#but in fighting it replace it with a truth that doesn’t have all the pieces

[itspileofgoodthings]

sometimes when we’re not seeing things clearly it’s not because what we are seeing is totally wrong and needs to be wholly flipped on its head. that’s sometimes the case but actually not that frequently. it’s so much more common that we’re just missing some important pieces of the picture and can’t contextualize the information that we have even though it feels like we can because the information IS true.

[schoenpepper]

Our Love is God (Heathers the Musical)

Intro: He worships you.

Warnings: bad writing, awful grammar, not proofread, death, gore, blood, yandere

A/N: Jade jade jade jade my love my baby boy mwahhhh cutie pie. A little different than the other songfics, kinda short.

Masterlist

They made you cry, but that will end tonight

Human blood is a deep, crimson red. It smells like rusted metal…tastes like it too. When Jade brings his hand to his lips, his mind is clouded with thoughts of you. Would you enjoy the taste too? The sensation? His tongue darts out to lick the droplet of maroon, the remnants of your tormentors.

He thinks you would enjoy it as much as he does.

The color stains white roses the most stunning red.

You are the only thing that's right about this broken world

You were saved by them?

You didn’t need saving, darling.

With Ramshackle gone that time, he would have been all too happy to recommend his own room for you to stay in. He’d heard of the saying that royals bleed blue, but that’s simply untrue. Royals bleed the exact same hue. There’s amusement when he rhymes in his mind, humming a happy tune as he exits the premises. It seems the wild animals ought to have better senses, lest they don’t realize when they’re being hunted.

We'll burn it down and then, we'll build the world again

Jade is a lot of things, but he’s no hypocrite. He’d promised himself to kill all those who vied for your attention, after all. All’s fair in love, war, and business.

They called it a love-addled rampage.

But he’s never felt such clarity before. They must be liars.

You are his only truth.

Our love is God

Quick. He needed to make it quick. Unforeseen. If they put up a fight, the other will be desperate to protect—hah. There is no use protecting a corpse.

Morale is down. It’s easier to strike. So he does.

Gold clatters to the ground, caked by dust and organs.

There is the aftertaste of sand and sadness.

You're not alone

The hunter is dangerous. It’s quite lucky he’d gotten rid of him much earlier, lest his pilgrimage end up with unwanted surprises. On the chessboard, the rest of the white pieces are already off the board. The queen remains. A pawn is standing guard.

He makes a move.

The pawn falls.

The queen is unaware of the danger. Another move. There’s not much left to do, cornered on the board. And eventually, it falls too. Anticlimactic, but not quite unexpected. He’d planned for too long for all of his plans to fail at this time.

And when the morning comes

It’s surprisingly easy to dismantle a robot.

Especially one that saw him as no threat.

Technology is very convenient really, cameras fall apart with just one swing of a metal rod. Your friends, there’s just too many of them. Isn’t he so kind, so benevolent, so gracious, for culling the herd? Jade’s the only one you need. Jade is the only one you love.

Jade will be the only one left soon enough.

We'll burn away that tear, and raise our city here

At a critical juncture, it all falls apart. In any case, he’d never expected to take on one of the most powerful mages in the world and win. He’s shackled and bound while they assess how far the damages of his love had gone. They say it’s gone too far, but he believes he hasn’t gone nearly far enough yet. No. You deserve more, don’t you?

You plead with your friend to give you some space. You want to talk to Jade? Alone?

Even now, you’re just the sweetest.

You chose to be left alone in a room with a chained predator.

(Are you unaware the predator can still bite?)

Our love is God

“Why…why did you kill them all?”

“I did it for you, my love.”

You’re looking at him strangely. He doesn’t like it; he can’t read your expressions, your movements.

We can start and finish wars

They’re turning him in to the authorities. That’s fine.

Even far away, locked in a cell, he will always think of you. Dream of you.

You are the parasite implanted into his brain, a creature that ate up his internal organs and replaced them all with images of yourself. You are an alien, one that chose to burrow itself into him and turn his blood into nothing but pure desire for you and everything that you represent.

We're what killed the dinosaurs

You visit him in the dead of night.

How did he never know you could pick locks?

