the Don across face before he could make a sound. Blood dripped from the side of the man's lips, and he spit it out to the side. 

          “I would watch that mouth of yours if I were you,” Nikolai said. With casual ease, he nudged the handle of the knife with his toe, and it earned another shout from the man. A smirk twitched on his lips at the sound of the Don's agony. There was always something satisfying in hearing your enemies scream in pain. "Not looking so tough now, aren't you, sir? But do scream all you want. Your office is soundproof, isn’t it?" 

          Despite himself, Jarl still hadn't cowered back in fear. If possible, he only became much angrier than when Nikolai was goading him before. "The Families would know about this assault," he said through gritted teeth. "You're making a big mistake by attacking the Brum Don." 

          "Am I now?" Nikolai leaned closer, resting his elbow on his bent knee. He reached out his other hand and patted Jarl on the cheek. The man flinched under his touch. "And 'Brum Don'? All I see is a dead man."

          Jarl’s eyes widened in fear. "You won't kill me." 

          Nikolai huffed lightly. "That's what our enemies in Halmhend used to say." He shrugged, and then reached for the Don’s uninjured arm. "Look where it got them." 

          With a hard tug on the man’s wrist, Nikolai kicked the desk until it was farther away from Jarl’s reach. He wasn’t taking any chances of the Don trying to sneak and alarm his men to his office. At least not just yet. They had the time for games later. Nikolai dragged Jarl to the wine drawer, throwing him off to the small wooden doors with a resounding thump. 

          Jarl groaned in pain, and yet it still sounded restrained as if he were keeping himself from making another shout. He was cradling his broken wrist on his lap, shoulder hunched forward enough for him to not show his face. 

          Nikolai raised an eyebrow. "Don't be shy now, I know you want to shout," he said as he grabbed the Don's fallen chair, standing it upright again and pulling it in front of Jarl before sitting down. He pulled out the lighter from his pocket. "I don't like it when they don't scream in pain."

          There was no answer for a long moment, with the Don still in his hunched position. Nikolai eyed him sideways. The man's shoulders were shaking with every breath he drew, and the spot where the knife was lodged continued to leak of blood. 

          It was new to him to see Jarl Brum in such a vulnerable state. But he was still trying to put up the tough persona a Don should have, and Nikolai was determined to break him slowly. Inflicting immense pain was one of the strengths Nikolai learned in the streets that gave birth to his name.

          “Still good, sir?” he asked in mock wonder. “You’re not as strong as I thought.”

          The man shot up from his place on the floor, his other arm stretched out as if to reach for Nikolai’s neck, but the Consigliere had already anticipated it. He simply leaned back and grabbed the man by both of his arms. His movements stopped. 

          Nikolai gave him a sneer. "Courageous," he said with genuine respect. "But still slow."

          He kicked the man on the chest, sending him crashing back to the drawers in a heap. Then Nikolai brought his foot down to Jarl’s ankle this time. There was another resounding crack, followed by a howl of pain. He almost smiled. 

          "Now that's the shout," Nikolai said. He stared down at the Don with pity. Jarl looked incredibly smaller for the Brum Don that terrorized everyone else. It was amusing to see how pain made anyone kneel to its extremities. "I thought your pride would still forbid you to scream. Make it louder for me, yeah? It sounds better." 

          "What do you want, Lantsov?" Jarl spat as if the name were some poison that stung his mouth. “Or should I say Opjer?”

          Nikolai’s jaw ticked in annoyance. He knows too much. "Not 'Consigliere' anymore? I feel sad about that, sir." He bent down and reached for the man's arm, bringing his hand close to him. He opened the lid of his lighter and put one of the Don's fingers in between the edge of the lid and the case. "I'll be brief, which I rarely do as I prefer talking more." He paused. "Call off your men."

          Jarl let out a laugh. "Too late for that, Nikolai. But I can almost assume that they're already leaving now that the threat was handled in the—" 

          Nikolai forced the lid of his lighter close, and the Don screamed in pain. The tip of his finger was set in an odd angle, with blood leaking from the damaged nail. It dripped onto Nikolai’s hand and his wrist, and then to the cuff of his sleeve. He inwardly winced in displeasure. It could be taken care of later. 

          He kept his expression impassive and moved to another finger. "Call off your men," he repeated. 

          Jarl’s face was twisted in cold rage, but there was no denying the agony he was under that he was still trying to put up with. When he didn’t answer, Nikolai closed the lighter onto the man’s next finger. Another howl of agony. He moved to another finger. 

          “Eight remaining fingers, eight remaining chances,” he said. “I will say it again. Call off your men, Jarl. I’m still being generous with giving you chances.”

          The man only smirked, and just as Nikolai was about to break off another finger, a loud thump resounded somewhere behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The doors to Jarl’s office were rattling, almost threatening to come off its hinges. The Don's men had a good way of knocking.

          "As I've said," Jarl wheezed, making Nikolai turn back to him, "too late to do that." 

          Nikolai tsked. "Very well," he said, and then clamped the lid to the man's third finger. He let go of his arm, and Jarl crumpled down to the ground. "A reward for being able to sneak past me." 

          His men were still trying to barge the doors down, but they were almost succeeding in doing so when Nikolai caught a glimpse of the light outside the hall through the small space by the door that was beginning to grow wider. He turned back to the Don. 

          "Let's make you a bit more presentable, shall we?" said Nikolai. 

          He grabbed the man by the collar and forced him to stand before dragging him to the chair. Jarl wheezed in pain as he tried to fight back, but both of his hands were so badly damaged he couldn't make use of them. The Don could only give Nikolai as much as a glare. 

          He forced the man back down to the chair. "No need to look so angry, sir." 

          "You won't get out of here alive, Lantsov," growled Jarl. "You are totally outnumbered. My men would—" 

          "Ah" —Nikolai patted the man on the cheek— "let's not get ahead of our predictions. Let me borrow this for a second." He swiftly pulled out the knife from Jarl’s shoulder. "I'll be right back." 

          "You and Nazyalensky are goners, Consigliere. Both of you are not going to make it through the night." 

          "We'll see about that." 

          Nikolai eyed the still rattling doors, and glanced at the bloodied knife in his hand. He would be at a total disadvantage, he knew, but it was better than having nothing. Besides, he'd had far much worse situations that he got out of, some that involved using bare hands and teeth just to survive. 

          Tonight wasn't any different either. 

          He approached the doors just as there was finally the sound of a wood splintering, and he pressed himself against the wall beside the entryway. With a twist of his knife in his hand, he reached up to remove the tie around his neck with his other, letting the ends fall loose onto his shirt. It would only be a hindrance to his movements. 

          The doors barged open and men in gray overcoats came rushing in. Nikolai tightened his grip around the knife and counted heads. Seven. Jarl should have invited more.

          The man nearest to him hadn't noticed him yet, and he took his chance. 

          Nikolai stepped forward and pushed his knife behind the man's throat. 

          One. 

          He immediately pulled the knife out, letting it fly towards the other Soldier to his right. Blood spurted from the man's neck. He crumpled to the ground with a gurgling sound. 

          A sneer twitched on his lips. 

          Two. 

          He started humming. The remaining men finally turned to him with their guns raised, but Nikolai was already on the move. He collided with the third one. His hand closed around the gun barrel and the other to the man's hand, pointing the gun to the other Soldiers. 

          Nikolai pulled the trigger. It hit the other Soldier on the head. 

          Three. 

          He turned a bit to the left and fired twice on the fourth Soldier's chest. 

          Four. 

          Nikolai twisted, using the third Soldier as a shield just as the shots erupted. The body convulsed as it took the barrage of bullets. Then the shots stopped, and he pressed the barrel under the man's chin before pulling the trigger. 

          Five. 

          He grabbed the gun, aimed over the dead man's shoulder, and fired at the other Soldier. He immediately crumpled on the ground after the bullet went straight through his skull. 

          Six. 

          With a push, Nikolai finally let the body fall to the ground. He turned to find the last Soldier, but he wasn't fast enough.

          A shot rang out, and pain burst on his ear. He stopped humming and blinked. The remaining Soldier looked at him with a terrified expression, his hand trembling so badly as if he was out enduring the cold winter night. Then he dropped the gun completely and he fell to the ground. 

          Nikolai approached him slowly, like a predator cornering his prey. The Soldier started to back away. But the tremors quaking his body were too much that he couldn't even move fast enough. 

          A moment later, Nikolai was hovering above him, with the barrel of the gun pointed at his face, and he immediately raised a hand to protect himself. 

          "No—" 

          But Nikolai already pulled the trigger before the Soldier could even plead, and he crumpled to the ground on the pool of blood from the hole in his head. 

          Seven. 

          The room went silent again. Nikolai reached a hand up to his ear, feeling the sticky wetness around it along with the sting of pain. When he looked at his hand, his fingers were drenched in blood. He huffed. At least they were able to nick him. 

          He turned back to Jarl, who was still sitting idly on his office chair, the expression on his face was a mix of horror and bewilderment.

          "There'd be more of them in a few moments, right?" Nikolai asked mildly as he went and got his knife from the Soldier's neck. He wiped it at the edge of the Soldier's gray coat, staining it red. Then he put it back behind the lapel of his coat. “How many are there left?”

          At the Don’s silence, he scoffed. He walked back to Jarl by the desk, grabbing the man by his collar and forcing him up to his remaining good foot. It’d have to do. An audience was still an audience no matter how few they were, and he wanted Jarl to see every drop of blood shed by his men for everything they had done, and for every life they had ruined. 

          For hurting Zoya.

          Because in the end, he would rather let himself be the one to end all this rather than branding himself as a traitor for selling his own Family out and risking any chances of putting Zoya's life on the line even more. He could only hope Tamar would be able to reach her on time. 

          There was no turning back from this. 

          This tyranny had to end tonight, as it would only continue until the point of time where no one could stop them. 

          It was time to be the monster that he had been once more. 

          Nikolai dragged Jarl outside the doors of the office. “Let the hunting party start, then.”

---

Zoya struggled against the restraints bounding her hands behind her. But then pain shot up to her side from where a bullet had grazed her during the shootout earlier. She grit her teeth, glaring at the man in front of her. She would definitely break his neck the moment she got free. 

          The storage room where they had been holding her was guarded with three other men in gray overcoats. They looked stiff and alert, their guns poised readily to aim at her the moment she tried to do something funny. Zoya wanted to laugh. She understood the hostility around her, especially when there's only several of them left in the warehouse. 

          It was supposed to be much lesser than Zoya had expected—the arms warehouse should have been empty except for a few guards on patrol and a Brum Soldier staying in the upstairs office. 

          But instead of that, Zoya had walked straight up into a trap instead, with the number of Jarl’s men tripling and they were being led by Ivor Kravchenko, the notorious Brum caporegime known for his brutal tendencies when it came to taking down his enemies. 

          She had come to think that there might have been a leak of their own plans to orchestrate the simultaneous attacks against the Brums. They had been able to reduce a great number from Jarl’s men, but it cost all the lives of Zoya's men that were with her during the attack. Their blood would forever be on her hands. 

          The other thing she could hope for now was that Nikolai and the twins were alright on their sides of this predicament. 

          “You shouldn’t have left your Don’s compound,” she said. It was taking a lot of her remaining strength to speak. "You all left your boss' to the wolf's mercy." 

          The man, whom Zoya remembered as Ivor and Jarl's notorious caporegime, gave a dark laugh. "A wolf, you say? It doesn't matter, a lone wolf is no match for a whole pack," said the caporegime. "Your Consigliere might even be dead by now. Just like the rest of your men here. Don't get too cheeky now." 

          Zoya's rage flared, the urge to make the man suffer stronger than before. "You seem to be forgetting that I killed half of your men alone," she said. "You better make sure I don't get out of these bounds because it will be your blood spilled on the ground next." 

          This seemed to annoy Ivor, making him step forward in haste with a murderous expression on his face. But then he stopped abruptly as if he had just remembered something, and he straightened back up. "I could kill you right now and be done with it, Nazyalensky," he said in a low voice. "But I still just choose not to. It's fun to see the great Lantsov Underboss tied down at the Brums mercy." 

          "Chose not to, or you're still waiting for your Don to give the order like a good puppy you are?" Zoya said back, savoring the look of new rage on the caporegime's face. She gave him a sharp smile. "It's been an hour since you called my Consigliere and tried to rattle him down. You haven't even heard from Jarl ever since then." 

          Ivor snarled, and then he was grabbing at Zoya's hair and pulling her head back, his knife suddenly pressed to her cheek. Zoya smirked triumphantly. It was so easy to derail him—the whole Brum Family if possible. They were all bombs that were ready to detonate at any time. 

          This would be fun when she finally had him under her mercy later. But having to reach that point seemed very difficult and almost next to impossible, especially when there were ropes bounding her hands. 

          An realization dawned in her head when her eyes trailed down the knife near her face. She just had to make the man drop it somehow. 

          "Do not test me, Nazyalensky," Ivor growled as he pressed the knife harder to her skin. Zoya felt a trickle of blood run down her face. He traced the blood with the knife point lightly before hovering it to her skin again. "I can be merciless at certain times." 

          As can I, Ivor. "Suits you, then," said Zoya simply. "I have the freedom to choose when to be merciless. Unlike you, who still has to wait for a go signal from his person before he can bite."

          With a growl, Ivor tugged at her hair harder. "Did you know what Jarl told me before I left to go handle the mess you will try to stage here?" he hissed. "He said that the Lantsov Consigliere and Underboss are the ones keeping their Family upright. If they were the ones to go first, they would all crumble, and he planned to do just that." Ivor smiled wickedly, the kind that spoke of a triumph gotten from a dirty play. "Starting with your Consigliere. I wonder how things would be if the Don suddenly decides to get rid of him."

          She clenched her fists behind her, her fury burning cold in her blood. Nikolai was a lot smarter than the others give him credit for. There was never a dire situation that he hadn't gone through before—he could always find a way out of anything.

          But their current standpoint only struck fear and doubt to Zoya. He was in their enemy's nest, the place where they had the absolute authority on everything. She had been reluctant for him to go alone, and yet he had insisted, saying that he had a plan just in case something went wrong. 

          And now that there had been a hole in their planned attack, Zoya could only hope that his plan didn't involve him risking his life more than he already did. 

          She would come and drag him out of hell if needed to. 

          "I'm pretty sure your Consigliere would run out of ideas at some point," added Ivor thoughtfully. "Tonight might be the time."

          You can all dream. 

          Zoya gave a short laugh, and then she tipped her head back and struck Ivor's nose with her forehead. 

          The man shouted as he pushed back from her, dropping his knife and putting a hand up to his face. She quickly took the advantage and tipped the chair down sideways. Pain shot up to her side when she hit the floor, and her vision blacked out for a few moments. The blow to her head earlier only added to the dizziness that made her vision spin. But she shook the ache away and her hands felt around for the knife from the floor as the three men were still occupied with coddling their boss. 

          When she finally grasped the knife handle, she immediately tucked it to the insides of her sleeve before looking back up to Ivor. 

          Blood seeped through his fingers that were tightly holding his now broken nose, and his face was scrunched up in pain. Zoya felt a laugh bubble from her chest. 

          "Can't even take a hit, eh?" she called to Ivor, who only glared at her with a murderous glint in his eyes. "Come and train with our men, you'll learn how to brush off a punch to your jaw like it's merely dust." 

          Ivor let out an angry growl and started to walk his way to her again, but one of his Soldiers stopped him. 

          "There aren't any orders for us to kill her yet, sir," the Soldier said with finality. He looked a bit younger than the other men, but he  had a sway on them that even Ivor stopped to consider his actions. "We should be patient." 

          Zoya huffed silently. Another well-trained pup, then. 

          The door to the room suddenly opened, and another one of Jarl’s men appeared by the threshold. "Sir," he said, gesturing outside, "it's urgent." 

          Ivor sighed in frustration. He gave Zoya another pointed look before turning to one of his men again. "Get her up and keep a close eye on her," he said stiffly, still holding a hand to his nose. "I might finally be allowed to kill her after." 

          With one last low gaze to Zoya, he stomped off the storage room. She huffed in amusement as she watched the Caporegime's retreating form disappear by the doorway. 

          "Petty ass," she muttered. But when Ivor's footsteps finally receded, she slid out the knife from her sleeve and started to cut through the ropes.

          It was the younger Soldier that moved to lift her chair upright, his movements brusque and rough it made the pain on Zoya's side shoot up again.  

          "Easy with the moving, will you?" she hissed at the Soldier. 

          He sneered at her, pushing the chair roughly back down to its feet instead. "Witch," he hissed back, and Zoya had to laugh. The Soldier pointed the gun under her chin. "The only thing keeping me from firing is that the Don didn't want you dead just yet, and we're just waiting for the go signal." He pressed the barrel to her chin harder for emphasis. "Don't get too smug." 

          Men and their egos. "Sure thing, hon," said Zoya mildly with a shrug. 

          It seemed to be enough for the Soldier as he put down the gun and started to back off. But then ropes finally cut loose, and a smirk twitched at her lips. She kept her arms behind her and flipped the knife in her hand so that it pointed forward. 

          "Lapdog," she muttered, making sure the Soldier heard her. 

          And he did, because he suddenly stopped walking and turned to her again, a look of rage evident on his face. His jaw was set when he reached her again in a few quick strides. 

          He bent down and grabbed at her face. "What did you say, you—" 

          His next words came out in a gurgling mess when Zoya's hand shot up and pushed the knife into the man's throat. 

          She reached for the man's gun with her other hand just as the two other men noticed what was happening. She aimed and fired at the two of them before they could even raise their guns to shoot, and they crumpled to the ground with a thud. 

          The Soldier clawed at his neck desperately, his movements panicked. Zoya looked at him pitifully before yanking the knife out. The man fell to the ground. 

          She wiped her bloodied hand and knife to the squirming man's coat for a moment, staining the fabric blood red. His other hand still tried to reach for her ankle, but Zoya merely stepped away. 

          Then she pointed the gun to the Soldier's face. "For gunning down my men," she said before shooting him in the head. 

          He slumped to the ground, lifeless. Zoya winced at the sudden sting that pierced her side, and she almost doubled over. She checked her wound. The long line of the bullet graze was still oozing with blood, but much lesser than before. She would have to put up with it for now; she needed to have a talk with Ivor first. 

          Rushed footsteps echoed outside just as she neared the door. She immediately pressed herself against the wall beside the doorway and waited. A few moments later, the door barged open, and Ivor and another man came rushing in. 

          They hadn't noticed her yet, and Zoya sprang. 

          She raised her gun and shot the Soldier in the head. Ivor turned just as she aimed the gun to his thigh and pulled the trigger. He reared back with a shout, and Zoya swiped the gun up and whacked him across the face with the stock. Ivor crashed to the floor. 

          But when she finally got a closer look at the man's face, she realized it wasn't Ivor at all. The Soldier was only wearing the Caporegime's coat. 

          Zoya gritted her teeth as she pointed her gun to the man. "Where's Ivor?" she hissed. 

          He didn’t answer, and it made her anger flare even more. She put her finger closer to the trigger. 

          "Where—" 

          A crack of gunshot, and then a flash of excruciating pain on her other side just below her ribs. Zoya backed a few steps, dropping her gun and putting a hand to her side. When she checked on it after a moment, her palm was already covered in red. 

          "Miss me?" Ivor called out from the door. 

          Zoya didn’t have the strength to turn completely, and she crashed to the floor. The surroundings blurred into a mess of colors, the sudden flash of lights adding to the swaying of her vision. She put a hand to her wound, and she stifled a groan when another wave pain shot up to her body. 

          Ivor's figure appeared in her line of vision, his steps slow and deliberate as if he had all the time in the world. Zoya could only do as much as glare at the Caporegime, at the broken nose that had the faint traces of dried blood around it, and hoped for the Saints to give her enough strength to kill the guy right then. But her wishes were ignored and the pain only became worse. 

          "You think you could get out of my watch that easily?" He shook his head in disappointment. "I thought you were better than this."

          "Come closer and I'll show you," Zoya snarled. 

          "A real tough one, aren't you? Even as you lay dying, you can still make someone cower in fear." Ivor laughed loudly, and it was like the sound of a chair being scraped off a tiled floor. "I had to admit I was impressed on how you got that knife. That was neat."

          Zoya blinked. He had known? 

          As if he had heard her thoughts, Ivor chuckled darkly. "Oh, I did notice. That's why I staged a little dress up with one of my Soldiers here after the phone call. Always did the trick." 

          "Staged?" Zoya laughed, but it came out as a wheeze instead. "Did you really just use your men as bait just to kill me dramatically?" 

          "Ten points for Nazyalensky!" Ivor announced before raising his gun and pointing it at the Soldier he had made to wear his coat. "We're busted, unfortunately. Thank you for your service." Then he pulled the trigger. 

          Zoya winced at the sound of the dead body falling to the ground. She shook her head. "You're mad, Kravchenko." 

          "That, I am. But you know who's worse?" He bent down a little as if to tell some secret. Then he pointed two fingers at her. "You two." He paused to laugh again, and then he started pacing back and forth. 

          She took the small distraction to pull the handgun closer to her and hide it under her back. And when he stopped and stared back down at her, she noticed something strange. There was a wild look in his eyes, the deranged kind of glint of a paranoid man. 

          Ivor waved his gun carelessly in the air. "Oh, don't worry I finally have the order to kill you." 

          Zoya turned to her bad side slightly, bearing the pain that washed over her again and reaching for the gun she had hidden behind her. 

          "Worry not, Nazyalensky. You're going to meet your Consigliere soon," said Ivor. "The Don never planned to let your Consigliere get out of there alive, you know. The chance was too good to let it pass. He was a dead man the moment the Don accepted the meeting." 

          She knew Ivor was trying to get to her head, and she knew better that she shouldn't let it, but it was proving to be difficult when it was Nikolai’s safety being used against her. It was then she remembered this was what Ivor was known for—tormenting his enemies rights before he killed them. But Zoya knew to herself that she would have preferred physical torment than this. She wouldn't even have the chance to know if Nikolai was safe from any danger. 

          A bittersweet laugh bubbled from her chest. Even in near death circumstances, Nikolai was still her headache. She could only hope he would be able to get through tonight.

          Zoya gripped the gun tightly. She wouldn't this man torment her until her last breath. Not without bringing him down with me. 

          Ivor was seething when he was checking his gun chamber. Something was definitely wrong with him. Had something come up after that phone call? 