The fae were careless, the door wasn’t enchanted by any sort of magic. You came back to his side, why? Do you despise him, detest him, for murdering all the people you hold dear in blood as cold as the ice floes in his home? Don’t look at him with hatred.

Don’t get too close.

(The predator has always had its sights set on you.)

We're the asteroid that's overdue

“Jade…”

He could think of so many things you could say to him.

Each and every one would be like knives digging themselves into his flesh. Darling, do be gentle with him, would you? He’s only bled because of his love for you. It’s a hideous thing that he keeps alive, just for you. Don’t deny him.

The new world needed room for me and you

“Can you run?”

That is…certainly not what he expected you to say.

“Not with these cuffs, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, right. Turn around.”

I worship you

You would set him free?

Maybe you’re just as crazy as he is.

Deft fingers work with a bent hair pin to unlock the chains. He’s really lucky he wasn’t restrained by magic, you would have had no way of undoing those.

I'd trade my life for yours

You give him back his magic pen and pull him to run back to the Hall of Mirrors.

Our love is God

He relishes the feeling of your hand in his.

Our love is God

“Not that I don’t enjoy the midnight rendezvous, but where exactly are we going?”

“Home. Where you’re not wanted by the mage police.”

“And how do we get there?”

“Like how I got here. The Dark Mirror.”

Our love is God

Have you always known how to return to your old world…?

Our love is God

Green lightning strikes in the distance. The two of you are running out of time.

We can start and finish wars

As marvelous as dying with you would be, he enjoys the thought of escaping with you more. He can still run, but you’re beginning to lag behind. He scoops you up into his arms and keeps running.

We're what killed the dinosaurs

The hall is close. He can see its vague silhouette in the distance.

We're the asteroid that's overdue

In a puff of green smoke, you’re taken from him.

They'll die because we say they must

They think he’d kidnapped you. He doesn’t speak up to clarify the misunderstanding. It would be better for you to be the victim.

I worship you

You struggle and jump with him into the mirror anyway.

I'd trade my life for yours

He watches as you break the mirror with the closest thing you can throw at it. 

“I…I got you back. Here. I didn’t think…” you break out into a sudden laugh, and he’s frozen in place when you wrap your arms around him. Is this a cause worthy of celebration? He doesn’t quite understand. But you’re in his embrace and he would be damned if he let you go.

We'll make them disappear

“This is your house?”

“Mmh, it’s just me. It’s fine though. With you here, I won’t be lonely anymore.”

We'll plant our garden here

The first night, he woke up next to you and found a nearby mirror shining with green light. He tossed a sheet over it and broke it when daylight came, telling you it needed to be replaced.

You never questioned his words.

Our love is God

He fits right in this magicless world. There is no competition here. No one is worthy of your gaze. It calms him down.

Our love is God

The next time a mirror glows, he breaks it immediately.

Our love is God

The souls are still haunting him.

Our love is God

The faes are still looking for a way to him.

Our love is God

All of it fades when he’s right next to you.

Our love is God

There is nothing Jade won’t do to love you.

[hellishjoel]

seven days, six nights

5.6k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

← masterlist

summary: You get jumped in the QZ after a deal gone south and hide yourself from Joel to keep him safe. After eventually finding you and learning the truth behind your injuries, he heals you and promises revenge. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), post-outbreak Joel, living in the Boston QZ, somewhat established relationship, mentions of falling ill, mentions of hunger/starvation, mentions of weapons, mentions of sleeplessness, descriptions of a fight/brief assault, descriptions of bodily injury, talking about medical shit (and I ain't no doctor, I used google, don't sue me) thoughts and descriptions of murder (… isn’t he just so dreamy?), angst, light fluff at the end, half-ass edited (apologies in advance)

A/N: So happy to practice some post-outbreak writing! Enjoy this angsty one shot (inspired by this lovely ask!) that I fuckin loved writing. Dedicating this to @macfrog, as I pictured this entire plot with pixel Joel. 

“Joel, I’m so sorry, I lost you the battery-” “Someone stole it from you.” He corrects, shaking his head as a sinking feeling washes over you. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel a droplet of water land on your nose. You glance up at the sky, seeing the clear summer day has turned into dark clouds overhead threatening to flood the city in rain. Joel doesn’t look up, he stays watching you. You can’t seem to meet his eye contact. “But the battery-” “Don’t care about the battery right now, care about you.” 

Joel doesn’t know where you’ve been. You haven’t returned to his apartment in the QZ for days. He keeps track. Every time the sun rises and shines blistering beams of light into the quiet apartment until the moon replaces it and casts light silver streaks between the torn-up pieces of newspaper taped to the windows. Another day gone.

You had a routine. Make the smaller drops or pickups on your own, return to Joel, and report back to him with anything you think he might find useful or interesting. Five days ago, he sent you off to negotiate a truck battery with that West End District piece of shit, Robert. He shouldn’t have let you go alone. Fucking smugglers, you couldn’t trust any of them. Hell, Joel was even surprised you trusted him at first. He regretted not insisting on being by your side, even if it was just as your personal attack dog to keep Robert  on his toes. 

Despite Boston being one of the more “well-managed” QZs to still exist, the black market that emerged from it was just as strong. That’s where Joel came in. He figured if he could smuggle himself into one of the most protected quarantine zones in the country, he could smuggle just about anything else. 

Drugs, weapons, ammunition, illegally forged paperwork, counterfeit ration cards, you name it, and Joel could work it in or out of the city.  Joel’s reputation was usually enough to keep you both out of imminent danger as he became popular with not only the inhabitants of the QZ, but also with fellow smugglers. You all needed each other to stay alive, in one way or another. 

Don’t be mistaken; the Boston QZ wasn’t perfect. It went through its fair share of scares. Food sources dwindled occasionally, leaving people angry, starving, and rebellious. Fireflies were a constant nag on depleting military resources. The fighting never truly stopped. This partially made Joel’s life easier. When times got tough, people searched for Joel to procure particular goods to help keep them afloat or, more importantly, alive. 

That’s the problem Joel ran into after spending a night in FEDRA lock up. He was the one in need of supplies. 

Joel was sick. Not infected sick, not cordyceps sick, some kind of infection he got from poor sanitation in the lock-up that attacked its way through an open wound Joel had gotten. He didn’t know if it was from work duty or from the recent street attacks, hence his stay in the FEDRA lockup. No matter where he got it from, an infection in the bloodstream wasn’t easily curable. 

The doctors, what very few the QZ had, were scarcely treating the sick due to a lack of supplies. And Joel was only getting worse. 

He was fighting a high fever, his breathing was fucked, as was his heart rate. Only a few days into his symptoms, he was crashing. He was damn near on the devil’s doorstep. He wasn’t made for heaven’s gates. 

Joel didn’t have friends in the QZ, but there were certain high-powered people who needed items smuggled, too. And the guards paid him well to keep his mouth shut about what he saw going in and out of those gates after curfew. That’s why when one of his more popular clients heard Joel was an inch from  death, they sent you. 

You burst through his apartment, the door nearly flying off its hinges as you fled to his bedside. He pushed you away with what little strength he had at first, the infection was making him lose his damn mind. His skin was scarlet red, and he was clammy with sweat. He didn’t know you, you didn’t know him. But you weren’t going to let him die. 

“Joel, I’m here to help you, hold still.” 

Then you started your search, tearing Joel’s clothes off one by one until you found the sizeable cut on his upper bicep near his shoulder, a huge scrape from a metal blade that had gotten infected. The man had tons of scars, all in varying sizes, shapes, and places on his body. You didn’t know his past, but his body told his story. He was a fighter. 

Your fear was how far into sepsis Joel was. Any further or even just a few hours later, you might have witnessed his organs begin shutting down. 

Despite his hazy state, Joel was struck by your amount of supplies. You weren’t a Boston QZ doctor, he would remember a face like yours. It took a smuggler to know a smuggler, and you dealt in medical supplies. 

Joel passed out not long after you got there. You caught him up in the morning, you never left his side. You monitored him, kept checking his vitals, pumped him with water, shoved antibiotics down his throat, cleaned his wound before it could fester anymore, and tried to regulate his body temperature. This could have been a lot worse. It should have been a lot worse. 

This was your first time experiencing Joel Miller’s tenacious stubbornness. He wouldn’t fucking die, not last night, and not today. 