          "This is a payback to your Consigliere for acting stupidly. And for what he's done," he said and he shook his head, fury and annoyance evident on his face. "He's so going to pay for that. I can't wait to kill him myself—" He stopped abruptly and turned back to Zoya. "You'll meet him soon, Nazyalensky. Don't worry, I'll make it—" 

          With what's left of her strength, Zoya lifted her arm and fired at the Caporegime, emptying the whole gun's whole clip at him. Ivor convulsed with every bullet he took, his eyes wide in shock as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. 

          When the gun only gave a click, Zoya let her arm fall. A triumphant smirk twitched at her lips as she watched Ivor's bewildered expression. His hand fell limp at his side, and he looked down at the holes on his chest. 

          A scoff tore from his throat, and along with it came blood that leaked from his lips. His expression turned from shocked to angry in a blink. With a shaking hand, he pointed his gun back at her. "You witch—" 

          There was a crack of gunshot. Zoya closed her eyes and waited for the momentary pain before the end. 

          But it didn't come. 

          There was a loud thud, like the sound of a body falling to the floor, and she opened her eyes again. 

          Ivor lay on the floor, lifeless, his wide, empty eyes still open. Blood started to pool around his body all too quickly.

          "Zoya," a familiar voice said. 

          Through her blurry vision, Zoya could make out a figure of a woman approaching her in rush. Tamar. 

          She immediately held out her hand, and felt Tamar take it right away. The woman's other hand came to put pressure on her wound. "You're okay," Zoya said. Her breaths were starting to come out in short bursts. "Is Tolya—" 

          "He's fine, General, you should think of yourself first. Save your breath. You'll be fine." Tamar let go of her hand to pull out her phone. She dialled a number and started speaking to someone, but the words faded into echoes of distorted sounds. 

          A moment later Zoya heard Tamar's voice again. "Stay with me, Nazyalensky." She clasped at her hand, gripping it tightly as if it would give Zoya enough life again if she held on tighter. 

          Nikolai, Zoya wanted to ask her. Is he safe? 

          But the pain and exhaustion were too overwhelming for her to stay awake, and she found her grip on Tamar's hand loosening with every ragged breath she drew. 

        Have I done enough? 

        She didn't know. 

        Be safe, idiot. 

        She took another breath. 

        Then everything went dark. 

***

Zoya opened her eyes. 

        Immediately, a dull throb washed over her body that almost made her pass out again, but the gentle touches she felt on her hand kept her anchored down to consciousness. She drew in a shaky breath. 

        She was still alive. She has survived the ordeal. Tamar and Tolya were safe too and—

        Nikolai. 

        Where was he? Was he alive? 

        Zoya turned to her right in haste, but she stopped when she spotted a mess of blond hair on her bedside. The grip on her hand tightened, and she felt her eyes sting. 

        He's okay. 

        "Hey," she said, voice still rough from sleep. 

        Nikolai instantly bolted upright. He looked like a mess, with his hair ruffled and the bruises and cuts on his face. There were traces of dried blood on the side of face down to his collar, his coat, and even on the edge of his sleeves. His hands were no different; the skin around his knuckles were torn open and red. But the worse one he got was his left ear—or what was left of it. He was tired and in pain, and yet he only had the look of utter relief and warmth in his eyes when he looked at her and smiled.

        There was an unexpected prick in her heart. Zoya wanted to reach out and hold him to her, to tell him that she was glad he was alive, but she couldn’t do anything of those as her body still felt heavy like lead due to the exhaustion and medication. 

        A tear fell down from his eye, and Nikolai quickly wiped it away with a tired laugh. Then he shifted closer, his hand reaching out to smooth the hair away from her forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned against his touch almost immediately. 

        “You’re a mess, dear,” he said, his tone light with amusement. 

        Zoya huffed weakly. “You should see yourself.” She nodded at his state of dress. "It's not you to have your suit ruined like that." 

        “There’s always a first one, you know.” Nikolai gave her a wink. “Just not the thing I prefered. I can always throw it in the laundry, though.”

        “You, doing the laundry? I know you’ll break the washing machine first before you can get anything done,” she said, and Nikolai laughed lightly. A small smile appeared on her lips, and she laced their fingers together. What she expected to be a gentle touch was a trembling grip instead. His hand was badly shaking. Concern washed over her as she looked at him in worry. “Nikolai?”

        “I’m fine. I just—” Nikolai stopped. He laughed again, but it sounded more like a sob of relief instead. He shook his head. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered. He still looked like he was about to break any moment, but it was gone in a blink and he put on his signature grin that brightened up his features. “But I guess I didn’t have to worry that much now, yeah?”

        Tears stung Zoya’s eyes again, and she smiled ruefully. I almost lost you too. But she covered it up with a smirk.  “They can’t get rid of me that easily.”

        "I know." 

        Silence fell around them. It was unusual for her to have a quiet as she was used to hearing all types of noises, whether it be the angry and rising tones during meetings or the gunfire that followed after when the negotiations went wrong. Even at nights, which was supposed to be when everything was in peace, were still haunted by the voices of the people who had died under her jurisdiction, and their blood was on her hands. 

        Having this moment struck dread to her, because good things, even the smallest ones, always came with a price. And she wasn't entirely sure if she was willing to give up anything. 

        "Do tell me your thoughts, dearest Zoya," Nikolai said, breaking the silence. He smiled as he continued his ministrations on her hair. "When you're quiet like that, I'm worried that you might be planning someone's death." 

        Zoya huffed. "How can you be sure that it wasn't your death I was planning?"

        Nikolai chuckled. "Please, you can't plan something that's already done," he said in amusement, and then his face fell after a second as if he realized what he just said. He smiled but it was half-hearted than his usual ones. "I like being one step ahead, you know." 

        "What happened, Nikolai?" she asked softly, not wanting to risk him shying away. Her hand tightened its hold on his. "What did you do?" 

        "I did what I had to do," he said simply. There was a faraway look in his eyes as he stared down at their joined hands. He rubbed circles around her skin, his touch feather light. "There was no other way."

        "Did you—" Zoya stopped. She didn't want to say it. She wanted to believe that if she didn't, it could change the truth. But the defeated look in his eyes only solidified the truth. 

        “Jarl Brum is dead," Nikolai said. A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he looked back up at her. “He died when his compound had caught on fire due to faulty gas pipes. And the Lantsov Consigliere died with him in the fire. It’s what the people would hear by morning.” He paused, and breathed in deep. Then he smiled his usual grin again. “He put up quite a fight, though. It ruined my suit doing it. What a sad mess.”

        Zoya could only stare at him in melancholy. She didn’t even have the heart to answer his joke back. That was their last resort. They both agreed that if things had turned out the worst, he would have to settle with killing the Don. But that was before, when they thought that their plans were foolproof.

        I should have known and done better.

        Nikolai must have seen the look on her face, because he shook his head gently and his grin turned into a rueful one. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do that to yourself. I don't regret doing anything,” he said. He took her hand in both of his. “He was going to force me to hand over the Lantsovs to them, saying he’ll have you killed if I don’t. It was a deadend. There was no guarantee they won’t hurt you even if I agree. And I was never going to sell us over, anyway.” He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. "I'd rather get hurt a thousand times more than lose you." 

        A tear finally fell from the side of her eye. If this was the price she had to pay for having this moment with him, she did not want it. She would give up anything else to pay the price. Just not this. Not him. 

        “So, I guess this is our last night together,” Zoya said, her voice breaking slightly. 

        His hand reached up to her face and wiped the tear with his thumb. There were also tears clouding his eyes. He nodded gently, the sad smile still on his lips. Zoya leaned in his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I promise to annoy you to death so you would have enough spite for me to last in a long while.”

        Zoya huffed in amusement. She had never hated him so much than she did now. How could he make it sound so easy when he was going to leave? “I already have enough spite to last for the rest of my life.”

        Nikolai laughed back. “That’s good to hear.” 

        Another short silence filled the air, and Zoya looked him over. If it was the last time she would see him, she wanted to bask in the warmth radiating in his eyes and remember all the quirks he had, as if she hadn’t memorized everything about him before. 

        She lifted her hand slightly, and Nikolai went to hold it back in his. He turned his attention to her forearm, tracing the dark lines of the tattooed dragon on her skin. It felt like he was doing the same, memorizing a distinct feature of her that he would carry with him.

        “I’ve always thought this one’s cooler than my wolf one,” he said softly, running his fingers on her skin. “You always get cooler ones than me.”

        “Where would you go?” Zoya asked instead.

        Nikolai stopped his ministrations, his fingers coming back to lace with hers. “It would be better if no one knew,” he replied solemnly. “Besides, I wouldn’t stay in one place for long.” 

        Zoya took a deep breath. This was their reality, and she should know better than lament over it. She wasn’t the type to let emotions take over her. But for Nikolai Lantsov, she would always be willing to make an exception.

        “Maybe I can mail something from time to time,” he said. “Postcards and pictures, how do you feel about that?”

        “Are you trying to make me feel better?” 

        Her Consigliere chuckled lightly. “No, I am entirely serious.” He shrugged. “Mail is the safest thing to get something across without the risk of being traced.”

        Zoya shook her head with a light laugh. I’d take anything. “Whatever you say, corn salad,” she said, and Nikolai laughed. A wave of dizziness suddenly washed over through her. The medicine must be taking its effects now. No, not yet. A few more minutes. “When do you leave?” 

        A beat, and then Nikolai said, “Soon.” An amused smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You don’t have to be so excited.”

        “Idiot,” she mumbled. There was a twinge in her chest with the nickname she had of him, knowing that it would be the last time she could tell it to him in person. 

        Nikolai tightened his hold on her hand, and she felt it trembling again. His eyes were bright with tears when he said, “I’ll miss that nickname.” I’ll miss you, was what never said aloud, but Zoya heard it all the same.  

        I’ll miss you too. Zoya gave him a small smile. “Just look at the engraving in your lighter, it will remind you.” Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she found her eyes drooping slightly. 

        Zoya heard him laugh softly, making her blink to shake the drowsiness away. Nikolai reached up to brush at the hair on her forehead again. 

        “Go get some more rest,” he said. His hand came down to her cheek, and he gently caressed her skin with his thumb. “Don’t fight it, I know you’re still tired.”

        "I'm not tired," she grumbled back. 

        "Whatever you say, dear."

        Her eyes were starting to feel too heavy for her to stay awake, but she still fought the drowsiness from taking over so she could still see him for a little more time. 

        "Go rest," he said again. 

        Zoya squeezed his hand. She was never the first one to ask. To their world, everything was a trade—you give and take. A request meant a desperate wish, and you should always be willing to pay the price. 

        But she had already paid for it, and it was only fair if she wished for one final request. Be it a selfish, impossible kind. 

        "Stay?" she asked. Even just for a moment longer. "You've always made a good bodyguard." 

        Nikolai smiled softly. I can't, was what his eyes said, and yet, aloud, he still said, "Of course." He tucked the blankets higher to her shoulders, his movements gentle and careful. "Now go back to sleep. I'll be here."

        They both knew it was a lie. 

        Zoya closed her eyes, knowing she couldn't bear seeing him leave, and she'd rather have him do it while she was asleep. 

        Then he started humming. His shitty, off-tune humming. Her shoulders shook as her body racked with silent sobs, her eyebrows drawn tight together to keep her tears from falling. But they still did, anyway. 

        She felt him press his lips to her knuckles, and small droplets fall against her skin. She didn't even have to open her eyes to know that it was his tears. 

        "Good night, Nikolai," Zoya whispered in a shaky tone. Farewell. Be safe. 

        A short, heavy silence, and she heard him draw a ragged breath. "Good night, Zoya." Goodbye, Zoya. 

        His voice and the feel of his hand tight in hers were the last things she knew before sleep took over her. 

        And when Zoya finally slept, she dreamed that she would never have to let him go. 

***

News about the death of the Brum Don because of the fire that caught his compound was heard early on the next morning. Television news, radio, newspapers, and even the social media boomed with the word, and it spread like wildfire. 

        It went even bigger when the Lantsov Consigliere was also reported to have died along the fire, with all the current evidence proving that the fire had been intentional. But none of them pointed to Nikolai. The investigation was still open, and it will probably go on for quite a while. The only thing that lightened the burden on Zoya’s chest was knowing that he was alive. He had known how things would go beforehand, and made sure that none of them ended up implicating the Lantsovs.

        Always the well-prepared one.

        The chair where Nikolai had sat last night was empty, as if he wasn’t there at all. The only traces left of him was the lingering scent of his perfume and the dip on her bedside where he had laid his arms on as he watched her with all the warmth in his eyes, the same warmth he took with him when he left.

        Zoya felt her eyes sting with unwanted tears again as she looked out the window, but this time she didn’t try to keep them from falling. She smiled ruefully, a bittersweet feeling left in her heart. It was probably bad fate that had them cross paths, and it was also what separated them. But either way, it was still what had brought them together. She was thankful for that somehow, even if they only had limited time.

        But then it struck her, that it didn’t always have to be fate that should handle things. She was the Lantsov Underboss, the one who drove the saintsforsaken Family out of the mud with the Consigliere. If there was something they were good at, it was handling things their own way and bending the odds to their will.

        A near death experience had her questioning herself if she had done enough. She didn’t know the answer by then, but she did now.

        I am not done yet.

        She wouldn’t give up on Nikolai that easily. Even if it took her years to do it. She would bring him back. 

        Because she knew he would do the same for her. 

        I’ll see you again, Nikolai, she vowed. And it wouldn’t be the last. 

        Zoya would make sure of it.

***

A/N: if you’ve reached this far, please know i appreciate you ;-;

[pertinax--loculos]

Russian Roulette

Or, What Happens When The Bad Guys Devise A Test For The Precognitive They’ve Captured

Content Warnings: forced participation in a game of Russian roulette; graphic description of self-inflicted gunshot wound

***

Travers looms over the table, and his grin is bright and keen and cruel.

"The game," he says, "Is Russian roulette."

He slams a handgun down on the centre of the table.

The other three people jerk backwards away from it. Ethos remains motionless, staring at the sleek shiny ugly gun.

"For those not up with the classics," Travers says, "This is a six-shot revolver. There's only one bullet in it. Each of you aim the gun at your own head and pull the trigger. The winners are those left at the end of the game. The loser, well..."

The grin widens, fervent and sick and deranged. His eyes range over the three other prisoners and come to rest on Ethos.

"Be helpful if you could see the future."

The others glance at him, varying degrees of curiosity. Each of their futures is so short it's impossible to tell just by length which one of them is the victim. It could be him. He'd never know.

"So, then." Travers is enjoying this immensely, resting a hand on the back of the twitchy man and the woman's chair, leaning down to beam into their faces. "Who wants to go first?"

A rustling around the table. Ethos flicks frantically through the futures and sees the once-muscled man consider throwing a punch. That ends his life almost immediately. Twitchy wants to get up and run and just see how far he will make it. He won't make it far.

"Well?" Travers prompts. Threatens.

The woman reaches forward, her fingers shaking. She draws the gun towards her, the scrape of metal across the wooden tabletop unbearably loud in the sudden hush of the room.

She's uncomfortable with the gun, beyond the threat it poses to her life; unfamiliar, might be a better word, though even Ethos has seen enough movies to know how this goes. She wraps her palm around the grip and lets her forefinger rest on top of the trigger. Hefts it upwards as twin tears bleed out of the corner of her eyes and make long shimmering tracks down her cheeks. She places it just in front of her ear. The room is filled with the anticipatory silence of a single held breath.

The woman sobs. It crackles through the air like lightning, and she pulls the trigger.

The gun clicks and she practically flings it away from her. It skids across the table and skitters to a halt directly in front of Ethos.

"Now, we do have rules to follow." Travers reaches over Twitchy, making him flinch, sliding the gun into the spot in front of him. "Around the circle to the left."

Twitchy is shaking all over, and the jerky movements he makes as he lifts his hand seem to match the frantic hammering of Ethos's pulse. He keeps his finger straight, not curled around the trigger, as he raises the gun to his head. A single breath, not long enough for the anticipation to take hold, before he shifts his finger and pulls the trigger.

Another click. Twitchy places the gun back onto the table with almost reverent care.

Travers grins as he slides it over to Ethos.

It's impossible to tell what's going to happen, now, his own future a total blank. Ethos skims his fingers over the metal and wood of the gun. He's never fired one before. Never had a desire to. Doesn't have the desire to now.

There's not a lot of other options. He knows they'll kill him if he refuses.

It's heavier than he expected. The effort the woman appeared to put in makes more sense as he shifts his fingers around the grip, keeping his finger straight like Twitchy did. He doesn't want to squeeze the trigger accidentally, doesn't want to ruin his one chance. The whole gun is warm, and Ethos wonders if it's been fired recently. If it's just warm because wherever Travers kept it had to be close to his body. Whether it's Travers's personal weapon, whether he gets some sick sense of satisfaction or gratification out of watching it be used to slaughter the innocent.

He wonders if any of them sitting here are truly innocent, and he presses the barrel to his temple and pulls the trigger.

The resultant click is like water rushing through his muscles, and his hand falls heavily to the table, fingers still wrapped around the gun. It takes until Travers moves for him to find the strength to release it, and then he shoves it away from him quickly, violently, disgust roiling sickening and hot in his stomach.

Once-Muscled stares down at the gun, his jaw working, eyebrows twisted together enough they almost merge into one. His hand doesn't shake as he reaches for it. His grip doesn't hesitate as he lifts it, left-handed, to his head. His jaw doesn't have time to unclench when the bullet explodes from the chamber and shreds half his skull.

Blood and brain and shards of skull shower Ethos and he'd jump from the sensation, if he wasn't so preoccupied with the fucking explosion ringing in his ears, the sound of the gunshot magnified what feels like one thousand, echoing rancid and final around his skull, and when he licks his lips he tastes the iron tang of blood not his own and his stomach wrenches, twists and tries to empty itself of everything that's not in it, and Travers is grinning wider than ever and speaking even though Ethos can't hear it over the piercing whine drilling into his ears and--

"Well?" Travers prompts. Threatens.

Ethos reaches across the table. Wraps his fingers around the gun. Lifts it, heavy and violent and warm, to his temple. Curls his finger around the trigger and pulls it three times in quick succession.

Jerks it away from his head and sights down the barrel towards Travers's skull.

"I'll show you the future," he says, and pulls the trigger for the fourth time.

[sujith013]

Are we in a simulation ?

If we want to find the answer to the above question, we first have to find the answer to the question “who created us?”. If we ask this question to a 5-year-old baby or to an 80-year-old person, the common answer that we get is “GOD”. But Who/ What exactly is God? No one knows. Of course, different religions describe God and the ideologies of God in so many different ways. But none of us have seen God. All the things that exist is created by someone, and that someone is called a creator. We all exist in this exceptional world because we have been created. If we exist it means that we are created, then there must definitely be a creator.

It is the notion of “who exactly is our creator?” that varies. Now moving on to another question, how exactly it all started?

The BIG BANG THEORY

 Well, I don’t mean the sitcom, I mean the actual theory here. From all the sources and information available, scientists are just able to claim that “Everything started with a Big Bang!”; i.e.; billions of years ago there was literally nothing and then Boom!!!.... the stars, the planets, the sun, etc. It was Georges Lemaitre, who came up with this theory first and he claimed that all this started from just a single atom. I would have to mention that there are evidences supporting the big bang theory, but yet that does not prove anything a 100%. So, it is just one among the many proposals for the creation of this universe. So, we may also have to consider other possibilities for the existence of universe. Now moving on to the important part.

What is simulation?

Simulation is an act of imitating a situation or process. For example, we may simulate the solar activity models, the natural disasters etc. to further study on those topics. Decades ago, before the digital era, no one would have ever thought about the theory of simulation for the existence of the universe because they literally would have had no idea about this. But this may not be the present case.

At the present world we are simulating almost everything starting from a small weather simulator to flight simulators. Vehicle simulators like car and flight simulators are used during the training sessions because, they almost replicate the feeling of driving/ controlling an actual vehicle.

I do agree that right now even though we have started to simulate everything around us, the simulations are not exactly real nor exactly the same.

But my point is that centuries ago no one would have thought that we would be simulating and bringing all these things into our pocket-sized smart phones or in our PCs or Laptops. So, we are open to any possibilities in this world.    

But I do know that I just cannot simply speak for the simulation theory without any proper evidences. So, in order to make it clear to you, let me take the example of video games. Modern day video games are the best example to prove my point on the simulation theory. The initial video games that were created were during the 1960s. All those games were 2D games and the entire game would have been created with just 1000 lines of code. And now here we are 50 years later playing games with high-definition graphics in 3D. If we have come this far in just 5 decades, then with the current rate of growth in the graphics industry we could achieve even better graphics in the next few years where it would be almost impossible to say what is real and what is not real.

It is important to understand that by being real here I don’t only mean the graphics, but also the brain, i.e., Artificial Intelligence.

Artificial Intelligence

 AI is the intelligence that is displayed by the machines. This AI is a fast-growing sector that has a very huge scope in the future. Few of the great examples for AI are the google assistant, SIRI and Alexa. It is because of this AI that when we talk to them, we feel like we are talking to a real person and not a machine. Improvement in AI means that the intelligence of the machines would match the intelligence of humans in the future.

Now we have discussed both the graphics and the AI. It is with the help of these two things that we would be able to achieve a real simulation. With the graphics being so very real and with the AI matching the intelligence of humans, the result will be a simulation of ourselves. If we are able to simulate ourselves so realistically, then the chances for we being a simulation by the creator is very high.

In fact, the founder of SpaceX, one of the most successful entrepreneur Elon Musk strongly believes that we are living in a simulation.

If you are reading this and if you still don’t believe me then I request you to search for the game Red Dead Redemption 2 that came out in 2018. Try playing the game or watch videos on the gameplay. If you do so you would definitely think that it is possible because, Rockstar games, the creator company of the game, claimed that they have used advanced AI to develop and present us a live living and breathing world and they also made their claim true. You would be able to notice that all the human characters as well as the flora and fauna in the game behave very realistically and very close to how they behave in real world and you would really won’t believe that all this is just in a video game.

So, as I said before, centuries ago, no one would have thought that we would be doing all our works just from our homes with the help of PCs and smart phones.

So, in this amazing world anything can be possible and so is the simulation theory!!!....

[ladyloveandjustice]

Fall 2020 Anime Overview

I started out watching the a ton of anime for the Fall 2020 season, but then ended up not being caught up with most of them by the the time the end rolled around. I still pretty much intend to catch up with Yashahime Princess Half Demon someday (I do like the three leads, it just the plot’s been dull as dirt and the fights aren’t very inspired either) and though I dropped Wandering Witch after bad press started rolling in (I CANNOT deal with pointless tragedy in my current state of mind) I might check out a few more episodes someday just to from my own opinion. For now, let’s just quickly review the anime I DID manage to finish on time this season.

Sleepy Princess in the Demon Castle

Sleepy Princess in the Demon Castle is exactly what it says on the tin: Princess Syalis isn’t too bothered about being captured by demons and locked in their castle, but she does value a good night’s sleep, and she is absolutely ruthless when it comes to getting it- so ruthless, in fact, that the demons realized it might not be that she’s trapped in here with them, but that they’re trapped in here with her.

Sleepy Princess is top tier comedy comfort food. It rarely got a huge belly laugh, but it always but a smile on my face and was a great thing to watch before going to bed. Syalis’s single-minded search for some shut eye is a joke that could have gotten old very quickly, but the show consistently found creative ways to expand on the gags and build it’s world and a fun cast of characters along the way. 

Though Syalis is downright brutal to the demons when it comes to getting what she wants (and has a knack for getting herself killed at well), thanks to a demon cleric that offers easy resurrections, you never feel too bad for anyone involved. In fact, the demons and Syalis form a strangely heartwarming bond over the course of the show , and it’s clear by the end that Syalis definitely has the ability to come and go if she damn well pleases and just finds this castle a fun place where she can find respite from her princessly responsibilities. 

A nice bonus for those of us who like a little subversion is that the show has a lot of fun playing with standard adventure tropes- the demons often lament that Syalis is not at all what they expected from a captive princess, for one, but my favorite fun little twist is how Syalis feels about the hero currently on a (seemingly endless) quest to rescue her- she manages to both hold him in contempt AND consistently fail to remember his name. That level of disregard takes some impressive effort.

The show has the same director as the Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun anime and as such has a similarly nice comic and visual flourishes throughout. It definitely gets two sleepy thumbs up for me.

Jujutsu Kaisen

Jujutsu Kaisen follows a young man named Yuuji Itadori who, after tangling with a demon, ends up with one inside him. With a death sentence hanging over his head, he’s inducted into a school for “jujutsu sorcerers”, and begins training to use his newfound powers to defeat demons and curses.

Jujutsu Kaisen quickly tells you on no uncertain terms it is Action Shonen, introducing a huge cast of a characters and powers and super high stakes and hey there’s even gonna be a tournament arc soon. It is really, really pretty to look at, with a killer opening and ending, some seriously great animation and cool visuals for the fights especially. But is it particularly memorable otherwise? Noooooot really, so far. The sea of technobabble it tends to descend into when trying to explain how the various powers work often has me zoning out and wishing they’d just let me watch the pretty punches. The villains and the general plot isn’t particularly compelling. The characters are nice enough, but haven’t given me much to be attached to so far. Though I do appreciate this one dude who is the embodiment of millennial ennui:

I’ll keep watching though, because it is a visually stunning, action-y thing to my turn your brain off to and god knows I want to turn my brain off all the time lately. 

And the characters do have potential- the One Girl of the main group, Nobara, has a really fun personality in that she’s a total shitlord doofus brawler who can thus doof around with our equally dumbass protagonist, which is an pretty fun, unusual personality for the One Girl to have! Her interactions with Maki, the weapons expert senpai girl, are promising too. I’m just waiting for her to actually, you know, DO something that really shows off her skills- I’m told she DOES eventually get to (gasp) win fights on her own and do cool stuff, but so far show has kind at that of failed miserably and underused her like most action shonen underuse their girls. Plus, taking Yuuji out of the group for such a long stretch seems like a weird choice, we’ve been deprived really seeing him for relationships with his peers. The pacing seems off. But maybe the upcoming tournament arc will make up for that and actually be worthwhile!

Talentless Nana

In a world where kids with superpowers are sent to island schools to fight mysterious “enemies of humanity”, one class of such kids is thrown into chaos when they find themselves targeted by a deadly force.

It’s pretty much impossible to talk about Talentless Nana without discussing how it deviates dramatically from what its premise appears to be in episode one, so I’ll just say if you like stories with superpowers and intrigue, you should definitely sit through that first episode and see if the plot that’s eventually revealed is something that you’re here for. But if you want to avoid spoilers, DON’T GO BELOW THE CUT, because I’m about to get very spoilery.

Basically, Talentless Nana pulls a bait and switch, starting it’s first episode posing as generic superhero anime where the protagonist appears to be your standard meek-but-powerful anime boy (Nanao) who just needs some support and encouragement from a pink haired mind reading manic pixie dream girl (Nana) to unlock his self-confidence and ~true power~ (ugh)...only to take SHARP swerve when  Nana ruthlessly murders Nanao and reveals she’s been sent by the government to take out the superpowered kids one by one because THEY are the considered the true enemies of humanity. Oh, and she doesn’t have any superpowers, or “talents”- she was just able to sus out everything Nanao was thinking through basic deductive reasoning because he was so flippin’ obvious and basic.

As my love for a certain character in a certain game may have clued people into, I am ALWAYS delighted when what appears to be a generic, underwritten girlfriend character is then revealed to be an interesting, ruthless mastermind. And having an anime appear to be about a bland boy with a Dream Girlfriend but then actually turn into a show about a deeply cynical, morally dubious girl who’s clearly holding down a lot of messy feelings as she considers everyone her enemy...well, it may be a cheap trick to some, but it also feels a little bit like justice for all the underwritten female characters sacrificed to bland male leads. It’s still rare enough that I dig it when it happens. And the metatext of Nana zeroing in on this kid as the most standard of main character boys, assessing him as the biggest threat because of it and knowing the perfect way to take him out, is pretty inherently funny to me.

But if the show JUST banked on that twist and was about Nana brutally and cynically slaughtering these kids, it would get boring quickly and Nana would be a bland character herself. Fortunately, it doesn’t go that route. Nana struggles and grows a lot over the course of the show. She finds opposition in transfer student Kyoya, a stoic (and socially awkward) young man who pretty quickly becomes suspicious of her. A lot of the tension from the early episodes comes from her sweating as she tries to outmaneuver him and she makes plenty of mistakes along the way. She also slowly but surely starts to question her mission, and we get an idea of her backstory and how the government specifically has groomed her into believing people with powers to be evil. That belief is one that’s challenged by her friendship with another girl, and it’s pretty rewarding to watch Nana’s feelings and world expand little by little.

The show is definitely a little schlocky-some of the plots (as well as the general premise of the government thinking this is the optimal way to get rid of their superpowered kids problem) fall apart if you think too much about them, and some of the kids Nana goes up against are sleazy and unlikeable in over the top ways (which makes it easy for her to stick to her convictions all these kids deserve to die at first). In particular, I have to give a heads up for some sleazy guys doing and saying sleazy things, though the show never gets too overbearing or graphic with it (and the gore is generally PG-13 level as well). 

Basically. There are some truly ridiculous happenings in this show. But how ridiculous and pulpy and over the top it is can be part of the appeal, and it’s fun to just sit back and watch the spectacle of Nana and her peers head-scratching machinations. 

So, while certainly not an anime with airtight construction or flawless quality and depth, I found Nana an overall entertaining watch, especially as a fan of cat-and-mouse murder-y shenanigans, and thought it has a very compelling main character and managed to end on a heartwrenching (but earned) note. I definitely wouldn’t say no to a second season and would be interested to see where things go from here.

[superhusbands4ever]

The Chain - Chapter 2/15

Now to check in with The Bad Batch.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Full Work | AO3 Link

Fandom: The Bad Batch (Star Wars)

Characters: Crosshair, Hunter, Howzer, Rex, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, Omega, Various Clones

Relationships: Crosshair & Howzer, Crosshair & Rex, Crosshair & The Bad Batch, Crosshair & Omega, Hunter & Rex, Hunter & Omega

Additional Tags: Crosshair Redemption, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: One year after the events of The Bad Batch, Crosshair struggles to reconcile his choice with the harsh truth of the world around him. He finds enlightenment in the most unlikely of places and realizes he may have made the wrong decision. But is it too late to do something about it?

Two years after the events of The Bad Batch, Rex reluctantly agrees to allow Hunter and his squad to help him rescue a man who's been captured by the Empire, an Imperial double agent who's cover has been blown. What Hunter thought to be a simple extraction ends up having far greater consequences for their squad than he could have ever anticipated.

At any moment the decision you make can change the course of your life forever.

- Tony Robbins

“How much longer until we’re there?”

Hunter turned from the navicomputer to look at the young girl beside him.

“We should be dropping out of hyperspace in a few minutes, so not much longer,” he said, fiddling with buttons on the computer. “You should go ahead and get your stuff ready for when we land.”

“Okay,” she smiled, bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly. “I can’t wait to see Rex. I want to show him how much better I’ve gotten with my bow.”

Hunter smiled. “I’m sure he’s excited to see you, too. It’s been awhile.”

She nodded, skipping away to her room to gather her things.

She’d grown so much since the day the Batch met her on Kamino two and a half years ago. Sometimes Hunter wondered if maybe Omega did actually have advanced aging with how quickly she’d shot up in so short a time.

Before where the top of her head had only come up to his chest, now she was tall enough to lean her head on his shoulder when standing together (though the others teased that had more to do with his own height than Omega’s.) Her hair was longer too, down to her shoulders in a frizzy mess of blonde curls. Her face had lost some of the baby fat she’d had nearly three years ago, and she was slowly but surely looking less like the awkward child they’d saved from the Empire, and more like the young teen that she was becoming.

She’d settled into her place in their squad much more comfortably now, too. Going on supply runs and various jobs for Cid would be impossible without her — she factored into all of their plans, worked fearlessly and flawlessly with the others, and had become so proficient with her bow it made Hunter’s chest ache when he watched her.

Her confident shooting and various games on missions with Wrecker reminded him so much of their missing family member it hurt. They hadn’t seen nor heard from Crosshair at all in the two years since they’d left him on Kamino. Since he left us, he tried to remind himself. He made his choice.

Their squad worked their hardest to stay under the Empire’s radar since Tipoca City, picking and choosing jobs that weren’t too risky, that didn’t grant too much exposure. Rex was right that day on Ord Mantell — being dead in the eyes of the Empire had its advantages. Especially when that meant the leftover bounties from the Kaminoans on Omega disappeared. From what Tech could glean from Imperial channels, as far as the Empire was concerned, the sole survivor of the destruction of Tipoca City was Commander CT-9904. The longer it stayed that way the better.

They couldn’t figure out why Crosshair would protect them, would lie and tell the Empire that they had perished in the bombardment. They thought maybe it was only a matter of time before they were caught out, before Crosshair’s anger at them got the better of him and he let it slip that they were still out there somewhere in the galaxy. But as a month turned into six, six months turned to a year, and a year turned to two with no Imperial bounties on their heads, they began to accept that maybe this was Crosshair’s last gift to them. A chance to survive the Empire, at least by him not giving them away.

Hunter would be lying if he said that knowledge hadn’t given him hope. That maybe his little brother, who’d slept in his bunk during bad storms as a cadet and gave him Lula to hold when the sensory overload got too bad, was still in there somewhere. That the cold, angry, and jaded man they’d seen on Kamino wasn’t all that was left of their kih’vod.

Nowadays he wasn’t so sure. As far as they knew, Crosshair was still with the Empire. And with each day as the Empire’s list of crimes and atrocities grew, Hunter’s hope for his little brother realizing his mistake and coming home to them dwindled. Maybe Tech was right. Crosshair was severe and unyielding and nothing could change that. Crosshair had made his choice.

This… is who I am.

Maybe this was who Crosshair had been all along, much as it pained him to consider.

The navicomputer beeped and pulled him from his ruminations just as the ship shuttered, dropping out of hyperspace in the Yavin system.

He stood and walked toward the cockpit, watching as the forest moon in front of them grew larger as they grew closer.

“Entering atmo shortly,” Tech announced, pressing buttons on the dash. “We should be landing at the base momentarily.”

“It’ll be good to see Rex again,” Echo said, stretching his arms above his head. “I wonder if he’s found any more clones since we were here last.”

“He seemed optimistic last time we talked,” Hunter agreed. “There were more clones than I expected there already a few months ago.”

“Rex is a proficient and effective leader,” Tech added as he brought the ship down through the clouds, “it is not surprising that he would have decent success on his mission.”

“I just wish we could help him more than doing the occasional supply drop,” Echo said. “It feels wrong to not be helping with the vode. To not be joining the fight.”

“Keeping off of the Empire's radar is more important right now,” Hunter reminded his brother for what felt like the hundredth time, “which we can’t do if we’re running rebel missions to help clones defect from the Empire.”

“I know, I know,” Echo grumbled, crossing his arms petulantly. He sighed. “I just…”

Hunter laid his hand on Echo’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I know.”

“Beginning landing sequence now,” Tech called as he flipped the landing gear.

As the ship touched down on the landing pad hidden away from the base in the trees, a loud crash came from the back racks, followed by twin groans.

Hunter squinted back at the pair. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” Omega and Wrecker both shouted back.

Omega stepped out of the hold, bow strapped to her back, fiddling with the strap of her pauldron. She saw Hunter looking at her and smiled brightly and innocently at him, moving to stand in front of Wrecker as he rushed to clean up the knocked over crates. Hunter rolled his eyes.

Soon after the five of them were offloaded and walking through the trees toward the base. It didn’t take long to reach - as they drew closer Hunter felt worry stirring in his chest at the sounds of raised voices, scraping crates, and the general sounds of chaos that, in his experience, indicated something bad was happening.

He sped up a bit, the others following behind him, and he heard them all make their own noises of concern as they drew close enough to the base for the others to hear.

A couple of Regs standing at the entrance of the hangar bay moved forward as if to stop them, but waved them through once Hunter pulled off his helmet.

“Captain’s inside,” he said, nodding to the chaotic scene behind him.

They all walked inside slowly, Omega jumping out of the way of a frantic looking nat-born woman, the upper half of her jumpsuit tied around her waist, waving a datapad threateningly and shouting at someone on top of the freighter in the middle of the room.

“What’s going on here?” Wrecker grumbled as they watched clone and nat-born alike clamber around, gathering supplies and loading them into the freighter.

Hunter’s brow quirked as he watched two men load a crate of explosives while another loaded a crate of ammunition onto the ship.

“It would appear they are prepping for an urgent mission,” Tech said, adjusting his giggles as they watched the chaos.

“We just commed Rex an hour ago and he said everything was fine,” Echo looked toward the group, concerned.

“Hello boys!”

They all turned at the sound of a familiar voice and watched Gregor walk toward them, fully armored, with a wave and a grin on his face.

“And lady,” he added once he was next to them, smiling down at Omega and offering her a high five which she accepted.

“What’s the hustle for, Gregor?”

“Bit of an emergency came up in the last hour or so,” Gregor said with a sigh, face falling into a serious expression as he looked around. “One of Rex’s main operatives sent out a distress signal. Looks like he’s been busted and needs extraction.”

“I didn’t know Rex ran stealth ops,” Hunter said, surprised.

“Oh, he doesn’t. But this one is a bit of a special case,” Gregor explained. “He’s had a man playing double agent in the Empire for about a year now. He’s the guy who’s been helping us save all these clones.”

Glancing around, Hunter couldn’t help but be impressed. He knew Rex had made it his mission to fight the Empire and save all the regs he could, but Hunter hadn’t realized just how many Rex had managed to accumulate even since they were last on base four months ago. There had to be dozens of clones just in the hangar bay. Who knew how many were in the rest of the base.

“One man helped smuggle all these clones out?” Hunter asked, surprised.

“Them and more,” Gregor nodded. “Even helped some get their chips out first.”

“And now the Empire’s figured him out.”

“Aye, vod,” Gregor sighed. “Rex wants to try and extract him as soon as we can. He’s done so much for us… we don’t leave men behind.”

Hunter nodded, very carefully ignoring the way Echo shifted at his back.

“Trooper! Make sure you load a couple emergency field kits and a med scanner into the cargo. I don’t know what sort of condition he’ll be in when we get to him.”

The group turned to watch as Rex rounded the freighter, fully kitted up in his customary 501st blue armor, helmet tucked under his arm. Captain Howzer followed close behind him, similarly decked out in full armor. Rex stood and directed a few of the troopers around before turning to the group huddled to the side of the chaos.

“Evening, Bad Batch,” he greeted as he walked closer, chuckling when Omega ran forward to wrap her arms around the man’s waist.

“Hey there, ‘Meg.”

Howzer nodded respectfully to Hunter and the others.

“What’s going on here, Rex?” Echo said as he stepped around Hunter.

“Emergency extraction,” Rex said simply, accepting the gentle kov’nyn from Echo when the man reached forward. “Bit of a sketchy situation. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

“Heard about your man,” Echo said, “how deep was he?”

“Very deep,” Rex sighed, expression pinched. “Hopefully we can get to him before, well….”

Hunter nodded as Rex trailed off. By this point, they were all familiar with the Empire’s idea of justice against those they felt had wronged them.

“We should head out,” Rex said, nodding at Howzer and Gregor. The two saluted and Gregor slid his helmet on. “It’s a couple hours to Daro and I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Hunter started. “Wait, Daro--?”

“Rex, wait!”

The group turned to watch as a rather gaunt looking clone with a handlebar moustache ran up to the three captains.

“I’d like to request permission to go on this mission, sir,” he said, snapping breathlessly to attention and saluting.

Rex looked at the other clone with concern clear on his face.

‘I don’t know, Boil. You’ve only been here a couple of days, you should be taking time to recover--”

“I understand,” the clone - Boil - said, relaxing. “But I owe it to the Commander to help him. It’s my fault he got caught in the first place.”

“No it wasn’t,” Rex argued, reaching out and clapping Boil on the shoulder. “He knew the risks and it was his decision. Besides, you have no way of knowing--”

“That signal went out within days of getting me out,” Boil said quietly. “I know how high of a risk I was, but he did it anyway. I owe this to him.”

Rex held the other man’s gaze for a long moment before sighing and turning to Howzer.

“I hate to ask,” Rex began apologetically, “I know the two of you are close, but--”

“I’ll stay here,” Howzer agreed, reaching up to pull his helmet off. “Man the fort, as it were.”

He glanced over Rex’s shoulder at Hunter and the others before turning back to the other man.

“Just…” Howzer sighed, face pinched, “bring him back safe, okay?”

“That’s the plan,” Rex assured him as the two braced arms.

He unclipped his bucket from his belt and slid it over his head.

“Sorry to dash on you like this, boys,” Rex said, turning back to Hunter and the rest of their squad. “We’ll have to catch up another time.”

“I understand,” Hunter said, reaching forward to clasp the other clone’s hand. “Good luck on your--”

“We can go too!”

Everyone in the cluster turned to look at Omega, who pushed her way forward between Hunter and Boil to stand next to Rex.

“You can?”

“We can?”

Hunter and Rex glanced at each other before Hunter turned back to Omega.

“Yeah!” Omega insisted, looking imploringly at Hunter. “We’ve been to Daro and broke out Gregor before, you know the facility. You guys are trained in special ops, and if this guy is as important as Gregor says he is then they’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Rex glanced back at Gregor who shrugged.

“Omega,” Hunter sighed, “we can’t-- they’re going into a major Imperial base. If something happens and we get caught, we’ll be in serious trouble. The Empire thinks we’re dead and we need to keep it that way. Besides, Gregor knows the inside of that base better than any of us.”

“But we can help!” Omega argued, frustration clear on her face. “Whoever The Commander is has saved so many people, if our help gives Rex a better chance at saving him, I think we should do it!”

“Omega, we can’t risk--”

“We can’t run from the Empire forever, Hunter,” Omega said softly, grabbing Hunter’s hand.

“Besides, I--” she glanced over to Rex who had yet to speak, before turning and leaning closer to Hunter.

“I have a feeling about this mission,” Omega said quietly, eyes bright as she looked at her brother. “This feels right. I think this is where we’re supposed to be. I can’t explain it, but I… I think we need to do this.”

Hunter sighed, staring down at Omega’s hand on his.

He knew logically that their safety from the Empire wasn’t meant to last. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hide Omega and his squad from them forever. The Empire certainly wasn’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future, so running into them again was ultimately inevitable. It was hard enough keeping his squad away already, Echo arguing with him about helping Rex and the rebellion more and more as the Empire grew. Wrecker and Omega were starting to back Echo up whenever he and Hunter argued, so he knew it was only a matter of time.

He just thought they’d have more time than this. Two years was admittedly a long time to continue on without Imperial detection, but Hunter had been hopeful their peace could last a little bit longer. Omega may have been growing up quickly but she was still a kid. Kids shouldn’t need to worry about rebellions and Empires and bounties and missions and death.

Besides, this seemed like an unnecessary risk to Hunter. Whatever feeling Omega had about this mission, Hunter wasn’t getting it. It felt like a waste to risk their tentative peace and safety from the Empire on a rescue mission for some man they didn’t even know. No matter how impressive his work against the Empire was.

But as much as Omega was a bleeding heart about helping those in need, she was also stubborn as hell. A trait she shared with all the clones, really, but it had gotten worse in her time as a member of the Bad Batch.

Hunter looked back into Omega’s wide eyes and felt his resolve crumble. He sighed, glancing back to the rest of the squad. Tech and Wrecker looked impassive as they stared back at Hunter, likely waiting for him to make a decision and follow whatever option he chose. Echo was looking back at him with the same amount of hope, the same determined resolve that Omega had in her eyes and Hunter knew he was losing the battle here.

He sighed tiredly, turning back to Rex.

“Got room in that ship for five more, Captain?”

Rex was frozen in place as he stared back at Hunter. His body language gave no indication as to what he thought of this development, though the incredulous tone he’d used to question Omega indicated that this was not a turn of events he was planning, or even hoping, for. With his helmet on and staring blankly at him, Hunter had a hard time getting a read as to what the other man was thinking.

Rex’s head tilted just slightly to glance briefly at Howzer, who was standing to the side watching the exchange with a strangely intense look in his eyes.

“I don’t know if--”

“Please, Rex?” Omega said, stepping up to the older clone.

Rex shuffled under Omega’s intense gaze, a feeling Hunter was very familiar with. Finally he sighed, dropping his chin to his chest before turning back to Hunter.

“I don’t have time to argue about this— fine,” he said, ignoring Omega’s happy whoop. “But you have to do exactly as I say, okay? No matter what happens.”

If Hunter didn’t know any better he’d say the Captain sounded tense, almost nervous. Hunter nodded and heard the others agree as well.

Rex kept his gaze on Hunter for another moment before shaking his head and turning toward the freighter.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, commanding tone back as he barked orders at the men around them. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Hunter turned back and nodded at the rest of his squad, who all nodded and slipped their helmets back on their heads as they checked their gear.

“Good luck,” Hunter heard Howzer mutter to Rex, who just shook his head. Something told him they weren’t talking about the mission.