A few weeks later, with Joel improving, he picked up on you around town. The way you blended in with just about everyone else. Not much slipped past Joel these days with his eyes like that of an eagle. But you slipped right through his fingers, didn’t even know you existed,  despite running the same territory. 

That’s when he decided he wanted someone like you on his team. Not just for your medical skills, but the type of supplies you ran was in high demand. You never did tell him where you got it, or how it was funded, all he had to know was that you were in. And you have been in ever since. 

Joel introduced you to heavier smuggling, like weapons and bundles of cash. Even people for the right price. He taught you how to make fake documents of verification and how to forge other paperwork. This was a lot bigger compared to your clean syringes and medicine. 

You learned a lot from each other. You taught Joel patience, and to thank you for saving his life, he taught you how to orgasm in less than five minutes. 

The relationship you shared, if you could even call it that, wasn’t strictly a romantic one. Both of you were too guarded for something like that. But also, life was too short and unpredictable right now not to crave pleasure to erase the pain from the past. 

It was hard to admit, considering how independent you’ve grown since being accepted into the Boston QZ, but you were thinking about Joel in ways far beyond a slightly romantic relationship. He had protected you and cared for you in the Joel sort of way that’s hard to read but you know exists. 

Joel worked extra hours to hand you off extra ration cards, shaking his head and not looking at you when he said it was no big deal, just take’em. Or when he didn’t want you to stay in spare housing, he offered to let you live with him in his nicer, non-shared apartment. It was a small slice of heaven in this fucked up world. You liked him, hell, maybe it was more than like. 

That’s why when you got jumped by Robert’s guys on the way back to Joel’s with the truck battery, they damn near killed you. They left you passed out in the alley. Robbed you of your ration cards, stole back the battery, smashed your head so hard into the brick wall you had passed out. All you wanted to do when you came to was crawl to Joel. So you did. You were outside his door, beaten and bruised, about to knock. Then you just stood there and spiraled. 

You listened from the other side of Joel’s door to the floorboards creaking as he paced the old wooden beams. You were late and left him worried. He was waiting for you to come home. 

The thought made your stomach twist. You looked like shit. You knew what Joel was capable of. One look at your bruised and bloodied face would send him flying down the street with a rifle in his hands and a pistol shoved in the back of his jeans.  You couldn’t bear the thought of him getting hurt in a war with Robert. 

Joel was smart, a hell of a lot smarter than Robert, but their smuggling operations varied greatly. Robert was an arms dealer, with henchmen all around the QZ. Joel only worked with a handful of people, he kept his circle small. If Joel went after Robert, you were more likely to find him dead in the street than anything else. And you couldn’t do that to Joel, not after all he’s done for you. 

If Joel saw you hurt, he would kill Robert. He’d kill anyone that laid a finger on you. No one touches what’s Joel’s. Not merchandise, not weapons, not the pills he smuggles in and out of the QZ, and certainly not you. 

So you tiptoe back down the stairs and run to the spare housing blocks just before the curfew alarm sounds. What Joel doesn’t know won’t get him killed. 

---

Joel stands in line during the heat of summer, ration cards stuffed in his back pocket as he waits with others in the queue for a tray and some food. The dining hall was packed, and by the looks of other people’s trays, the food was low again. All he can think about is how he worked extra shifts all last week to get more ration cards for both of you. Without these cards, you were going hungry. You were supposed to be by his side, where were you? 

By day six, Joel was restless. He didn’t realize how accustomed he had grown to having you in bed beside him. All he could picture during his sleepless nights was his body spooned in behind yours, the heavy weight of his arm curled around your waist, being able to sense even the tiniest of movements. You’d push off his arm in the middle of the night, telling him that you just needed to use the bathroom or get some water. 

It wasn’t always like that, though. Sometimes, you have nightmares. Ones that left you shooting up straight in the middle of the night, gasping for breath, crawling backward in bed like something or someone was chasing you. Joel didn’t know everything about your past and vice versa, but he knew wherever you came from before Boston was a different form of hell. He would hold you in his arms, console you, wipe your hot tears, lay your head on the warmth of his chest, and tell you to level out your breathing by listening to the beat of his heart. He held you in his arms until you eventually fell back asleep. Most of the time, you’d wake up and wouldn’t remember a thing. 