Together they followed Rex, Boil, and Gregor up the ramp of the freighter, Rex and Tech headed for the cockpit. As everyone else got strapped in and the engines on the ship started, Hunter couldn’t help but wonder if he was making the right choice.

Omega may have had a good feeling about this mission, but Hunter had a feeling this mission was going to change everything for them, and he wasn’t sure it was for the better.

[etherrealoblivion]

Chapter Sixteen: The Seventh Book

Table of Contents

Fic summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 2,803

TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE!!!!! BEWARE!!!!

A/N: thank you everyone for reading this fic i love you all. one chapter left to go. i am so sorry for what follows.

MASTERLIST

~

Your eyelids were so heavy it was almost impossible to open them. The chair you were in was cold and hard against your back, the discomfort prompting you to wake up a little faster.

Then your surroundings forced the memory of what had happened into your mind.

It was a dark metal room with a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Across the room on the wall were several closed metal hatches. Although you couldn’t make out much more. After all, your eyes were still partially closed and the dim light of the room made it even harder to see.

A small gasp next to you alerted the presence of someone else in the room.

Turning your head — with immense effort — you saw Spencer Reid slouched in the chair next to you, hands tied behind his back, slowly coming to.

“Spencer,” you said, voice quiet and strained. But he seemed to have heard judging by the way his eyes snapped wide open and he began to writhe in the chair.

Grunting harshly, he finally got his arms untied, jumping up and running toward the back of your chair and pulling off the rope, leaving your wrist burning slightly from the scratch.

Quickly analyzing the situation, Spencer firmly pressed against each of the four metal walls, ensuring that there was no way out. Then, when he was sure none of the walls would give, he started ramming his elbow against the metal slots in one of the walls.

“Spencer!” you had found your voice suddenly at the thought of him hurting himself. Strangely, you had just noticed that the two of you were only wearing your underwear. Even your bra had been put back on. Although he was wearing a watch you’d never seen before with a tight leather band that squeezed his wrist.

His gaze snapped to you, a determined look in his eye with a fire behind it that sent a spark through you.

“Where are we?”

It was a stupid question and you knew the answer, but you still had to ask. Spencer attempted to soften his expression but to no avail.

“I’m sorry.”

The words hurt on a whole new level. There was so much meaning behind them. They confirmed the fact that you had indeed been kidnapped and taken to some sort of torture chamber, they signified that he had failed to protect you, and they broke the pact you had to never apologize to one another.

There was a crackle and heavy breathing filled the room, the sound coming from a minuscule vent in one of the corners of the room.

Spencer stepped between you and the vent, reaching out a hand behind him to make sure you stayed behind him.

The breathing hesitated and after a moment, someone spoke.

“Hello, Y/N.”

The voice was so familiar. You knew you knew it but you didn’t know from where. The memory was just out of reach and it kept slipping through your fingers.

Spencer, however, had frozen, presumably recognizing the voice. Your hand moved to his shoulder of its own accord, finding the skin there to be freezing cold.

The voice from the vent chuckled.

“I understand that you and Spencer have become quite attached lately.”

You looked at him, unsure whether to respond or not. He glanced at you over his shoulder and nodded stiffly.

“Ye—ahem—yes, we have. Why?” To recognize the voice, you needed to keep him talking.

“Hmm. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go for each other.”

There was a whooshing noise and one of the four slots in the wall shot open, revealing a small hidden space.

“I’m sure if you can’t figure out what to do, Doctor Spencer Reid can help you.”

And then it clicked. And it all made sense. 

How he’d found your address, “Whoever accesses your card, even for something as small as a stick of gum, has the opportunity to use that information to find your name, your address, your workplace—” “Ok. I get it. People I see frequently and my credit card info. Gotta warn you, there’s not much I buy with it other than books and coffee.”

How he’d known which hotel you were at, “Whatever. Gives me more time to prepare for a cute date with a hot barista. Or . . . the other way around.”

Even how he knew you were at the cabin, “I actually had a coworker who had a cabin in the woods and he never mentioned becoming one with nature.”

All because “ . . . the waiter here, Tom, works at my regular coffee shop. Barista by day, waiter by night.”

“Tom. . . .”

Spencer looked at you sorrowfully as the voice chuckled through the vent.

“Very good . . . Honestly, I’m disappointed it took you this long to figure it out. I mean, it was pretty obvious. And so easy to get so much information about you! But! But, that's beside the point. You have a task I expect you to begin. After all, time is running out.”

Spencer reached into the hole in the wall, withdrawing a stopwatch, an electric hair clipper, and a small Exacto knife.

The stopwatch had two minutes and thirteen seconds on it, counting down slowly.

“What are we supposed to do?” you yelled at the wall, holding up the timer as if he could see it. You don’t know, there might be a camera, you thought to yourself, wrapping an arm around your bare stomach.

There wasn’t a response though, just the sound of the stopwatch clicking quietly.

“Y/N . . .” Spencer spoke from behind you. “It’s the seventh book.”

Frantically trying to remember the order of the books in your nightstand, you realized what the clippers and knife meant.

The Handmaid’s Tale, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Telltale Heart, The Great Gatsby, 1984, A Clockwork Orange, and . . .

The seventh book was a very old and very rare edition of The Gift of The Magi.

“So we have to choose . . .”

The watchband on Spencer’s wrist was too tight to slip the knife through without cutting through his skin. And your hair would take much longer than two minutes to cut with a knife and clippers.

Without a word, Spencer took the exact-o knife and plunged it into the skin around his wrist, wincing in pain as he cut through the band.

“Spencer, no!”

But the watch fell from his hand to the floor, dripping with blood, Spencer’s wrist sliced open neatly. The wound was superficial but it looked like it hurt. He collapsed to the floor, dropping the knife and you rushed to his side.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded weakly, putting pressure on the cut.

“Very interesting . . .” Tom’s voice echoed around the room and you felt your stomach fill with rage like never before, spinning around and throwing the clippers at the wall with all of your might.

“We’re not going to play your fucking mind game!”

“Y/N,” Spencer whispered from the floor. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

The answer to your question came in the form of an ear-splitting siren, the noise resonating around the room, forcing its way past your eardrums, giving you an abominable headache.

The noise suddenly stopped and Tom spoke again.

“It is your choice whether you play or not. But consider that a preview of the punishment for refusing to. And trust me, there’s worse punishments than that.”

The second hatch slid open.

Head darting between it and Spencer on the floor, holding his wrist, you opted to fetch the next items.

There was another stopwatch, this time with five minutes, two small slips of paper, and some kind of device transmitting footage of two people in a poorly lit room, strapped to chairs similar to how you had been moments ago.

“What the fuck is this?”

The light in the room came on, showing the people in the chairs to be a man and a woman. You didn’t recognize either of them, and, judging by his face, neither did Spencer.

“Oh no.”

You read the slips of paper.

Man and Woman, they said.

We have to choose one.

“We have to choose one.”

Spencer looked at you shaking his head, so overwhelmed by the fact that the two of you were in this situation.

You scrambled, unable to deal with the thought, “What if we—“

“—I’m sure the punishment will be worse if we don't choose one. Most likely, he’ll kill both of them. Statistically, men die younger than women and they can’t bear children. But women have a higher pain tolerance and—“

He was talking himself in circles, trying desperately to come up with a solution to an impossible problem.

“Spencer, this is something you can’t reason. We just have to pick one.”

You couldn’t believe he was only twenty-six. His eyes bore the weight of someone much older.

You forced a weak laugh that tasted terrible on your tongue, “Eenie Meenie Miney-Moe?”

He chuckled weakly. “No luck, I know you land on whichever one you didn’t start with.”

“Me too.”

“Time’s running out,” Tom reminded you.

Your face fell, all hints of a smile gone.

“The man.” You gaped at Spencer who had piped up just enough to make the decision.

There was a pause, then a dark figure walked into the room onscreen, brandishing a gun and aiming at the back of the man’s head.

The muffled sound of a gunshot rang out, making you and Spencer jump as the man went limp in the chair and the feed cut out.

Bile rose in your throat and you ran to a corner of the room to throw up.

“Very interesting,” Tom repeated, his voice sparking disgust deep in your stomach.

“Why are you doing this?” you begged, reaching out for Spencer who seemed to be doing a bit better judging by the fact he could now stand and his wrist was no longer gushing blood.

“I like watching the way you think.”

The now-familiar sound of the hatch opening brought you back to the situation at hand, trying desperately to get the image from the screen out of your mind.

Spencer reached into the hatch and pulled out two more slips of paper and another stopwatch.

The screen flicked back on, showing two more people in a dark room, another man and woman. The room was still dark so you couldn't make out much more.

You looked up at Spencer, confused, but his face had gone white as a sheet and he was staring at the pieces of paper.

“No.” Spencer ran to the vent, slamming on the wall. “No! Ahh!” shouting in pain when his wound made contact.

Tom didn’t say anything so you approached Spencer, snatching the pieces of paper to better understand why he was so angry.

The room on the screen lit up the moment you read the papers. This time it didn’t say man or woman. This time there were two names.

Steve and J.J.

Spencer’s blonde coworker and your closest friend were slumped over in the chairs on-screen, wriggling against their restraints. All breath left your body, your heart stopped in your chest.

“TOM! Please don’t do this.”

The desperation seeped into your voice pitifully. 

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Y/N,” Spencer stepped between you and the vent again, holding your shoulders. You suddenly felt how wet your eyes were. Strange how you hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“I . . . I can’t.”

Being forced to decide who lives and who dies was difficult enough to break anyone’s spirit. But this . . . this shattered yours to the core.

“You don’t have to,” Spencer said, “I can do it.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Tom chided playfully, voice muffled through the speaker. “You’ve already chosen twice, Doctor. I think it’s Y/N’s turn, don’t you?”

“Look, I can make the decision. You don’t want to put her through too much, do you?” Spencer’s voice was soft, but the way he was gripping your hand suggested he felt otherwise. “You wouldn’t do that to her.”

“I suppose you’re right. Though, while I do care for her, it is her turn. But don’t fret! You can make the next decision together.”

Your eyes were locked on the screen, watching as Steve and J.J. came to, becoming rapidly aware of their situation and struggling against the bindings. Spencer gently squeezed your hand, showing you the time on the stopwatch. Fifty seconds left.

There was no right decision.

J.J. had a child, a husband, a family. Steve had no one. Steve had you. 

There was no right decision. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a wrong one.

“Steve.” You hadn’t said it out loud, just mouthed the word letting the breath flow out of you.

Then, realizing he couldn’t hear you, you repeated yourself.

“Steve.” It was barely a whisper but it was the loudest sound in the world.

Actually, strike that, the loudest sounds were the footsteps entering the room and standing behind your friend, holding a gun to his head.

Tom’s voice came back over the intercom.

“I need you to say it.”

It took every ounce of strength not to fall to the ground and burst into tears. The only thing keeping you upright was fear. Pure terror. You couldn’t say it, but if you didn’t they’d both die.

“Kill Steve.”

You closed your eyes before the gunshot went off, knees giving out and collapsing to the ground, feeling Spencer fall with you, trying to keep you as upright as possible.

“Hey,” he grabbed your head, forcing your gaze to him, his dark brown eyes dark with rage. “We’re gonna be okay.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Tom’s voice made your stomach contort.

The fourth and final hatch slid open.

“I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” your hands were trembling harder than your voice as you shook back and forth, clutching your legs to your chest.

“Okay, it’s okay. It’s almost over,” Spencer said, standing and reaching into the last slot. 

He didn’t move for a while, back turned to you, looking down at something.

“Spencer?”

“Me, I choose me,” he said, turning towards the vent, revealing the item he was holding. A gun. His gun.

“No!”

“Very well,” Tom said, chuckling. “But that’s not quite how this works. One of you has to die, but the other has to do it.”

Spencer ran and sat next to you on the floor, forcing the gun into your hands, lightly placing your finger on the trigger.

“Spencer . . .”

“Listen to me, it’s okay. Okay? If we don’t do this, he’s gonna kill us both. I need you to understand that I am okay with this. I am choosing this, not you. This is for me to decide.”

He slowly brought the gun up to his head, resting just between his eyebrows.

That was too much and the sobs that had been building up in your chest escaped your lips, tears pouring down your cheeks and falling onto your legs. Your hands trembled harder, the gun shaking against his head.

“Y/N,” he smiled, eyes bright and twinkling. “It’s okay.” Then, he swallowed, looked away for a moment, then looked back at you with fire burning deep behind his eyes. What he said next changed your life.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You sobbed as he cocked the gun and steadied your finger on the trigger.

“I love you, Spencer.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. You didn’t even have to think before you did what you did next.

You removed the gun from his head, held it against your own, right on your temple, and stood, turning toward the vent.

“5 . . .”

“Wait!” Tom called out.

“4 . . .”

“Y/N, stop!” Spencer shouted at you.

“3 . . .”

“That’s not how this works!” Tom yelled furiously, voice cracking. “Stop! You have to shoot him!”

“2 . . .”

The wall under the vent slid open and a dark figure stumbled in, holding out a blunt object, approaching you threateningly, rearing back.

The instant you saw the whites of Tom’s eyes, you aimed the gun directly between his eyes and squeezed the trigger, attempting to keep your arm as still as possible. In a flash, you were brought back to the alley where you shot a gun for the first time. All you could think of were your and Spencer’s lips meeting for the first time.

You didn’t realize you’d closed your eyes until you opened them and was met with the image of Tom The Barista with a bloody hole in his head, falling backwards to the floor, crumpling like a rag doll, a blank expression on his face.

Taking one last look at Spencer to make sure he was okay, you felt your legs give out beneath you and you fell to the floor, losing consciousness. 

Again, everything went dark.

~

last chapter tomorrow. i am so sorry. bring tissues.

~

Taglist: @aperrywilliams​ @mjloveskids666​ @dolanfivsosxox​ @criesinreid​ @fanficsrmylife @racerparker​ @sammypotato67​ @lukeskisses​ @reidcrimes​ @you-had-me-at-hello-dear​ @l0ve-0f-my-life​ @thatsonezesty13​​ @yourmisosoup​ @queenofthebees003​ @pinkdiamond1016​ @eu-solidao @perverted-guardian-angel​ @boiled-onionrings​ @rainsong01​ @lesbian-emilyprentiss​ @andiebeaword​ @itsmoony​ @cielo1984​ @baby-i-am-fireproof​ @mendesminimuffin​ @fukyouthink​ @addie5264 @gretaamyk​ @sercyan​ @expressiodeppresio @matthewreid​

[gio-is-writing]

Bruno meeting his childhood friend before he became a mafioso? And she helped his dad and himself a lot back then? Maybe they meet again because he saved her from a few guys harassing her and they both recognize each other? And he's all protective of her now like how he was with his dad

REQUEST:  Bruno meeting his childhood friend before he became a mafioso? And she helped his dad and himself a lot back then? Maybe they meet again because he saved her from a few guys harassing her and they both recognize each other? And he's all protective of her now like how he was with his dad

ngl this is my best work i think heodbwisns I have a lot of Bruno request and i’m happy to comply. I hope you enjoy this one!!

Pairing: Bruno Bucciarati x Fem! Reader

Warning: mentions of drugs, reader being harassed but nothing graphic

BY FATE WE MEET

Living by the coast was peaceful, the sound of waves under the warm sunlight every day. Evenings were peaceful and the sight of dawn was simply beautiful. Bruno sat on the old boats propped on sand while his father collected what they got from their boat and prepared everything to head home, Bruno looked up at the hill by the beach with few houses and spotting his right away. He was lost in thought wondering what his mom would do for dinner when he heard some shouting. Another boat arrived on the other side of the dock while a smiling girl standing on the very edge of said boat waved energetically at him. As soon as the concrete platform was close enough, she jumped right out and ran in his direction, Bruno jumping down from where he sat.

“Hey Bruno!” she hugged him briefly “How was your day? Good catch?”

“Hello (Y/N), it was pretty good today” he answered smiling “How about yours?”

“It was great, a lot of big fish!”

(Y/N) was an enthusiastic little girl, her father was also a fisherman and they lived a few houses away from where Bruno lived. They had grown close thanks to their fathers being well acquainted over the same business and having really similar schedules for work but not saying more than a few greetings or a little chat here and there. While Bruno was very similar to his father in the social sense, (Y/N) was a social butterfly who enchanted whoever met her. The young boy enjoyed her company and considered her a friend after meeting pretty often.

When his father gathered all their things, Bruno rushed to help him carry some things after saying his goodbyes to the girl. She answered with a happy ‘Ciao!’ and hurried to help her own father so they could also go home.

Days like this were the usual, Bruno liked to join his father and help with anything he could and return to his mother’s delicious dinner. This was an everyday routine he grew up to until the impossible occurred, his parents decided to divorce. He was so confused, why was this happening and why were they making him choose? But he knew his answer almost right away, he would stay with his father no matter what.

After his mom left he felt odd, he definitely felt her absence and missed her bed time stories but working with dad was what he liked the most. After a long day out, there was some knocking on their door and his dad answered just to call for him after. Standing by the door was (Y/N) with a brown box and a bright smile. He was surprised, now knowing what the girl was doing on his house at this hour.

“(Y/N)?”

“Hi, I bought you some cookies” “Me and my mammina made them for you”

“Thank you (Y/N)”

“It’s no problem, let me know if you like them!”

“We sure will”

And turning around she ran to her house, as Bruno and his father walked outside to see she got there safetely, her own parents were standing by her door and waved back at both males. Bruno’s dad waved and walked back inside once the little girl reached her house. Bruno smiled softly and followed him closing the door.

After dinner they decided they could taste some of the cookies (Y/N) brought for them, opening the box there were six chocolate chip cookies. Each grabbing one and biting into it they sighed at the same time, they were delicious! After that day, she would occasionally bring more cookies or some other treats she and her mother cooked that day. Some days they stayed outside talking or playing made up games until the sky was dark. Bruno really liked (Y/N), a lot.

After his dad made a little business for tourist visiting the area, they were more busy than ever. Bruno couldn’t say he didn’t like it, he thought that some tourist were funny and working was great, he still missed (Y/N) at times but he was so caught up in working that he sometimes forgot about everything else like anyone’s normal life.

But it seemed that fate didn’t want Bruno to have a normal life. If only those two men hadn’t found out of his dad little business, if only his father had refused that trip.

Standing along on the hospital corridor he was a nervous wreck, he couldn’t stop worrying for his father safety and tears ran freely down his cheeks without noticing. Until he heard a voice calling out for him. Lifting his eyes from the ground he saw a baby blue dress approaching, a worried expression on her face.

“Bruno!”

He broke in her tiny arms, crying his heart out. Her father was a few meters away talking with the nurses that held him back just moments before. He looked so scared but after he was notified of the accident (unfortunately when his daughter was with his) they both rushed to the hospital. (Y/N) couldn’t help but cry too, Bruno held her tightly as he sobbed all he was keeping from coming out. The girl was so moved, she couldn’t understand what had happend exactly but she knew that Bruno needed all her help to feel better.

“They wanted to kill him” he said angrily “All because of those stupid drugs!”

(Y/N) only heard about those things from her parents that strictly told her to stay away from people offering her stuff. Those were the things they carried and they were never good.

“I’m sorry Bruno”

A few minutes passed where he calmed down and told her everything he knew as best as possible and explain the whole situation (the best way a seven year old did to a six year old anyway) She was relieved to hear his dad was okay for the most part but he had to stay in the hospital. She hugged Bruno tightly again before whispering.

“I’ll be here for you”

As they passed Bruno stayed glued to his father bed just like he did before. He would stay day and night beside him in case anything was needed. They didn’t really knew that many people, living far into the suburbs offered that much but there was someone that visited every few days.

Just like before, (Y/N) visited often to bring food for Bruno. She had told her mother she was concerned for him since “he has no one that cooks delicious food for him” and complained that hospital’s food looked ‘yucky’ . Therefore her mother made her two lunch bags so she could go to the hospital and eat with Bruno. He really appreciated it since he too believed that hospital food was the worst.

One day she held into his father hand while Bruno was sleeping on the sofa of the room. His father didn’t react to her touch but she knew he was hearing her.

“Don’t worry signor Bucciarati, Bruno is strong”

She recieved no verbal answer but she could swear she felt a tiny squeeze from his weak hand and that was enough answer.

Those visits continued until one day Bruno said it was ‘too dangerous’ for her. She didn’t quite understand but her visits reluctantly lessened after that plus starting school. Eventually years passed and she stopped visiting, maybe too caught up in school and things young girls did. Bruno grew up fast and made a decision that would change his life forever but thought was necessary.

—

Bruno made a name for himself in Passione, earning the trust of his higher ups and the people in town. Even after his father passing he found a safe haven in the organization, keeping peace in his territory and most importantly making sure drugs where non existent.

Walking around town was always calming for him, greeting a few business owners he collected protection money from and old ladies that recognized him. Sitting in one of tables outside a coffee shop he relaxed under the warm sun, the city was mostly calm on the daily.

“Leave me alone, please” said a female voice lowly, clearly scared.

“Come on cara, stare us a minute of your time”

“or a little taste”

“Per favore, don’t touch me”

Bruno was growing anxious and angry as the conversation continued. Turning his head to where the discussion was taking place he noticed the small frame of a young girl surrounded by three grown man that looked dirty at first glance and perverded eyes.

She took a few hurried steps before she was abruptly stopped and turned around by one of this men grabbing her arm. She yelped as her heels almost broke.

“You’ll do as we say missy so we avoid problems”

“I don’t-“

Another yelp as she was pulled into one of the others man chest. Bruno could barely make their faces but he had enough, if there was one thing he hated almost as much was harassment and that would not be tolerated in his territory.

Standing up and quickening his pace before that dirty hand on her back could go any lower he stood just a few feet away.

“I’ll appreciate you let go of her right this instant”

“why would I do that?”

“I-“

As the girl turned her face to meet his in a look of pure distress, he was taken aback. Those eyes, he knew those (E/C) eyes too well. It had been too long since he last saw that beautiful shade and meeting them like this made his blood boil. He closed the distance in a second and firmly pulled her from the mans grip.

“If you ever lay another finger on her I’ll make sure you never see daylight again”

“ha! and who are you?” the tallest tried to fight back while the others two seemed to recognize the man before them.

“Bruno Bucciarati”

Realization hit and he paled in seconds, taking a few steps back he nodded and walked away with the other two. He stared at them until their figures disappeared so he could look back at the young woman beside him. Those sparkling eyes stared back at him in shock, wearing a baby blue dress just like when they were young. Bruno smiled down at her as he let go of her arm.

“Bruno...”

“(Y/N)...”

They stared at eachother for a whole minute before she almost threw herself at him in a big hug. Bruno smiled into her hair and hugged back tightly.

“Thank you for helping me”

“Is the least I could do, are you okay?”

“I’m good” she sighed with a small smile “You have a lot of explaining to do”

“Let’s talk it over a nice cup of tea”

Bruno explained everything he could to her, commenting on his father passing and current status everyone knew of. She listened closely with her full attention on him, she felt such relief of having him here with her, knowing he was okay after so long and losing all comunication. She then explained how her family moved to Rome but she came back after school since she missed the ‘tranquility of being beside the sea’

“I’m so happy you’re doing good Bruno”

“I’m glad we could meet again” his voice was above a whisper but she still heard and a smirk made an appearance on her features.

“Fate got us back together”

Silence wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable, it felt calming and relaxing just being on each other’s presence. She closed her eyes as she sipped from the cup and breathing in the warm air of the city.

“I can still cook those cookies you liked”

“Never leave my side again (Y/N)”

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Infection - Good Omens Fic

My second fic for tonight for the @bingokisses prompts! This one fills my second “Wrist Kisses” square, which was paired with “Patching up a wound.” Get ready for some hurt/comfort, strong angst, and Crowley desperately trying to protect his angel. Promise: this one ends in soft bed cuddles.

This will be edited before going on AO3, so let me know if you notice anything is off.

CW: blood, not too graphic but definitely there.

Aziraphale spread his hands before him, still steaming lightly from the force of the holy blasts he had thrown at the demons. They were fleeing, finally, five dark shapes vanishing into the soil before him. He clenched his jaw, holding his cold expression, his pose, and his breath until the dark stain of their infernal presence had dissipated from his mind.

Then, slowly, he lowered his hands to the wound in his side.

“Oh,” he murmured, as his fingers slid through the rents in the fabric of his tunic to find the deep gashes slick with blood. “That’s…a bit worse than I thought…” He pressed harder, and suddenly the pain lanced through him, burning tearing. His power reserves were low, but he’d need to heal that quickly or face discorporation and likely some uncomfortable questions from his superiors.

Lifting his trembling hands, Aziraphlae looked at the deep red blood, and saw a thick black shadow already spreading through it like a cloud. “Oh, very bad, indeed…” Demonic corruption. Already, he could feel the pollution working its way into him – not his corporation, but his true angelic body on the astral plane – seeming in like a toxin, corroding the light of his soul. If he didn’t purge the befouling influence quickly, he would else face something far worse than discorporation.

But that would require focus, quiet, and a spot to work where the world wasn’t filled with fuzzy mist…the ground not tilting alarmingly back and forth…and…

“Blast.”

He toppled over, collapsing into the dew-speckled grass.

--

Crowley tore through the forest, ignoring the stinging slap of tree branches and snaring twists of undergrowth that tried to slow him down. “Aziraphale!”

Another little stream opened up suddenly just ahead of him, and, unable to stop in time, he attempted to leap straight over it. Nearly made it, too, but the soft earth on the far side shifted and slid as soon as his feet touched it, and he rolled back down the bank, hitting the cold water with a splash.

“Stupid bloody – Aziraphale!” Somewhere in this endless ancient forest, on one of the countless hills or ridges or hollows, the angel was fighting, injured, needed his help and Crowley had miles upon miles still to search and he didn’t have time for this.

He set about scrambling up the far side of the bank, digging his fingers deep into the muddy earth.

--

It had started, nearly a hundred years ago now, with a suggestion in a misty field in Wessex.

“Be easier if we both stayed home,” he’d proposed, metal sabatons sinking in the English mud. He could almost picture it already, a nice little cottage and a roaring fire, a few glasses of the local brews.

But Aziraphale hadn’t been interested. “Absolutely out of the question,” and he’d stormed off full of all the sanctimonious indignation an angel could carry. “We aren’t having this conversation” – but he’d certainly followed it up with a strongly-worded letter, ensuring Crowley in the strictest of terms that he would never consider such a scheme, that any cooperation on assignments was simply inconceivable, that he would henceforth devote all his efforts to thwarting any of Crowley’s infernal works that he caught wind of, and do his utmost to ensure that all hellish influences were wiped from this peaceful island, nay, this blessed world and all its inhabitants…

Crowley read the letter twice, then packed up his armor and camp and headed for London.

Once he was dressed in proper, comfortable clothes, there was no chance anyone would recognize the sophisticated red-haired traveler as the dreaded Black Knight, and before long he had settled into an alehouse with his feet resting comfortably on a bench by the fire and set to work telling stories of the immortal warrior dressed all in black, leading raids against unnamed villages somewhere to the north.

Within a few weeks, the rumors reached him of Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table and his band of holy knights, scouring Mercia and Northumbria for signs of the Black Knight. Crowley tossed in a few stories about the rebel band joining up with invaders from the south with just enough tantalizing details to keep the angel on a wild goose chase for months and congratulated himself on a job well done.

When next Hell checked in, he shrugged ruefully and explained that Heaven’s agent (a fierce and terrifying opponent) had effectively stopped him at every turn but also that Crowley (a cunning and devious force for evil who deserved a commendation and a promotion) had prevented the angel from pursuing Heaven’s larger agenda. He added in some gossip about the queen he’d picked up from travelers out of Camelot, broadly suggesting that was somehow his doing, and declared his mission to the island an overall success.

And, incredibly, they bought it.

A very neat solution, Crowley thought several decades later as he lounged by the Mediterranean, sunning himself on a rock and sampling the latest developments in viticulture and winemaking. He was already trying to work out the best way to include “convincing monks to sell wine to a demon” in his upcoming report. It sounded like an appropriately demonic activity.

The countryside was swirling with tales of a terrifying monster ravaging the villages, fighting endless battles against a glowing warrior of light, based solely on rumors he started and allowed to grow and expand in the retelling. Seven different noble warriors – three armed with holy weapons that could only have come from Aziraphale – had come searching for the beast, and Crowley had gleefully sent each to a different corner of the world.

Everybody won, really: Crowley’s reputation was surging Down Below as tales of his narrow escapes grew; Aziraphale and his agents got to parade around being self-righteous; and Heaven and Hell took credit for whatever developments they wished.

What could possibly go wrong?

--

“…which kept me from directly joining the emperor’s invasion of Armenia, as originally instructed, but I was able to stay behind in Constantinople and focus on the corruption of countless aristocrats.” As if wealthy humans had ever needed help becoming corrupt, but it was the sort of result Hell liked.

Beelzebub glared down through the cloud of flies, and as always Crowley wondered if ze believed a word he said. It was impossible to tell, really; the Prince of Hell’s expression never wavered. “Tell me where you were szupposed to go next.”

“Another king’s court, thousands of miles away.” Crowley furrowed his brow, trying to remember.

“Dagobert, king of Austrasia, heir to the throne of all the Franks,” Dagon interrupted, mouth perpetually stretched into a grin with far too many teeth.

“Yeah, that one. And, really, I was looking forward to it.” The Franks had some of the best grape wine in the world, but he’d discovered that the people of the north had done some interesting things with mead and fruit wines, and over in Bohemia they’d started experimenting with hops in their beer instead of gruit, and really Crowley needed to give these developments his full attention. “But, you know, turned out that angel was still on my tail.” At this point, dropping rumors of his devious activities for Aziraphale to chase had become a game, and he’d left a trail of breadcrumbs for the angel all up and down the continent. “We had a great battle in the northern forests, and I barely escaped with my skin intact, but he’ll have a hard time recovering from the wounds I left him with.” He’d not seen Aziraphale in-person since that field in Wessex, but there was always a local legend of warrior fighting beast he could co-opt, and Hell did almost nothing to verify his claims.

“Laszt time you claimed he’d never walk again,” Beelzebub pointed out, looking distinctly uninterested.

“Did I?” Crowley might have gotten carried away. “Right. Well. He healed more quickly than I could have expected. Blasted angel.”

“Why have you not infected him yet?” Dagon wondered. “That would put an end to all this.”

Crowley ran his tongue over his teeth. Every demon carried some toxin or venom, the remains of their Grace, twisted and tainted by the Fall, and most could spread it through their claws or nails. Infected humans became more susceptible to suggestion and temptation; but to other supernatural beings, it was far more dangerous. The strongest could eat away at an angel’s true self, as holy water did for demons, only slower and more painful.

Crowley, serpent that he was, carried it in his fangs, which made it difficult to administer; and he’d always found it cheating, and a little cruel. In four and a half millennia, he’d only ever used it in the most dire of emergencies. “Well, ah, I did. Only, as you know, Aziraphale is – is impossibly strong. He seems able to shrug off what I can give him.”

Dagon’s perpetual grin grew even wider. “Good thing we sent a team, then.”

“A…a team?”

“After hearing your reports, Hastur and Ligur volunteered to take on the angel themselves. We had them bring a few specialists along as back up.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s stomach dropped down to the ninth circle and kept falling. “And…and when did they leave?”

“Two daysz ago,” Beelzebub offered. “Ligur reported they’d tracked the angel down momentsz before you came in. They’re ambushing him asz we szpeak.” For once, the Prince of Hell shifted forward, studying Crowley’s reaction with unreadable eyes.

“Oh. Well. Good for them. Ngk. Glad they can…glad to see…” He clenched his jaw before his two superiors could see how his teeth chattered, how the panic threatened to overtake him. Swallowing it down, Crowley tried again. “I mean, Aziraphale is one of Heaven’s greatest warriors, as I’ve personally experienced many times. I’m glad he’ll finally get what’s coming to him.” He tossed his head and continued as casually as he could, “Any chance I can join up with them? I’d love to, to witness this glorious…victory for our side.”

Crowley stood for an eternity, pinned between the sadistic gleam of Dagon’s eyes and the inscrutable calm of Beelzebub’s. His fist tightened, nails digging into his palm as he struggled not to show a single sign of worry, no trembling knees, no sheen of sweat.

Although the game wouldn’t exist for another twelve centuries, Crowley had already perfected his poker face.

Finally, finally, Beelzebub nodded. “It might be too late. Catch up if you can.”

--

The Germanic forest that seemed to stretch on forever, rocky ledges giving way to soggy river land and back. Humans lived here – humans lived everywhere – but there seemed to be none for miles in every direction, not even as much as a road. The night was silent as the grave, completely still, even the stars shrouded in clouds.

At first, Crowley crept along quietly, looking for hints of the demons’ passing, listening for the sounds of battle. Trying to maintain his cover as an interested observer. He could sense them – somewhere – not close, but not far.

After an hour of this, his façade began to slip, the worry bubbling to the surface. Soon after, there was no longer even a trace of demonic presence in the forest, apart from his own. Which meant they’d done their work and left. And that meant…

As the sun began to rise, he flung all caution to the winds, racing through the forest like a hunted deer, calling the angel’s name again and again. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe they suspected, maybe they were just waiting for him to slip up.

Or maybe they’d already killed Aziraphale. And it would be all his fault.

As he pulled himself out of the muddy stream, he felt it – the faintest hint of angelic presence, ahead and to the left. “I’m coming,” he whispered, his voice too thick to shout.

It took another half-hour before he found the clearing, bursting out of the trees into ground burned black, twisted and churned in a ring as large as a basilica, and there in the center, in a circle of grass incongruously untouched, lay a motionless white figure.

“Aziraphale!”

The ruined ground was hot on his feet, like hallowed ground, but he raced across it without a second thought, collapsing onto the blood-soaked grass. It seeped into the ground, too much blood, red turning to black before his eyes.

“No, no, no, no.” When last he’d seen Aziraphale, they’d both been dressed in sixty pounds of armor, Aziraphale’s surely blessed for extra protection; but now he wore the simple clothes of a traveler, pale blue tunic shredded, four deep lines carved into the flesh of his side. A bag lay beside him, loaves of bread spilled across the grass, as well as ceramic jars of alcohol, oil and honey. “Aziraphale, please…”

“C…Crowley?” His eyes fluttered open just for a second. “Looking…for you…”

“Don’t try to talk, Angel.” He shifted, lifting Aziraphale’s head to his shoulder, cradling the angel in his arms. “I’ve got you now.”

“Certainly…�� Aziraphale’s mouth worked for a moment. “Got me…Clever trap…”

“I…Aziraphale, I didn’t know…I swear, I never thought…” Oh, Satan, he was getting paler every second. “I’ve got you, alright? I’ve got you.” One hand braced the angel against his chest, the other wandered down to the deep cuts in his side. The bleeding had slowed. Because it was healing? Or because he was running out of blood? “This might hurt.”

“Hurts…already…”

Crowley rested his fingers against the cuts, trying to ignore the way Aziraphale gasped, sounding too weak to draw breath. “I know, I know.” He closed his eyes, looking instead to the astral plane, searching for the heat and glow of Aziraphale’s true form. It should have been blinding; instead he found an endless sea of dark energy, pulsing, growing.

It was devouring Aziraphale, smothering him, infiltrating his Grace and turning it…necrotic. Killing him.

“Crowley…I…I…”

“I told you, don’t talk.” Crowley’s face felt wet. Without thinking, he brought his hand up, wiping his cheeks, leaving smears of angel blood under both eyes. “I…I can do this.”

Bracing himself, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s side, digging his fingers into the cuts. He pressed Aziraphale against him as the angel arched his back, crying out in pain, voice breaking –

Crowley – in a shape loosely approximating his human form – waded into the black mass. It sucked at his feet like a bog, and smelled even worse; thickening around his legs with every step, trying to hold him, pull him down. It stung where it touched bare flesh, and he tried to keep his hands clear as he searched.

At last he saw it – there – at the center of the twisted mass of decay, a single ember, flickering fitfully, sinking into the morass. He struggled towards it, as the dark energy nearly solidified, tendrils forming to pluck at his tunic and belt.

He reached out his hands and, yes, he could reach it, cradle it in his hands, lift the tiny spark of power free from the sea of death. All that was left of Aziraphale, a single brilliant gemstone, not even strong enough to burn him. He lifted it to his face, even as more dark tendrils formed, angrily trying to snatch back the treasure he guarded.

“Angel, Aziraphale, please…” But at the touch of his breath, the light stuttered and nearly extinguished. Of course. Angel, demon – incompatible.

One black coil snagged his wrist, searching, crawling towards the light.

“No,” Crowley snarled, transferring Aziraphale’s light to his other hand, “I won’t let you have him!” Closing his fingers carefully around the last fragment of Grace, he held it above his head, as more lines and waves grabbed at him, trying to pull him under. “You messed with the wrong bloody demon.”

He grabbed the tendril that held his wrist, twisting it around his arm like an anchoring rope. Once it was secure, he relaxed his arm, letting it become insubstantial as mist. The dark coil sank into him.

He’d hoped that the demonic taint would be compatible with his body, allowing him to handle it as easily as Aziraphale did holy water. No such luck. It burned and sizzled, like solid potassium into water.

Crowley braced himself and pulled.

Somewhere back on the physical plane, he writhed and screamed, body convulsing as another demon’s toxins ran through it, filling his veins like fire and ice. He thought his corporation would burst, torn apart, that his true form would be shredded to pieces under the pressure. He almost lost his grip, on both planes, almost broke the connection, almost dropped the precious light of Aziraphale back into hungry black chaos.

But however much it hurt Crowley, Aziraphale must feel it tenfold. Which made his silence all the more terrifying.

Hang on, Angel. Just a little more…

His body strained against him, trying to fall away, contact only maintained through his grip on the dark energy, taut as a bowstring even as he pulled it into him until –

POP!

The last of the infection broke free of its connection to Aziraphale, snapped into Crowley. On the astral plane, he collapsed to his knees, skin swollen from the effort of holding it all in. Carefully, so carefully, he lowered the last glowing fleck of Aziraphale’s soul, setting it free. “You…” he sucked in a painful breath. “You’re alright now. Just rest…”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open, back in reality, body clammy with sweat, every joint and every organ burning with pain. He scrambled away from the angel to the edge of the grass just in time to cough – heave – and retch out what felt like gallons of boiling black vapor, steaming out of him, swept away by the wind.

When he finally felt empty again, his arms and legs were trembling from the effort of holding him up. He could feel the blood coating his face, dry and flaking except two wet channels under his eyes.

Still coughing, he managed to crawl back to Aziraphale. The wound at his side was bright red, no sign of the dark corruption that had nearly killed him. But the angel still twitched and jerked fitfully, and his skin was fever-hot. The demonic infection was gone, but a mundane, earthly one had taken its place.

“D’n w’rry, Angel,” he muttered, mouth numb with exhaustion. “Just gotta…” He miracled up a length of cloth, almost as long as he was tall, but that was the last of his strength; healing would be impossible.

Reaching for Aziraphale’s bag, he found a jar of strong Roman-style wine, alcohol mixed with vinegar and salt water. He pulled at the seal, wax and cloth breaking free and a stream of wine spilled across the cuts, rinsing them clean. Aziraphale flinched and whimpered, but Crowley held him in place with one hand on his hip.

“Almost done.” Remembering something he’d seen a human do in Athens, centuries before, Crowley broke open the jar of honey and smeared it across the gashes, sealing them under a thick, sticky layer. He hoped it would work. You never really knew with human medicine. “Alrigh’ Angel. Time to…to sit…”

He slid an arm under Aziraphale’s shoulders and lifted him as far as he could, nearly collapsing under the angel’s boneless weight, until Aziraphale’s head was on his shoulder again. Crowley shook out the cloth and began wrapping it around his middle.

--

Aziraphale felt a burst of heat, sparking through every part of his body, like he was being boiled alive from the inside out.

Then, just as abruptly, it passed, and he was resting against something sturdy and warm.

His side still ached and burned, but in a distant, fuzzy way. He couldn’t focus on it, but he could feel the gentle pressure of fingers moving here and there.

Wasn’t he supposed to be worried about something? Something important. Of that he was certain. His eyes felt heavy as the weight of the world, but he forced them open.

A pair of hands, stained red and black, tied a knot in a cloth that seemed wrapped around his middle. They moved slowly, awkwardly, as if they didn’t know what they were doing. He could feel breath stirring his hair, and it sounded heavy, laden, tired.

Aziraphale tried to tip his head back to see who he leaned against, but all he managed was to turn slightly, his eyes finding a vast expanse of impossibly black fabric. “C…Crowley…?”

“Nh. Told you…” The body behind him shifted, and Aziraphale lost track of his surroundings. When they cleared again, he was lying on soft grass. One hand brushed across his forehead, pushing away the curls, and a cool breeze prickled across his skin. “Better?”

The face hovering above fuzzed in and out of focus. Yes, it had red hair, and a narrow face streaked with blood. “You…” Aziraphale tried to lift his heavy arm, reach for the already-fading form. “You’re hurt…”

“Nah.” The figure scrubbed at his face, not noticing the blood. Was Aziraphale dreaming it? Did he also imagine the eyes turned solid-gold with exhaustion? “’m fine. Jus’ rest now.”

“No…I was…” his hand managed to reach his side. “Toxin…bleeding…”

“Don’ worry. All better.”

Better? Every angel knew nothing in Heaven or Earth could heal demonic corruption. Well. Perhaps he’d dreamt that, too. Perhaps he was dreaming now.

He managed to roll onto his uninjured side. There was a frightful chill, but trying to curl up pulled at his wound painfully. “Nf,” he managed, without even the energy to cry out.

“Cold?”

“Y’s.”

A moment later, all the cold melted away, replaced by something warm pressed against his back, a light touch resting protectively on his hip. “Got you,” the voice whispered, a gentle brush of air across his ear. Then a sharp snap some sort of blanket draped over him, shielding him from the wind and the sun. “S’good. Sleep now.”

“Can’t,” Aziraphale objected. “I never…”

--

With a sharp breath, Aziraphale woke up. For a moment, he was disoriented – it was dark, everything tilted and strange – but, no: black sheets, grey walls, a few books resting on the bedside table near a mug of tea. The bedroom in Crowley’s flat. Which meant that the arms gently wrapped around his chest, the body pressed against his back, and the face nuzzling his shoulder…

“Mhf. ‘Wake already?”

“Sorry, my dear fellow. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“S’fine.” Crowley shifted, bringing his chin up to Aziraphale’s shoulder, wriggling his body into a more comfortable position.

“I’m still not used to sleeping.” He doubted he’d been out for more than an hour. “Not sure I’ll ever quite get the knack.”

“Told you. S’fine.” Crowley’s voice was still thick and heavy. He clearly had no intention of waking up so soon. “You wanna read now?”

“Not just yet.” He patted Crowley’s arm and leaned into his embrace, feeling lips brush absently against the back of his neck. “I think I dreamt this time.”

“Really?” He could hear the grin in Crowley’s voice, practically feel it against his skin. “Thassa first. Dream ‘bout me?”

“You know, I rather think I did. We were in a field…”

“Hmmm. Picnic?”

But Aziraphale’s smile faded as the details came back. “Your hands were…they were red. And I was in so much pain. Crowley, I think it was…” Without realizing it, his hand was pressed against the four scars on his side. “It was when I…”

In seconds he shifted from comfortably at rest to alert and awake, heart thundering as if it wanted to break free. He remembered the attack – fourteen hundred years ago now – the struggle for his life – the wound – and waking up, a week later, lying alone in a dying field, weak and hungry. He was never sure how much of what he remembered was a fever dream – but someone had bound his wounds…and then left. The cloth was soaked with blood; it had never been changed.

He hadn’t seen Crowley for another thirty years. Aziraphale only ever alluded to the attack once, and the demon had just growled learn to take better care of yourself. Never a hint of why the forces of Hell had ambushed Aziraphale, or why they never returned, or if Crowley had really been there to heal Aziraphale afterwards.

He hesitated to mention it now.

But Crowley’s fingers glided down his arm, twining with his, pressing lightly into the scars as if to ensure they were fully healed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I…I mean…it wasn’t the attack, though it felt as though it had happened only moments before.” Aziraphale shuddered at the memory of five demons, bursting out of the woods, claws and fangs and… “No, it was…surprisingly pleasant. I dreamt you were there. Afterwards. Taking care of me.”

“Oh.” Then, softer. “Oh.”

“You dressed my wound. Talked to me. And…and held me. Just like this.” He tugged Crowley’s arm across his chest again. “Stayed with me until I woke up.” His fingers played around Crowley’s, massaging knuckles. “I…ah…back then…I always wondered…”

“Yeah. That was…yeah. It was me.”

A lump formed in his throat, and all Aziraphale could do was nod, bringing Crowley’s fingers to his lips. How strange, to have confirmation after all this time. It shouldn’t have affected him, brought tears to his eyes, but, oh…

“Thank you,” he whispered, when he could speak again, and he pressed a kiss into Crowley’s palm. “I…I’m glad you were there.” More kisses, trailing to his wrist.

“Didn’t stay.” There was no mistaking the regret in his voice.

“Oh, no, I know you couldn’t.” Another kiss to the wrist. “It was a different time…we were different and…just that you stayed long enough to save me from an inconvenient discorporation…truly, thank you.” But when Crowley didn’t relax, Aziraphale switched to a teasing tone. “I used to think it couldn’t possibly be you. Why would a demon help an angel his own side had left for dead?” Ah. That wasn’t funny at all, was it? He continued, more serious. “I…I don’t wonder anymore. I know why.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, you silly old thing. Yes. I was quite fond of you back then, too, you know, though I didn’t trust you at all and very much wanted to throw you off a cliff for your…absurd pranks.” He smiled in memory. “And I would have helped you the same way, if you ever needed it.”

He lay there a moment longer, in the warm circle of Crowley’s arm. “I…don’t think I’ve ever told you…how very safe you make me feel.” Aziraphale turned over, just enough to meet Crowley’s eyes, expecting them to be warm and soft. Instead, he found them filled with pain. Aziraphale quickly reached up, cradling his demon’s face. “Darling, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It…it was my fault.”

“What?” The words slid down his spine like ice, and Aziraphale scrambled to sit up. “No, it’s not your fault. It was Hastur and – and those other demons who attacked. I don’t know why they suddenly decided…Ah. You mentioned me?”

“More than that.” A tear ran down Crowley’s face, just one, and dropped unheeded between them. “I – I thought I was so clever. If I didn’t want to do a job, just say you stopped me. Told them how – how fierce you are. Fearless. Strong. And you are.” His eyes were pleading now. “I wanted them to…to think you were a-a-a worthy opponent.”

“And instead they decided to eliminate me.” He reached up to brush the tear track from Crowley’s cheek. “My love, no, it wasn’t your fault. I’m sure I gave Hell plenty of reasons on my own. You weren’t their only agent on earth in those days, and the rest were certainly not as fond of oyster dinners.”

“They wouldn’t have sent five demons if I hadn’t…”

“You don’t know that.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek. “And glad as I am for your help, I was fine. Really, my injury looked much worse than it was.”

But Crowley shook his head. “Angel…you almost died.”

“What? No, I…” He remembered hands, coated with red blood, and something black.

“I pulled all the toxin out of you. I…I held your soul in my hand. It was almost gone.” The tears started again. “You were almost gone. I…a few minutes later and…”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled him into his arms, felt Crowley’s arms twist around him, tight as only a serpent’s embrace could be. “I didn’t know…”

“I stayed as long as I could, I swear. Two days.” Crowley shuddered. “Then they came back. Even more of them.”

Fear boiled through Aziraphale, as if Crowley’s words could summon the demons into their bedroom. Calm down. That happened fourteen hundred years ago. “What…what did you do?”

“Told you. I left.” His voice was strained, broken. “When I sensed them coming. I just…abandoned you. Led them on a chase. Told them you’d attacked me. Had reinforcements. Everything I could think of, until they gave up. And then I went back to Hell with them. Left you there.”

“Crowley. Look at me.” He pushed the demon back until he could see his eyes. “Thank you.” Crowley started to shake his head, and Aziraphale gripped his jaw firmly. “No. Don’t blame yourself. I was in no condition to fight, even if you could have woken me. And I would never ask you to fight a horde of demons. By leaving me, by leading them away, you saved me. And more importantly, you saved my best friend.” He leaned in and kissed Crowley lightly on the lips. “So. Thank you.”

“I wanted to stay.”

“I know. I…I wanted you too as well.” His fingers searched for Crowley’s, crept between them, and squeezed. “I hope, er, your former side didn’t do anything too bad when you returned.”

“Nah,” and there was that smile, the careless grin Aziraphale adored so much. “I was a legend. Only demon to ever face you and walk away unscathed. Even Hastur was afraid to face you again. Dagon had me develop a whole training course on angelic combat.”

Aziraphale threw back his head and laughed. “They thought you could beat me?”

“Oi! Mind who you’re mocking, I am the Serpent of Eden, Hell’s fiercest and most effective agent!”

“Only because you lie about everything.”

“You’re one to talk!” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pushing him back down into the pillow, laughing just as much. “You invented lying! To God!” His lips brushed against Aziraphale’s ear, but it was a serious voice that whispered, “I will protect you always, Angel.”

“I know.” He kissed Crowley’s jaw, then rested against his face, cheek to cheek. “Thank you.”

Eventually, they settled down to try sleeping again, Crowley pressed against his back, long fingers resting on the curve of his hip. With a snap, Crowley’s wing emerged, covering Aziraphale in a feathery cocoon. Just like in his dream.

There, in the embrace of his demon, Aziraphale felt safe, and warm, and welcome, and other things he’d never expected to feel. Whatever came next, they had each other. Forever.

[kdtheghostwriter]

SNK #128 - Seeing Shadows

That’s bad, right?

There were some semantic debates regarding what exactly Hange meant when they said, “Humanity is out of time!” I think it’s clear now that humanity has no more time for them to be indecisive. Eren is on the march, and even if he settles for destroying everything on the Marley continent, that’s a massive loss of civilization and one you simply can’t live with if you think of yourself as a hero. The look on their faces tells the story. It’s no longer about saving the world; it’s about saving what’s left.

How much is left depends on how quickly they move, but it’s not as easy as mounting up the troops. Eren and his Colossal Army are across the ocean now. They’ve had at least one full day to march and probably more since the previous chapter’s events around the campfire. Think about how long it takes for a plane to cross an ocean. Not a full day. Their best bet is commandeering Miss Kiyomi’s special aircraft powered by the mysterious Iceburst Stone. Before they do that, we have to pause for another episode of the worst show in the world: This Floching Guy.

As much I have advocated for Eren to be accepted as the new villain – praising Isayama for turning the Face/Heel dichotomy upside down as it pertains to Reiner – those two, even in their most vile moments, still have their fans. There is no guesswork with Floch Forster. He’s predatory, conniving, authoritarian and mean-spirited. Above all of that, he’s a cocky little shit in a way that even Kenny Ackerman would have scoffed at. He’s the antagonist to the characters we’ve followed for ten years now, but in his own mind they brazenly oppose him, which is where the title of this chapter ‘Traitor’ becomes important.

 For the last four years, Eldia has been ruled by deft slight of hand. In spirit, Historia Reiss, the rightful heir to the throne, has reclaimed her birthright. In reality, she retired to run an orphanage while the three branches of military have taken control of the government and all proceedings. Eren’s mission to Liberio as well as the counterattack from Marley’s Warrior Unit caused a vacuum to appear that was quickly occupied by the Jaegerist Faction. They now control the government and in extension all facets of Paradisian society. So what do you call a group of AWOL soldiers that are conspiring to sabotage your one method of security?

Traitors. Villains. Monsters.

They’re killing your friends and attacking your home. They’ve infiltrated your ranks and betrayed your trust. Thousands of innocent people dead just for the sake of completing their mission.

This week I learned that many people viewed Bertolt’s death as karmic in some way. I never saw it like that at all. His death at Armin’s hands was a necessary evil. Necessary certainly, but it was evil. It doesn’t make the 104th evil for carrying out the deed. It just happened to be the most brutal death in the series even if it wasn’t the most graphic. Bert is left defenseless as his powers are forcibly taken from him. He calls for his former comrades only to realize none of them will help. Then he calls for Reiner, his best friend who barely escaped with his own life. He dies a lonely, agonizing death.

“Who the hell wants to kill innocent people?!”

Who knows how long this question has been haunting Armin’s waking thoughts? There is evidence to suggest that the once bold Survey Corps veteran who was willing to sacrifice his life to help Eren take down the Colossal has been hampered by his successor’s timid nature. Ever since he acquired his powers, he’s always attempted to seek non-violent resolution. I don’t see this as simple naivety.

If you were given a power as destructive as his, where you are capable of destroying a town by simply calling upon it, why would you ever use it? Why would you ever want to? I grow uncomfortable with the amount of voices in the fandom concern trolling the 104th and their refusal to spill the blood of their neighbors. They’ve fought alongside or trained with most of these people. Why should they be expected to kill them like nameless drones? Even if it is necessary, why are they not allowed to mourn the choice?

Characters like these that we’ve known from almost the beginning. They know nothing of the outside world other than it’s filled with people that want them dead. Eren Jaeger is their best chance at keeping their society alive and these people they lived and fought and suffered with want to impede that and doom them. Samuel and Daz are soldiers, too. Forget for a moment that they’re opposing the main characters. Why would they let this happen?

 I digress, though. This point is more about Bert and his exit from the story. It came at the end of a fierce battle that saw the SC expend all of their resources and most of their man power. The fact that they came away with even one shifter’s power is a small miracle. The characters can be excused then for watching, unfeeling, as their former teammate is eaten alive. Now the shoe is on the other foot. Armin has been mortally wounded and the one vehicle that can get them to Marley in time is about to be destroyed. Before Daz can do this, he is stopped by Armin who is delirious but regenerating. Before he can deal the fatal blow, Connie wrestles the gun away from Samuel and shoots them both.

The mission continues.

One could say that it’s overkill perhaps. How many times must the 104th learn the hard lesson? Even Annie made reference to the fact that the Warriors plan was being criticized with no alternative. If they spot them, the mission fails. If the ship is blown, the mission fails. If they Azumabito clan is destroyed, the mission fails. All of these facts are true and the current best way to keep any of that from happening is to fight and kill the Jaegerists. It’s remarkably easy to say, but then they are the ones who have to live with choices made.

 No one should ever have to “get used to” the idea of killing…well anyone but especially not people you partnered with. Bert’s inclusion in this moment was no accident. It isn’t just because Armin inherited his mental likeness. This is the closest they have come to understanding the impossible position he was forced into four long years ago. Only this time, it’s Samuel who is scared and confused.

You can disagree with Samuel’s point of view but what Connie does next is by definition an act of treason. He shoots two members of his own combat unit and defies a direct order from a commanding officer. We know that the commanding officer is a sociopath and we know that following orders means being an accessory to genocide. But that genocide is the only thing keeping that island alive. That island has been the only home Samuel and Daz have ever known. They deserve as much as anyone, an explanation instead of a bullet to the face. But this is what happens isn’t it?

I love Metal Gear Solid for a number of reasons, but chief above them is the series protagonist, Solid Snake. In the flagship game, he is introduced to us as a super soldier engineered for battle that is pulled out of retirement to thwart his twin brother’s plans of nuclear destruction. This game is one of the few of its kind that can be completed without killing a single enemy. You are rewarded for your stealth. Because, you see, Snake the character is a pacifist at heart. He doesn’t want to do this, but he’s the only one who can. It’s a solo mission, so running and gunning almost always fails and if you kill too many people, the action hero main character becomes sick.

You see, because, these choices aren’t made lightly. They ripple and they matter. The 104th kids aren’t acting high and mighty, lording their moral values over the heads of those that betrayed them. They genuinely hate doing this. From your mouth you say, “We have to save the world,” but when you arrive you are told, “We have to kill these people.” For once they would like to preserve peace without additional death and I don’t think they should be scolded for that wish.

  Stray Thoughts

- Wasn’t all that impressed by Magath’s little speech, especially considering what came before it. It’s a change of heart, yes, but not from a genuine place. When faced with the reality of his homeland being flattened, and the futility of his current position, he immediately goes back to torture. Yelena is callous in her own right but she did nothing to warrant the violence. He’s lashing out and I don’t shed tears for him.

- Onyankapon on the other hand. What a guy. He resets the joint in Yelena’s arm and crafts a splint to keep it in place. He has no powers, but you would want this guy on your team during the end of the world.

- Reiner finally puts the pieces together here. “I’m just like you,” Eren says and like Eren, Reiner moves to protect his former teammates from making this impossible choice. It’s a noble gesture and one I respect. There’s no going back for him. He has far too much blood on his hands. That he recognizes that is a strong moment for the character.

- Armin and Connie’s plan wasn’t a bad one. If nothing else, it bought time enough for Annie and Reiner to get into position. If they had attacked outright, the plane likely would have been destroyed. Some people are frustrated with them but honestly, go read Berserk if that’s the case.

- East Sea Gang rise up! Mikasa in combat is still an absolute treat. And Floch gives us an example of this faction’s greatest flaw. You know; besides the nationalist framework they are founded upon. Floch is the most experienced soldier they have and when Floch Forster is your best fighter, your team sucks. Mikasa Ackerman was worth 100 soldiers as rookie. As an adult soldier, she is easily worth two Jaegerist groups put together. Kiyomi is clearly capable, but she also took advantage of Floch’s arrogance in the moment.

- Credit to Reiner and Annie for hitting their cue. I wondered what it would be like having them in this group but it seems like for the purposes it should work.

[pianosmasher]

I find it... interesting that Resident Evil 8, subtitled Village, is the first to introduce vampires and werewolves to the series. Up until that point, the series had always been about biological weapons, mainly of the viral kind. As a Dracula fan, I immediately pledged myself to catch all the way up on the series in anticipation for VIII after seeing the announcement trailer in June 2020. I basically didn’t know anything about the series, as I was too young for M-rated games during its heyday (at least by my parents’ standards) and had no older cousins or siblings who’d introduce me. I didn’t even make the pandemic connection at first. All I was thinking of was how my new PS4, bought with the money I’d originally saved to go see my mom in Tennessee one last time, was slowly becoming my new favorite thing. It’d gotten my roommate through April with The Last of Us Remastered and it got me through May with Horizon: Zero Dawn. If I’m gonna make the switch from Nintendo to Sony, I may as well get to know Resident Evil starting in June.

The pandemic parallels came in much later. I’m playing them in release order, and it’s not until the second game that the characters have the time and awareness to consider synthesizing a vaccine. The characters in the first game have to figure out what’s going on as it’s happening to them, and it’s important to remember that zombies came back into popularity due to the efforts of that first game, meaning the exact nature of the threat would have come off more ambiguous at the time. The game’s Japanese title, Biohazard, holds the clue: we’ve scarred an ecosystem, and the human damage may be beyond repair. All you can do is try to save all the people who don’t deserve to be there as it happens.

Starting in the second game, I'd hear the characters talk about vaccines. I myself will reach full vaccination status tomorrow afternoon, and here I am playing games with characters who’ve killed just to get close to making one. The difference between our viruses in theirs is that we actually have some hope of curing ours, as in the world of Resident Evil, everything seems unstoppable. Momentum never seems to end once it’s been picked up - not for the virus, not for the destruction, and certainly not for human greed. The player is supposed to survive and nothing more, not live and thrive but to continuously struggle, lose, and sacrifice as they make their way through an environment that is either mastered or deadly to the touch. “Don’t get too close,” the special operatives say to their fellow agents. Resident Evil offers the power fantasy of knowing how to handle something impossible through trial and error. The horror is overcome by learning to live with it. 

At least that’s how the first three games work. Starting with the fourth, all the atmosphere, pacing, and level design keep their levels of quality, but instead serve a much more direct fantasy of power in the form of a dread thriller with a pint of action thrown in for good measure. It’s clear that our relationship with the environment had changed by the time it was released. RE4 became the blueprint for third-person shooters, but funnily enough, going back to it reveals that it’s everything around the shooter that allows the main mechanic to shine that deep into the spotlight. The characters, for instance: Leon, now a professional, is infected with the game’s new virus himself early on, and he begins to have nightmares about what it might be doing to his body. If you’ve just come off playing through Leon’s first day as a cop in RE2, this is terrifying. He is practically a special agent at this point, meaning he’s accomplished quite a lot since the last game, so his plot armor can’t exactly be thick. Are we gonna see a character in Resident Evil, a game requiring a lot of death at first, actually die in canon? 

More importantly: what does he do now that he has the virus? Is he gonna be okay? Am I hitting myself too close to home? Or is this the only piece of media that feels relevant to me anymore?

Resident Evil 5 takes place in Africa, and despite semiplausible claims of racism actually ends up being a staunchly anti-colonial parable about overcoming a world of fear. Chris Redfield finally lets go of fear when he looks over at Jill Valentine and Sheva Alomar, the two women who have now saved his life too many times to count. RE5 was built for co-op play, and its story is based around the vulnerability and necessity of partnership. It’s not defeating the big bad in a giant volcano that helps Chris live uninhibited. It’s his support network, however small it may be. (There’s even a woman of color in it). The characters of RE have always been at the forefront of the experience, but 5 at least tries to make it clear that there really are people worth fighting for out there, and ten times out of ten, you can spot them as the ones who’re fighting right there with you. 

RE6 picks up on this theme of connection, gets high on nostalgia, and plays fast and loose with tone in a sort of victory lap. I’m not finished with it but it isn’t great so far. I also haven’t touched RE7, Code: Veronica, or Zero, as I want to finish those last two spinoffs before I move on to another phase of the mainline titles. And all the while, all my gaming channels are covering RE:Village without really covering it at all. I know that Capcom is bound to have some scientific explanation as to why vampires and werewolves made their debut in the series with this game, as it’d been in development for three years prior to its announcement, an echo of the past finally heard. But still, even if we’re grading on a curve, context is context. How wild is it that a year and change after the pandemic began, a game series known for its bio-weapons turns a gothic corner and drops its original moniker? Indeed, RE:Village is also the first not to have “biohazard” on any release title anywhere, regardless of region. In truth, I can’t quite blame the publications - I wouldn’t have noticed if I didn’t sit down to write this tonight.

Would I have boarded that hype train in June if the game had kept its chemical warfare? The Last of Us: Part II, another franchise brought to me by Sony, also had its virus and pandemic in the foreground, and that’s a top ten game for me now given my specific experience with it. But then, Resident Evil is special. The beautifully detailed graphics, endearing character moments, atmospheric pacing, motivated sound design, and confrontational control schemes have all made it stand apart to me as a series. I really have no comparison for how these games have challenged me and made me feel during this time. I’ve watched Chris become a soldier, Claire become a mother, Leon become a hero, and Jill come back from the brink, all while underneath the heavy horrors of a natural environment turned unstoppably hostile. One way or another, I’m glad I met them.

This was the year everything in my life took off in directions that I could no longer follow or keep up with. I can’t describe to you how much I feel like I’ve lost, despite all the incredibly important personal work I have done behind the scenes. I realize now that there are some changes that simply can’t be stopped or unchanged, only survived, endured, and adapted to. It’s taught me that we hardly ever seek change - it seeks us, and we are offered the task to accept it or defend against it. There’s something that feels right about playing these games at this time, of that I’m sure. I find it interesting that, by the time I get to RE:Village, the franchise itself will have changed into something quite different. But with each new game I’ve crossed off my list, RE has earned more and more of my trust as a series that knows all too well how changes come and go. Hopefully I will change right along with it. 

[marlinspirkhall]

Tomorrow Never Comes, Chapter 07: “Not A Single Friend”

Content Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Chapter Word Count: 3,799

[Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8]

Further CW: Major Character Death

 Light streams through the window, and Jim rolls onto his side with a sleepy smile. “Morning,” he hums.

Spock watches him intensely, and it’s only when his eyebrows raise slightly that Jim realises he’s trying to communicate.

 “The bond?” He croaks, pushing himself up on his elbow.

 Spock shakes his head. “It didn’t survive…” His brow furrows. “The planet’s restorative abilities did their job too well.”

 Over the next few days, Spock becomes more withdrawn. It doesn’t worry Jim, exactly; Spock always does this whenever they reach a new obstacle. Perhaps he blames himself. Hell, Jim’s been inside his mind; he knows he blames himself.

 Jim throws himself back into research. He scours every archive he can find, reading the names of wanted smugglers in this sector, anyone who could have disappeared here, anyone who could have a clue. If getting out of here is the only way for them to retain their bond- and their bond is the only thing which will make Spock happy- then he needs to find a solution.

 Jim sits near the guardrail, his legs dangling over the edge of the Veranda, and hears soft footsteps behind him. He turns, with a sad, slight smile.

 “I was thinking about Earth,” Jim murmurs. “Being trapped here almost makes it easier to cope with. Do you find that?”

 Spock gives a hesitant nod. “Earth was similar to this planet in many ways-”

 A huff of laughter. “No, I mean- I can almost pretend that being trapped here is the only reason I won’t see it again,” Jim whispers.

 Spock nods, and joins him beside the guard rail.

They sit in silence for a moment. The dark leaves of the forest rustle all around them; the first warning of the oncoming weather, and Spock wraps his arms tighter around Jim. When the first drops fall, they barely feel them; too lost in one another’s mind.

 With storms like these, eternity is hard to weather. Jim tries to keep track of time, but, if it was hard before, it’s impossible now. He would have thought Spock’s own, immaculate sense of time would keep him in check, but, instead, he wonders if he’s rubbed off on him.

 ‘Or perhaps I was never as good at keeping time as you thought.’

 ‘Well, spending time trapped in a time-loop will do that to a person,’ Jim comments.

 Spock massages his temples, as if dispelling a headache. ‘Perhaps we should practise your ability to block certain thoughts. It’s not necessary for me to know your every thought.’

 ‘Ah, but you love it.’ Jim kisses him.

*

 Once it’s repaired, they take the shuttle for a short test flight over the forest. They don’t dare take it further until they have a more concrete escape plan, but Jim stays in the front seat a little longer once they’ve landed, double checking every part of the controls. There’s a lot about this shuttle he doesn’t understand- it’s got features he’s never seen before: some are experimental, some are prototypes. There’s an abundance of suspicious and dangerous-sounding subroutines. A large file size piques his interest, particularly because it’s nestled within a list of comparatively smaller files.

File Name | size

 11292254qDefp.mp4 | 28.5TB

 11302254RsTwy.mp4 | 22.23TB

 11312254Ghtf2.mp4 | 58.334601151 PiB

 12302253lCmdp.mp4 | 21.56TB

 He stares. 58 pebibytes of information. It must be using all the shuttle’s available memory space. He searches through its parent folders.

 ‘Overseer Protocol: Active.’

 Curious, he selects it.

 ‘Admin override required.’

 He inputs Leland’s password, but the system refuses to accept it. Whatever the overseer protocol is, it was clearly intended to keep Leland in line. It takes Jim a couple of tries to override the system without the password.

 There’s a bleep.

 The video files load in their raw form: dates, followed by a series of timestamps.

28 Oct: 24:23:09

 29 Oct: 25:00:00

 30 Oct: 19:30:03

 The screen flickers, and freezes for a moment as the numbers load.

 25:56:03

 An error sound.

 625:56:04

 5625:56:05

 31 Oct: 45625:56:07

 He exhales. The seconds keep ticking up. His heart pounds in his ears.

 He chooses the file from October 30th, and picks a timestamp towards the end. The screen pulls up two videos, side-by-side. Two cameras. One of them displays the exterior of the shuttle, the other, the interior. The int. screen is pitch black, and the ext. is extremely dim. The only sound is the faint rustle of the trees, battered by the wind. He rolls the video back, and lands on footage of the three of them on that first day, unloading the shuttle. He clenches his fist as he watches the early relationship between Leland and Spock, and he considers just how far he’s come. In some ways, it’s a miracle he ever got away from Leland at all; and a cynical part of him wonders if, perhaps, he never did. Jim glances to the entrance to the basement with an uneasy feeling.

 Spock has moments like the other night- flashes of affection- and then seems to draw back in on himself. Granted, Jim never expected it to happen all at once, but he almost believed that would be it- one final mind meld, and he would be able to save Spock. He’d forgotten, of course, just how many times Spock had melded with him before. It could be that first times- all the times which were erased from Jim’s memory- are easier than the second.

 He assured Spock that he’s not trying to get him to behave more human, not holding him to Vulcan stereotypes or standards, or a strict section-31 regimen, as Leland would have. But, still, there are days where he cannot reach him.

 He watches as he and Spock enter the forest, and Leland begins to move the crates of power packs towards the entrance of the basement.

 Jim clicks the video off, and chooses an entry from the 29th. More of the same. Leland, crashing the shuttle through the Martian dome with barely a scratch.

 As for that final entry…

 The shuttle must have continued recording the whole time they were in the time-loop. The internal clock is programmed for the Martian 25-hour standard, perhaps because Mars Colony was the last chartered place the shuttle landed on, though the days aren’t nearly as long on Heirin- they’re perhaps nineteen, twenty hours maximum.

 There are perhaps six Earth-years’ worth of footage crammed into this one device. He wonders how many recordings there are of himself or Leland dying, and his stomach turns. He doesn’t really want to know, but the monitor could have other uses. He ends the recording manually, and switches to a new recording. He waves his hand in front of the screen experimentally. The interior camera appears to be built right into the screen.

 He disconnects the monitor carefully, and weighs it in his hands for a moment. It’s small, and relatively weighty. He considers showing it to Spock, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he drags it into the server room. He’s not sure if Spock would want to be reminded of how long he’s spent here. Not yet.

 He plugs the monitor into the console, though it appears to have some internal, backup power-source. The video files have disappeared- no doubt stored in the shuttle, as the monitor’s internal storage is comparatively smaller. Jim leaves it by the consoles for now.

*

 Jim is attempting to balance on one leg.

 “What are you doing?”

 “I’m trying to see if I can build up-” Jim falls over with a cry. “- Muscle,” he hisses, rubbing his hamstring with a grimace. He stands back up, and resumes the position. “We still don’t know if our bodies are entirely replaced each morning, or if it only happens when one of us is injured.” He poses. “How does my butt look?”

 “The same as usual,” Spock says, dryly.

“Well, it’s early days,” Jim shrugs.

 Spock hesitates, then steps a little closer. “I doubt it’s possible for you to gain much more… ‘muscle’ in this particular area,” he says, tactfully.

 Jim shoots him a glare over his shoulder, and promptly overbalances. “There’s that Vulcan tact, I see.”

 “This could help prove it, once and for all.”

 “It is futile to attempt to prove something which runs so contrary to the laws of physics-”

 Jim grabs his hand, and, with one sharp tug, Spock lands in the mud beside him, and they bump heads.

 “Law of gravity,” Jim says, sheepishly, as he rubs his nose.

 As far as he can tell, their bodies seem incapable of going through any kind of change. Gaining/losing weight, scarring, telepathic bonds- none of them seem to stick. They really do seem to regenerate each morning, without exception, though the rest of their surroundings wither. And we’ll never age. It’s practically immortality, Jim thinks.

 If only we weren’t stuck here.

*

 The next time Spock melds with him, a bond forms almost immediately, as it did before.

 ‘I guess that means we’re exceptionally compatible.’

 Spock tilts his head. ‘We know each other well. A bond is an inevitable side effect.’

 ‘That’s what I said!’

 Despite its futility, Jim convinces Spock to bond with him again. And again. It becomes a strange sort of game, a dance; to go to sleep each evening aware of the other, with the ability to broadcast their every thought into the others’ head, and renew it each morning.

 ‘Are you familiar with Greek mythology?’ Jim asks. Spock appears in front of him, stern and disapproving.

 ‘If I were not, I could get the information from your mind.’

 ‘Right,’ Jim laughs. ‘At first, I thought we might be living the life of Sisyphus, cursed to roll the same boulder up the hill every day. But, every time I look at you, the story of Tantalus comes to mind.’

 Spock’s eyebrows twitch. The landscape shifts, until Jim is standing neck-deep in water, watching ripples on the surface of a great lake. Spock stands on the shore.

 A large willow tree looms over Jim, its leaves a delicate, olive-leaf green. Something flutters across his face, pale pink and soft. A single petal. Jim smiles serenely, and glances at the underside of the tree. Improbably- and, perhaps, illogically- it is covered with cherry blossoms, the like he hasn’t seen since Earth.

 “Which am I, Jim?” Spock says, in a booming whisper. His voice echoes all around him, syllables melting into great, crashing waves. “The water you can never stoop to drink, or the fruit which is just out of reach?”

 Jim focuses on the falling petals, their delicate red hue looking less familiar by the moment, and contemplates their similarity to the rocks on Heirin. Everything about this planet is overpowering: drenching, seeping into them, even in these stolen moments of serenity. Jim knows better than most how easily alliances can be shattered by violence, and, reaching out, he touches one of the petals.

 “Neither,” he answers. He takes a deep breath. “I know what you’re scared of- that I, like Leland, view you as a prize to be won- but I don’t.” He considers for a moment. “But, I do need you. You are only like the water because I need you to sustain me. Only like the fruit because I’m willing to wait for you to fall. This… Time loop, this trap we’re caught in- I wouldn’t be able to survive it without you. You’ve demonstrated that, time and time again.”

 As he’s talking, the water level shrinks to his waist.

 “I don’t want to be trapped here, but there is one benefit- it gives me time to wait.”

 Spock blinks. “For what?”

 “You.”

 Spock reaches out, and catches a falling petal. “You could be waiting for a long time.”

 The echo of laughter. “As far as we know, we have eternity.” He holds his hand out, and Spock appears next to him. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and kisses him slowly.

 They’re so deep in the meld that it takes daybreak to pull them out of it. Jim wakes up in bed blinking in the light. Spock is curled on his side next to him, his hand outstretched towards Jim’s forehead. It’s almost easy to believe that he fell asleep this way.

 He reaches out, and cards a hand through Spock’s hair. For a moment, he allows himself to pretend that they’re just two lovers, lying together on a lazy Sunday morning with no responsibilities, and nothing else to do. But, it isn’t Sunday, and, somewhere below them, Leland is waking, too.

 He kisses Spock’s wrist. He twitches in his sleep, his brows pulling together, perhaps sensing Jim’s troubled thoughts. Jim rises, and hurries downstairs as quietly as he can without sacrificing speed.

 Leland’s “rise and shine” doesn’t have time to fall from his lips.

*

 Jim spends a pleasant morning with Spock before returning to the server room for his usual dig through The Klingon archives. His Klingon has gotten really good recently, and he’s sure there must be something he’s overlooked in the top-secret war files. As he goes to input the now-familiar sequence, something catches his eye in front of him.

 ‘Mars-Colony gang members reported missing […] with the exception of T’Gar Taag, who was apprehended last Tuesday-”

 His eyes widen, and he leans back in his chair, eyes darting around the printings and clippings laid out on the walls.

  ‘Crash-landing results in bloodbath […] sole survivor, Lewis McAllister-’

 Sole survivor. Jim reaches forwards, bringing up the scribbled translations of the Klingon tomes he was able to piece together. It’s only legend.

 A time loop, sparked by the spilling of innocent blood.

 A hazy memory from that first night. Perhaps it’s so hazy because it’s the last thing he remembers before he was murdered: Leland, sitting opposite him in an unknown cave, firelight painting his face, and the walls, a deep, intense red. “When the battle ended, there wasn’t a single enemy left.”

 “And not a single friend, either,” Jim had joked.

 He’s not laughing now. He sits in the server room for a moment, hands trembling as he contemplates his next move. Then, he rises, tears the clippings from the wall, and heads for the door. On his way out, he doubles back, and grabs the monitor which he tore from the shuttle, hugging it to his chest as he runs through the beginnings of rain.

 He enters the stronghold through the main entrance, and enters the central hall. Spock is upstairs, meditating. After a moment’s deliberation, Jim stashes the print-outs under the cushions of the sofa. As for the monitor…

 He grabs an axe from the wall, and steps into the downstairs bathroom.

 The shower runs. It provides an interesting background to Jim’s conversation with himself. The green light paints his face a sickly sheen, and he looks almost… Undead. It’s not entirely inappropriate, he thinks grimly, as he sets the axe and the monitor in the tub, and hits record.

*

 Spock wakes up alone, which isn’t entirely unusual, but he feels strangely uneasy.

 Downstairs, Jim sits at the dining table, papers laid out all around him, as is customary for one of their escape-planning sessions; although it’s been a while since they’ve had one. The change in their surroundings is immediately apparent.

 “You’ve redecorated,” Spock observes, lightly.

 The remaining knives, weapons and tools have vanished from the walls, and Jim gives him a strange smile. “I thought we could use some… Variety.”

 Spock lifts an eyebrow, and settles in the chair opposite him. He only needs to study his face for a moment.

 “You’ve found a way for us to leave,” he realises.

 “No,” Jim closes his eyes. “Not us, exactly…”

 Jim points to one of the headlines, then the others, and begins to explain. As he listens, Spock’s heart begins to pound in his chest, and he struggles to remain outwardly calm. He feels every bit as trapped as he did that first night, when Leland had pointed a phaser at him.

 He remembers the clatter as the power pack had fallen into the gap in the ceiling, and his eyes dart, momentarily, upwards.

 “- But,” Jim catches his breath, “There’s another option.” He swallows. “We could stay here, together. I know I’ve said it before, but- we don’t need to eat. We don’t even, technically, need to sleep. That’s paradise, to some people. Maybe as close to it as we’re ever going to get. We’d never get old, and we could live our lives in relative comfort, until one or both of us was ready to…” He swallows. “Leave.”

 Spock’s face twitches. The idea is almost tempting. Except...

 “Rise and shine, campers!”

 He turns to the door. “There will always be Leland.”

 “A small price to pay for paradise,” Jim says.

 Spock purses his lips, and begins to rise from his seat.

 “No.” Jim pushes his chair back, and places a hand over Spock’s. “Allow me.”

 Spock slumps, and watches as Jim exits onto the Veranda.

 Footsteps, quickly, down the stairs.

 Voices. A scuffle.

 A body hits the ground.

 Outside, Jim drags Leland’s body towards the forest, and Spock watches them until they’re out of sight.

 He sits. He sits and contemplates, for how long, he does not know.

 He considers everything that Jim had told him. With his strength, it would be easy to kill Leland with his bare hands. But, Jim? If the man turned on him, he would certainly have the physical strength to defend himself, but there are other factors to consider.

 “Theoretically, if we’re here long enough… Axes will blunt. Knives will wear down.”

 They would have to kill Leland with their bare hands, day after day after day. And- if ever Jim got bored of him, as humans are wont to do- he would have to rid himself of Spock in the same, clumsy way. Vulcans are patient, Leland had said. But, he was raised by humans, and he has murdered his fathers too many times to cling onto any concept of remorse. For surely- surely- somewhere, after years of two-person solitude in this desert of companionship, Jim will tire of a world where the only person to quench his thirst is a Vulcan. Spock can foresee it with almost-perfect clarity: a day where Jim will bore, and he will only be able to repay him in blood.

 As if moved by some external force, Spock hurries upstairs, and retrieves one of the empty phasers which Leland had left in the third drawer of the nightstand. Then, he returns downstairs, and pushes one of the dining chairs to the center of the room.

 He climbs onto it. Blindly, he reaches into the gap in the ceiling, searching for the power pack which Leland had lost, yesterday and so many years ago. After all this time, there’s no guarantee that it will still work, and a part of him hopes that it won’t.

 So much has changed since that first night. In many ways, they have become complacent of the danger Leland poses to them, a danger which is very likely to return.

 And, there are so many ways that it could go wrong. If, one day, either one of them forgets to kill Leland, he could kill one or both of them instead. They have already been clumsy too many times. If it happens again, and Leland succeeds in killing one of them by mistake, they would lose their memories. Even if a mind meld could partially restore them, it would put them at a dangerous disadvantage.

 And Leland need only be lucky once.

 There are other things, too. Spock appreciates an adherence to routine; he does not know if the same is true for Jim. And, when one takes into account the enormity of eternity, it may not even be true for himself.

 A part of him longs to put it to the test. To see how many eons they could go on thriving in this remote place. Never growing older, even as the stronghold around them was eroded by the winds of time. They could repair it, to a point, but, eventually, they would have to rebuild it from the woods that surround them. Fashioning their own tools as the old fell to ruin. That would certainly speed up the daily ritual of what must be done.

 A small price to pay for paradise.

 But, truly, how many times could they bear the stain of Leland’s blood? The man isn’t innocent by any stretch of the imagination, but, if there’s any truth in the terran concept of “purgatory”, has enough time elapsed to pay off his debt? At any rate, they’re not dealing with a world of terran invention, but it can’t be a Klingon one, either: in this instance, The Last Man Standing would be without honour.

 How long before the ravine to the East becomes full of identical corpses, as the clearing in the woods was once overcrowded with Jim’s? And, in truth, is still overcrowded. There’s no room to start a life together on a planet littered with one another’s bones.

 Mining the planet by hand if they had to. Perhaps they would even uncover the buried Time Crystal which keeps them trapped here, and a way to destroy it. But, even as he allows himself to dream, he knows it’s impossible. If there is any pattern to his life so far, any truth in the instruction given to him by Leland, it is this:

 Vulcans are patient. Humans are not.

 Most importantly, any exceptions aside: James Kirk is not. Jim, the man who bet the late Christopher Pike that he could graduate in four years, and have command of his own ship in five. Jim, the man who cheated on The Kobayashi Maru.

 Still, the test was designed to be unbeatable. And, perhaps- perhaps- if Jim Kirk was willing to sit an unbeatable test three times- he may not be so impatient after all. Perhaps, somehow, through the combined stubbornness that’s sustained them so far, they will find another solution-

 The door opens behind him. Spock swings round, still balanced precariously on the chair, and Jim stops dead in his tracks.

 Without breaking eye contact, Spock slots the power pack into place, and levels the phaser at Jim.

 Jim stares at him, open-mouthed. Spock steps down from the chair, and Jim settles into a grim smile. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t run.

 They stare at each other like exhausted children, waiting for a drawn-out game of make-believe to finally end.

 Humans are impatient, Spock assures himself. He waits for Jim to make the first move, but he doesn’t even twitch. Conceivably, they could both stand here forever.

His fingers find the trigger.

 He is impatient.

 He fires.

[Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8]

[keenstarlightmusic]

Are Slot Machines A Game Of Skill

Video games and slot machines converge to create a new casino experience

Skill Slot Machines For Sale

Are Slot Machines A Game Of Skill Play

Commonwealth Court in Pennsylvania confirmed that video game machines manufactured and distributed by POM of Pennsylvania are considered “slot machines.” The questionable games, bearing the name ‘Pennsylvania Skill’ are produced by Pace-O-Matic and Savvy Dog Systems.

By Rob Wiser

The impact of video gaming has not been lost on slot manufacturers. It’s impossible not to notice how the machines have shifted towards flashier, arcade-style presentations, with plasma screens, booming speaker systems and sophisticated graphics. With titles such as Star Wars and Top Gun, the experience is practically cinematic

Today’s young adults have grown up with the Internet, gadget-packed cell phones, iPods and other devices that often leave parents scratching their heads. But the high-tech phenomenon that has really exploded with the younger generation is the video game industry. Though video games have been around since the 1970s—whether in the arcades, or played at home on your Atari—their popularity has soared due to blockbuster game titles released for the PlayStation, Xbox, and other state-of-the-art home consoles.

Video games have, in fact, begun to dominate the U.S. entertainment industry, generating nearly $20 billion in sales last year (including playing consoles and accessories). Back in September 2007, the game Halo 3 grossed a staggering $170 million in U.S. sales in its first 24 hours, making it by some reports the largest debut in entertainment history. By comparison, the biggest Hollywood blockbuster that year, Spider-Man 3 generated $151 million over its opening weekend.

Skill Slot Machines For Sale

The impact of video gaming has not been lost on slot manufacturers. It’s impossible not to notice how the machines have shifted towards flashier, arcade-style presentations, with plasma screens, booming speaker systems and sophisticated graphics. With titles such as Star Wars and Top Gun, the experience is practically cinematic—and the action goes far beyond tapping a button and watching the reels spin.

Targeting the Next Generation

Casino guests are getting younger. In Las Vegas, ultra-hip nightclubs draw thousands of young people to the Strip every weekend—and they travel with plenty of disposable income. Yet slot floors remain pretty predictable, if only because slot players, who tend to be older, demand a certain level of familiarity. The randomized spin is still the standard game after more than a century. Technology inspires innovation, but underneath it are the same devices we’ve been playing for years.

What will happen as the older generation of players is replaced by younger customers who have different expectations when they spend money on entertainment? Can the allure of a Blazing 7s machine compare to playing Halo on a giant home theatre system? Or can the two be merged?

Behind the scenes, this question is already being addressed. Skill-based (or “fully interactive”) games, which combine the thrill of chasing jackpots with a video game-style experience—in other words, rewarding manual dexterity or mental acuity—are on their way. This defies a long-standing misconception that all slot machines must be games of chance. Most people are under the impression that skill-based video games would not be allowed in a gaming floor.

Early attempts at skill-based slots (the more accurate term is “perceived skill”) have included titles like Battleship from Progressive Games International (formerly Mikohn), which arrived in casinos back in 2000. With this machine, the internal random number generator selected a field of several possible results, and the player used his wits to find the best bonus. As in the famous board game, ships were placed in predetermined locations on a grid, and the player had to find them and sink them to win the bonus amount. In Progressive’s Ripley’s Believe It Or Not! game, correct answers to multiple-choice trivia questions yielded higher bonuses.

Games like these gave the illusion of being skill-based. The outcomes of the bonuses were predetermined, and you had to be lucky to reach the bonus round in the first place, so it wasn’t as if being a trivia wiz or a great board game player guaranteed you a profit.

Amusement game laws vary by jurisdiction, but usually prohibit wagering on the outcome of a game. You feed coins into the machine simply for the experience of playing; if it paid out winnings, it would fall under the category of a gambling device. Slot machines, however, are gambling devices—each state designs its regulations to ensure a fair gamble, and even defines what constitutes a “gambling device.”

Historically, this has meant that slot machines are games of chance, and video games involve skill—but it doesn’t necessarily mean it is illegal to combine the two elements. Most gaming regulators are receptive to slot machines that include a skill component. In Nevada, Gaming Control Board member Mark Clayton remarked that he was “dumbfounded” that manufacturers hadn’t yet presented skill-based video games for consideration, in light of the soaring popularity of home video games. “There is no formal policy that would preclude skill-based games,” he says.

Are Slot Machines A Game Of Skill Play

Fact is, the slot manufacturers have already gotten started. Last year, Bally introduced a slot machine version of the classic Atari game Pong, in which players knock a ball back and forth between two paddles. The casino version plays like a typical slot machine until the player reaches the bonus round. This triggers a 45-second game of Pong, with the player competing against the computer. The amount of the bonus depends on how well you play.

This simple bonus feature, based on the most primitive of video games, is an industry milestone. Pong is the first slot machine that allows hand-eye coordination to affect payout. It was approved by Michigan’s Gaming Control Board and installed in Detroit’s casinos, as well as Connecticut’s Mohegan Sun. Before the Nevada Gaming Commission approved it, they wanted to make sure the bonus round offered some type of minimum payout, regardless of the player’s ability. That only seemed fair for a bonus round, after all.

Bridging Two Worlds

From a technical standpoint, incorporating a skill element wouldn’t be a big leap for slot manufacturers. Some of the biggest names in the industry have been involved with both types of games for years. Bally Technologies originated with a pinball game called Ballyhoo, and in the late 1970s and early 1980s, its former subsidiary Midway Gaming brought to the United States two of the most popular arcade titles in history: Space Invaders and Pac-Man.

Bally has kept up its involvement with traditional arcade games, but its focus is on slot machine development and casino management systems.

The Konami Corporation has also had success with both gaming formats. The Japanese-based company originally rented and repaired jukeboxes in the early 1970s, and over the following decade it developed classic video games for the Nintendo console, including Contra, Metal Gear and Castlevania. Konami entered the casino world in the late 1990s, applying its creativity and technical know-how to supply popular slot machines.

IGT, the biggest slot manufacturer of them all, has never been in the video game industry, though it has introduced many of the high-tech innovations that have made slot machines more of an arcade-style experience. The company has secured several patents that relate to “perceived skill” games, which appear to reward players based on how well they perform a certain action, although the outcomes are predetermined. Last year, IGT partnered with Sega Gaming, a major video game developer, to create a slot game called Three Kingdom Wars. We could see more of these partnerships in the future.

Cyberview Technology is another company that is actively developing video-slot games. In one of its titles, called Galaxium, the buttons normally used to draw or hold video poker hands are instead used to move a spaceship from side to side, or forward and backward. In another pinball-style video slot, The Big Score, the buttons are used to control left and right flippers. With these two games, the player purchases a set amount of time. As the pinball or spaceship comes into contact with various objects, the machine registers a win or a loss. The goal is to keep racking up points while your credits tick down for every second that elapses.

A highly skilled player is not guaranteed to make money—these are still slot machines. By playing well, you experience an average result closer to the odds of the game, while less skilled players will experience more volatility.

Another Twist on the Technology

Las Vegas-based Shuffle Master has also combined slot technology with a skill element, but in a different way—by installing random number generators in table games. Titles like Rapid Roulette, DigiDeal’s Digital 21, and Novomatic’s TouchBet roulette combine the excitement and social interaction of table game play with the high-tech graphics and automation of slot play. Some of these electronic blackjack and roulette tables feature a pre-recorded, life-size image of a dealer, while a random number generator determines the cards you are dealt or the outcome of the spinning wheel.

Although they play like tables, the technology behind these games makes them slot machines. This has enabled casinos in states where regular table games are not allowed to offer a table-playing experience.

As slot machines take on more arcade-like qualities, one aspect will remain constant—all of the new concepts and titles will be subject to strict testing and oversight. This makes it unlikely that we’ll see any dramatic leaps forward in the near future. There is also concern among gaming experts and manufacturers that players will need time to grow accustomed to the idea of skill-based slot machines.

It’s going to require a considerable amount of time before skill-based slots make a significant impact on gaming floors. Patenting, developing and testing these games of the future—and getting them licensed—could take years. But once these games begin to arrive, it could be a watershed for the industry. For future generations of slot players, the reel spinners we enjoy today might seem as primitive as Pong.

Video games and slot machines converge to create a new casino experience.

[peppymint1986]

A/B/O Dynamics.  Mada/Tobi.  Non-Graphic.  Sort of dub-con.  It is complicated.  

For Miray, whose recent plot bunny inspired this

Between Scylla and Charybdis

Madara felt almost ill as he looked down at the pale man slumbering at his side.  Fingers clenching as he remembered the normally sharp crimson gaze gone dazed and hazy, as rivulets of sweat made the moon-pale features glisten.  How clothing had torn under his overeager hands as he succumbed to the sweet scent of an omega in heat.  How the other had felt. . .

Swallowing hard, the Uchiha could not help but focus on the livid purple marks spread across across Tobirama’s chest and shoulders, and even more damning, the livid bite mark right over the other man’s scent gland, marking the Senju for life.  How, he wondered.  How could he have done this?  What had come over him?  

He did not wonder that Tobirama had hidden his dynamic.  In the other’s position, he would have done the same.  Before his eyes, the Senju’s face almost seemed to morph and shift into another person entirely.  His distant cousin Hayato, who had always had time for him as a small child.  Who had been bright and kind and dead before his time.  Not due to battle, or illness, but to multiple pregnancies too close together.  Because of Alpha’s who did not know the meaning of the word no. 

One of Madara’s first, and still most contested rulings, as Clan Head, had been to forbid the forcing of unwilling omegas.  Unfortunately, society still had an interesting idea of just what constituted unwilling.  The best he had been able to do was to offer those omegas close to him his personal protection.  

It was the sound of a faint groan that pulled Madara back to the present; Tobirama’s eyes fluttering open as the albino moved to sit up.  Shifting forward, Madara reached out to help the omega up before thinking better of it, hands hovering uncertainly.  “Are you hurt Senj . . “  Madara coughed awkwardly correcting himself.  “Are you hurt Tobirama?”  After all this, the least he could do was use the other’s name.

Somewhat cautiously, Tobirama sat up the rest of the way, gingerly testing his limbs.  “Nothing of consequence.”  A little soreness, but nothing near as bad as what he had been expecting when he had set forth to make his brother’s dream a reality.  

Sneaking a glance at the omega, his omega’s face, Madara’s gaze dropped back to his lap.  “I,” he started, bowing his head.  “I’m sorry,” his voice cracked.  

Startled, Tobirama stared at the Uchiha for a moment.  It was somewhat tempting to let the other think, but he couldn’t.  “It was not your fault Madara,” he said.  

Madara could not help himself.  He snarled.  Like hell it wasn’t.  He was as much at fault as all the other Alpha’s he had heard spout out that same old rhetoric over the years.  The Uchiha opened his mouth to protest only to find a pale hand over his lips.

“It was not your fault Madara,” Tobirama repeated voice serious.  “I have been planning this for years.”  Seeing his mate’s eyes widen he continued.  “I knew I would not have been able to keep my secret forever.”  Nor was he his brother, to dream impossible dreams.  “The best I could hope for was to choose.”  Before someone was chosen for him, or worse, several someones.  

Brushing Tobirama’s hand aside, Madara licked his lips.  “Why me?”

“For all samurai like to say ninja have no honor, we both know that is not true.”  Madara had a number of admirable traits in Tobirama’s eyes.  “However, that aside, I had far more practical reasons to seek you out.”  Seeing that his mate still had not put the pieces together Tobirama took a deep breath.  “Firstly, your strength.  There are few who would consider challenging you for me.”

That, Madara thought, was an excellent point.  While mating bonds were for life, a widowed omega was considered fair game; and the Senju was a prize by many standards.  “Surely” he said slowly.  “I was not your only . . . “

“And,” Tobirama went on.  “There is the matter of the war to consider.”

Madara’s jaw dropped as everything clicked.  “The war,” he breathed to himself as long dimmed dreams flared back to life.  “Hashirama,” he said to himself.”  “Is now my kinsman.  Our children,” the child that Tobirama could even now be carrying.  “Will be first cousins to his heirs.”

Nodding his head decisively in agreement Tobirama spoke.  “Exact . .” His words dissolved into a muffled grunt as impassioned lips slammed down on his, but after a moment of shock, the omega was quick to kiss back.  Tobirama had never been foolish enough, even as a child, to believe that Madara would love him,  But perhaps, he mused, just perhaps happiness was not beyond his reach.

Of course I am a sucker for happy endings so Madara would totally fall for him and then he and Madara as well as Hashirama and Izuna (who are good siblings in this one) would become proponents of omega rights.  

Hope everyone enjoyed.

[aion-rsa]

Ghost of Tsushima Review: A Beautiful Homage to Akira Kurosawa

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Ghost of Tsushima is a daring departure for Sucker Punch, who since 2009 has worked solely on the Playstation-exclusive Infamous series. While those games were steeped in modernity, offering sprawling cityscapes players could explore from top to bottom via superpowered “conduits” Cole MacGrath and Delsin Rowe, Ghost of Tsushima’s open world is set in feudal Japan. It’s here that we meet young samurai Jin Sakai, who must defend his homeland, the titular island of Tsushima, from an invading Mongol army.

Right off the bat, the shift in time period and milieu to 13th century Japan is notable because Sucker Punch handles it so brilliantly, especially for the team’s first foray into the samurai genre. Japanese history and culture are woven into every single facet of the game so elegantly and organically that you’d think the team had been developing games set in feudal Japan for the past decade, not sci-fi superhero romps. More than anything, Ghost of Tsushima is a moving homage to Japan, its history, and its people.

The story opens with a massacre. A massive Mongol army, led by the cunning Khotun Khan, storms the beaches of Tsushima and is met by the island’s woefully outnumbered samurai contingent. When the leader of the samurai challenges Khotun to a one-on-one, fair fight, the Khan renounces the honorable gesture in gruesome fashion, literally setting the courageous samurai on fire in front of both armies. The rest of the samurai are obliterated on the beach, while Jin’s uncle, Lord Shimura, is taken prisoner by the Khan. Jin is also fatally wounded but is miraculously nursed back to health by a new ally, a thief named Yuna who needs his help in return.

These opening moments set the tone for the rest of the game. The philosophical conflict between honor and deception is the beating heart of the story and permeates the gameplay in riveting ways. As you fight to take back Tsushima from the Mongols, you can approach enemy encounters in two ways. You can choose to fight honorably, like a true samurai, and challenge enemies to a “standoff,” a quick-reflex mini-game of sorts in which you and one of the baddies face off one-on-one and see who flinches first before one of you slashes his blade through the other. You’ll then have to take on the rest of the enemies all at once, which is no easy task.

The other option is to fight like a “Ghost,” sneaking into enemy camps, killing the bad guys in their sleep, poisoning them, using intimidation tactics to scare them into fleeing battle. It’s an effective way of evening the odds between you and your foes, but it rails against everything the samurai stand for.

Countless games offer the player the option to approach combat either stealthily or head-on. This is far from a novel concept, and in this respect, the combat in Ghost of Tsushima offers little innovation. But what is innovative here is how Sucker Punch has taken the classic device of stealth vs. frontal assault and given it new life by expertly integrating it with the themes of the story.

Jin meets a handful of allies on his journey, each with their own multi-chapter story arcs that delve into their respective backstories. There’s sensei Ishikawa, a master archer whose protege has gone rogue and joined the Mongols. Lady Masako is a warrior and grandmother whose entire family was murdered by the Mongols, though she suspects they may have died after someone close to the family conspired with the enemy.

Each of the characters explores the honor vs. dishonor theme in unique and surprising ways. The dichotomy is most starkly represented in the clash of ideals between Lord Shimura, who is unshakably honorable and would rather die than gain an unfair advantage in battle, and Yuna, who understands that, to beat an enemy who fights dirty, you may have to put honor to the side for the sake of saving your people. Of course, Jin is caught in the middle and struggles to decide what kind of man he wants to be.

Aside from the ties to the story, the gameplay is fun and engaging. The swordplay combines parries and dodging with a more strategic approach to melee, as you try to find ways to build up your enemy’s stagger gauge. You can also use “ghost weapons” to give you an edge in battle, like kunai (throwing knives), smoke bombs, arrows, and more. There are also four stances to master, with each being effective against a different enemy type. Switching between stances is integral to combat and becomes second nature over time. There’s also an insanely cool fifth stance that I won’t spoil here, but it’s spectacularly badass.

Stealthing is strikingly similar to what you’d see in an Assassin’s Creed title (this is a compliment), and the game gives you myriad ways to kill enemies without raising alarms, like throwable wind chimes and firecrackers that allow you to manipulate their positioning or hallucinogenic darts that turn them against each other. Again, this is all stuff we’ve seen before, but it’s pulled off well here.

Release Date: July 17, 2020 Platform: PS4 Developer: Sucker Punch Productions Publisher: Sony Interactive Entertainment Genre: Action-adventure

Unfortunately, there are little gameplay flaws that needled at me, especially in the later hours of my playthrough (it took me around 45 hours to finish the game). The swordplay requires quick reflexes, and mastering parries and dodging is absolutely pivotal to your survival. The problem with the swordplay is subtle, and a little difficult to explain, but I’ll say it like this: in most games that are particularly challenging, when I die, I feel like it was my fault because I made a mistake, I just wasn’t fast enough, I hadn’t mastered certain skills. But on many occasions in Ghost of Tsushima, I felt like I died because the game didn’t give me a fair shot, like it was the game’s fault that I failed, not mine. It’s possible that I just wasn’t very good at the game, but it felt at times like I wasn’t given a choice in the matter. Your mileage will vary with the game’s difficulty level.

There are other things that bugged me, too, like the unreliable climbing mechanics (I swear, sometimes hopping onto a rope or branch that’s literally right in front of you is way, WAY too difficult). But overall, I had a great time playing the game and felt super powerful by the time I’d filled out my skill trees, which is no surprise considering the game was made by the same folks who made Infamous.

On a nuts and bolts gameplay level, Ghost of Tsushima doesn’t feel all that unique — there is some very familiar open-world stuff here. But on a presentation and storytelling level, the game is out-of-this-world amazing. Visually, the game looks stunning. The late-stage PlayStation 4 graphics really deliver, and coupled with the strength of the art design, Ghost of Tsushima is a true head-turner. The character models look fantastic and can emote on a level that supports the drama of the story. And while the different suits of armor that Jin acquires offer unique gameplay perks, I honestly just collected and upgraded them almost exclusively as an aesthetic indulgence. They look so freaking cool.

But the real stars of the show are the environments, which look picturesque from every conceivable angle. The wind-swept, verdant hills of Tsushima are intoxicatingly pretty, to the point where I’d get caught up ogling for minutes on end at the smallest of details, like the way the moonlight bounces off blades of grass or the way Jin kicks up crimson-red leaves that have blanketed the ground over time. I could go on forever about the dynamic day/night cycle, the beautiful rendering of different fabrics and materials, the horse animations. But instead, I’ll just say that this is the most breathtaking game, visually, that I’ve seen in recent memory.

A lot of love also went into infusing the game with Japanese cultural references, particularly in how the developers pay homage to the samurai genre. Each mission, for example, is bookended by cinematic intertitles that evoke old samurai cinema, Japanese characters, and all. But without a doubt, the most obvious/most amazing homage is “Kurosawa Mode,” which presents the game in black and white, with one of the best film grain filters I’ve ever seen in a game, resulting in an experience that looks almost exactly like a film from the iconic Japanese auteur’s oeuvre, right next to Sanjuro and Seven Samurai. If you’re a long-time fan of Kurosawa, turning the mode on may even elicit an “I’m not crying…you’re crying!” response — it’s that pretty.

I initially intended on playing the entire game in Kurosawa mode but quickly realized that it would be problematic to do so for a few reasons. Some missions require you to “follow the (insert color) flowers,” which is obviously impossible in black and white. And in combat, blockable enemy heavy attacks are signaled by a blue glint, while unblockable ones have a red glint. Combat is tough enough as it is, so…yeah. I only turned the mode on when I was riding on my horse through the countryside and I felt like treating myself to some eye candy.

Taking time to smell the cherry blossoms and have a respite from the game’s many missions and side missions is crucial because Ghost of Tsushima is a long, long game. The missions aren’t overly repetitive — most of them feel really special actually, like when you climb a mountain in freezing cold weather and must race from campfire to campfire on your ascent, or one armor quest comprised of several one-on-one duels with straw hat swordsmen scattered about the map, each with a distinct personality. But 40-plus hours is 40-plus hours, and while the main tasks of infiltrating enemy camps, liberating farms, and searching for special gear can lead to questing fatigue at the tail end of the game, the nice thing is is that you can always slow things down and just enjoy the scenery to break things up. There’s even a nifty photo mode to play with, and if any game warrants a photo mode, it’s this one.

Jin’s story isn’t just a means to an end, or a lazy excuse to drag the player from gameplay scenario to gameplay scenario. The story is incredibly well written and profound in its messaging and imagery, so much so that I believe it’s one of the best modern entries in the samurai genre, regardless of medium. All of the characters you meet and the little tales that unfold across Tsushima are filtered through Jin’s inner struggle with what honor really means and whether or not it’s worth dying for, which gives the story an incredibly strong narrative backbone. Despite the game’s epic scope, Jin’s journey actually feels quite intimate and personal. The same could be said of Kurosawa’s best work, and that’s just about the highest compliment I can give.

The post Ghost of Tsushima Review: A Beautiful Homage to Akira Kurosawa appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[ranger-report]

Thoughts On: HERETIC II (1998)

Just over one year after the release of Hexen II, Raven Software published the final game in their dark fantasy series. Set apart from the Serpent Rider Trilogy of Heretic./Hexen/Hexen II, Heretic II told the tale of Corvus Corax, the elven hero of the first Heretic, and his journey to return home after years of wandering the Outer Worlds. See, defeating one of the Serpent Riders resulted in his being thrown far far away from his origin world of Parthoris, and left to his own devices, he had a bit of a time attempting to make his way back. Marking the first time in the series that id Software had no involvement in the release of the game save for providing the modified id tech 2 engine (AKA the Quake 2 engine), this release was published by Activision under their purview. Moving in the direction of a third-person adventure with first-person shooter mechanics, Raven made it clear that they were going to take inspiration from wherever they could, including a popular little title called Tomb Raider. While garnering favorable reviews, Heretic II would ultimately be lost in the holiday shuffle of PC gaming as it had the unfortunate circumstance to be released one week after a particularly groundbreaking first-person shooter from Valve Software. You may have heard of it: Half-Life. As a result of the unfortunate coincidence and the lackluster response from fans due to the series changes, Heretic II was a commercial flop. But, with all that said, how does Heretic II stack in the lineup of the series it brings to a conclusion? And why has there been no further entries in the series since?

To begin with, the decision to make Heretic II a third person adventure was controversial amongst fans of the series. Yes, the style was popular and gaining traction, and Raven was nothing if not innovators, so the decision to a degree made sense. Why not take their dark fantasy world and put it through the wringer, especially since the main plot of the first three games was now over? Going into this title, I knew I was in for an adjustment period, but I had no idea it would be as shocking as it was. Slow, unintuitive camera movement coupled with clunky, lackluster controls make the game much more of a chore to play than the original games. Gone is the fast-paced combat, replaced with deliberately paced enemy encounters. Picking up heavily on the Tomb Raider inspiration, Corvus can leap, flip, roll, and somersault his way around the maps. Points for inspiration. But man’s -- er, elf’s -- reach exceeds his grasp, and while this sounds well and good on paper, molasses-like reaction times feel more like directing Corvus through waist-high water instead of the nimble acrobatics the game shoots for. Animations, graphics, sound design, everything on a technical level is top notch stuff. Corvus himself has a modeled backbone to allow for more fluid animations, shown off in his running, fighting, and even idle cycles. It’s impressive stuff that the gameplay just can’t seem to live up to on an engaging level. Heretic II feels like an attempt to return to the form of the first Heretic, but through the lens of a team who’s never played the first one. Rather than using different types of mana for ammunition, green mana is reserved for offensive spells, blue mana for defensive spells, and most weapons have unique ammunition types. Gone, too, is the inventory system of carrying items and objects for future use; instead, Corvus automatically uses any health or magic pickups he comes across, something which is bolstered by shrines which either completely refill mana, health, or armor points. When it comes to story, one must wonder which direction the intent was headed. Perhaps the original vision of Hecatomb was to come full circle with Corvus and face the final Serpent Rider after being outcast from the realms. The scattershot nature of the plot here doesn’t seem to suggest it, however.

As Corvus progresses, he returns to his home of Parthoris to discover a strange disease has taken over the land, changing the elves into diseased, violent versions of themselves. After being attacked, Corvus himself is infected, initiating his quest to discover a cure, and stop the mad magus Morcalavin. On an interesting note, it turns out that Morcalavin has collected the Seven Tomes of Power to aid him in magic use, but one of the Tomes is a fake and is the cause of the infection -- Corvus has been carrying the seventh Tome with him since Heretic. A bit of revisionist history considering that Tomes of Power have been consumable items since Heretic, and there were many more than seven. Noting this change to lore, Corvus simply needs to replace the fake Tome with the true one, and that should reverse Morcalavin’s corrupted power. Another noteworthy change is that the hub system of the previous games is also gone, replaced with a similar map progression to Heretic. Some maps are linear exercises in traveling from start to finish, others require moving about the many layers of the map to collect and bring together keys and objects. This is one of the largest departures from the previous games -- this story is far more intimate, more structured, more character-driven with cutscenes, dialogue, worldbuilding not seen in prior entries. Before, we were simply nameless warriors moving through dark fantasy worlds, kicking ass, taking names, killing gods and monsters alike. Here, we get to know one of said warriors by name and history. Yes, before now, Corvus was never actually named in his first appearance. He was simply “The Heretic” which was FAR more badass, although Corvus Corax is up there on the list of great fantasy names with ease. But, rather than a ride, this game wants to tell a story, watering down the experience. Whether Raven can tell a good story in other games is besides the point; here, the slipshod nature of the shoestring story attempting to provide a bit more theatricality feels tacked on, an oddity. Sure, perhaps the evolutionary nature of progression is where Raven felt the need to provide an actual factual story with their action game, also again from the inspiration of Tomb Raider slipping in, but it doesn’t hit the mark, nor age well in particular. Here we can see the beginnings of action games moving forward out of simple exercises in running and shooting, but telling stories with cinematic flair. Half-Life did the same, but with striking results, and far less awkward dialogue. And then, furthering the frustratingly bland story is the abrupt ending, in which the villain is cleansed of his corruption and ascends to godhood the way he intended, but leaving behind his power to Corvus in order to protect the world. So the bad guy....wins? But has become a good guy?

So, the question must be asked: what happened? Where Hexen II showed little of the changes that Raven were forced to make when new owner Activision mandated that they split the Heretic and Hexen series into separate entities, this game bears the unfortunate weight of that departure. As previously mentioned, the planned third game in the Serpent Rider Trilogy, Hecatomb, was divided into two games post-mandate, the ideas of which also went in two separate directions. John Romero has made frequent commentary in the past about the separation of the games as products vs a proper trilogy. He’d been involved with Hecatomb until his departure from id Software, which was also around the time that Raven was purchased by Activision. The publishing giant, he notes, split up the Raven team who had worked on the Heretic/Hexen games, further increasing the divide of the products. According to one of his accounts, one team worked on all three Serpent Rider games before the split, at which point that team was divided amongst the three in-house developing teams that already existed. While Brian Raffel, the mind behind the game series, was present and active on Heretic II, not everyone who’d put their passion into the rest of the series was there for the creation of this game. This shows in the final product. 

With that in mind, it seems a little unfair to judge this game as harshly as I am. Perhaps we should be examining it, looking at the interesting bit of gaming history it represents. It marks a point in time where Raven, having experienced fair success on their own through working with technology giant id Software and other publishers, has become a corporate-owned entity. This is, in fact, the first game by Raven to be published exclusively by Activision. Eventually, Raven Software would be conscripted by Activision into the Holy Trinity of Call of Duty developers, rotating in and out making new COD games so they can come out yearly. What legacy, then, does this particular game leave? There is a mark here, a brand, a scar, a sign of things to come. Mandates from above demanding two franchises instead of one, an ironic analogy of the division of Raven from id Software -- Heretic II may have been published and distributed exclusively by Activision, but id Software published the previous games, and held publishing rights to those games. Meanwhile, the transfer of copyright went to Activision, putting future games into a pickle. Activision no doubt has little interest in creating new games in a series when they can’t make money from previous entries. Furthering problems is that Heretic II does not exist in digital format, probably again due to Activision unable to profit from sales of the prior games; a casual copyright search for Heretic II in the public record comes up with zero results, effectively placing the game as abandonware. With Raven owned by Activision, and id owned by Bethesda (formerly Zenimax), establishing cooperation between the two giants may seem difficult to impossible at this point.

What a shame for the final entry in what began as such a promising series to end limping across the finish line. In my research I found quite a few people who were glowing with nostalgic praise for Heretic II, and why not? In the opening level of Silverspring, we’re greeted with a run down town disparaged by the rampant virus. Flies zip back and forth and Corvus slaps his neck to be rid of them; children cry in the distance, dripping water echoing reminds of the empty nature of this place. All the environments in the game are rife with audio and visual treats that literally drip with atmosphere and character. There is a strange amount of life here, in a living world that feels interesting and worth exploring. But the controls and story fall flat, alongside the abysmal decision to make the game a third person adventure instead of the first person shooters of the previous entries. Whether or not we’ll ever see a proper new entry into the Heretic/Hexen world is, unfortunately, something that remains to be seen. Spiritual successors, such as AMID EVIL and the upcoming Graven reap the fields which were sown of Hexen’s seeds. Activision and Bethesda may never see eye to eye on the subject of reviving Heretic or Hexen or maybe even the fabled Hecatomb, but one thing is clear: regardless of the corporate greed which aborted the lifespan of this wonderful series, the first three games of this series live on as passionate exercises in dark fantasy, examples of how to push the FPS genre forward while remaining firmly grounded in what makes it work. Heretic II is the Crystal Skull of this series -- many will find themselves better off forgetting it ever happened. Activision certainly has. And again, how ironic is it, that the very mandate which they laid down in order to spawn new sequels and twin franchises led to the death of them.