What if nothing was wrong with you, and you just realized you didn’t want to be with someone as broken and battered as Joel? He didn’t make being in his company easy. He gave you a lot of shit, pushed you to the limits, told you on more than a handful of occasions he just wanted to be left alone. You’d ask about his daughter, the one he sparsely spoke about, and he’d bark at you until you regretted even thinking about her. He didn’t make things easy on you, but Joel did care about you. Even if he was shit at showing it. 

He pushed you away, maybe you took the hint and left him. 

On day seven, he started asking around about you, something he saved as a last resort. The less you two were seen together, the better. You had him worried sick, and he was damn near ready to raid Robert’s warehouse to see if he had taken you, made you his girl against your will.  

That was until he caught a glimpse of you going past the market. It didn’t take much, he recognized your figure and trailed you with his eyes.  You were walking towards spare housing, with a heavy backpack and a sweatshirt on. Your arms were wrapped securely around you, and your head was down. 

He navigated through the crowds, jaw tight, putting down heavy steps on the broken gravel road as he pushed people out of his way with a guided hand on their shoulder. He followed you out of the crowd and down the street lined with stone barricades and rubble from a recent building that was raided by patrol on the hunt for Fireflies. You turned sharply down an alleyway, and Joel followed you, needing to see if you were okay, looking for answers. 

As soon as Joel took the alley, he was attacked and harshly shoved backward, his shoulder blades smacking the red brick wall behind him. A small switchblade was then shoved against the protruding vein in his neck, heated puffs of breath leaving him. He initially panicked in the moment, his hand tightening around the wrist that held him there.

“Why the hell are you following me?” You bark at him, head still lowered. Joel’s eyes narrow at the sound of your voice. 

He speaks your name.

Your strength relaxes, and you lift your head up to see you had pinned Joel. Shit, you thought one of Robert’s men was following you from town. You let out an exhausted breath of relief. 

“You’re really holdin’ me up with the knife I gave you?” Joel asks. He smacks the back of your hand, reflexes making your fist open up and lose the grip on your switchblade. Joel snags it with his free hand and glares at you. He takes the opportunity to shove your forearm off his chest, the one that was pinning him against the wall, and sending you a few paces back from the force he exerts. He hesitates but folds the blade back into the handle, and offers it back to you.

You let out a sigh of relief to see that it was just Joel. But this was still a problem. 

You retrieve the switchblade you accidentally surrendered to him and stuff it into your sweatshirt pocket. You cross your arms and look away to the entrance of the alley. “What the hell are you doing following me, Joel?”

He lets out a scoff through his nose and shoots daggers out of his eyes that you won’t meet. “What the hell am I doin’? Where the hell have you been?” He tries not to bark so loud. You won’t stop staring at the entrance of the alley, and Joel’s not sure if you’re thinking about running or thinking about being ambushed. 

He grabs your arm and drags you further into the alley, sunset on the horizon. He brings you to the back of an old school that was ready to collapse. He pushes you back against the wall and stands close, too close. 

“Answer me, what the hell happened to you?” His voice shoots goosebumps across your skin, low and growling for answers. 

The grip he has on your arm tightens and washes a flood of heat over your injured arm. Your mouth hisses with hurt, trying to breathe through the pain. You shake him off of you and clutch your arm lightly. “‘M fine, Joel, I can manage.” 

You’re speaking with a break in your voice that Joel can’t quite place. The hood you’re wearing is working overtime to shield your face. 

He pauses before he slowly looks over you. “Why are you wearin’ a sweatshirt in the middle of summer?” 

The silence he’s met with only leaves him more curious. What are you hiding? He swiftly pushes the hood off your head before you can stop him, and he’s not prepared for what he sees. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his large hands delicately coming up and caressing your cheeks.

You sigh and roll your eyes. The skin around your right eye is blueish-purple. You lightly twinged at the contact, no matter how delicate he was being. “It’s not as bad as it seems, it doesn’t hurt-”

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Joel mutters, lightly taking your chin between his thumb and index finger as he angles your face from left to right, allowing him to get a full look at the damage done to you. You glance down at his broken watch for comfort, the band fraying and the glass shattered, but he still wore it. 

You can’t exactly explain why your lower lip starts to wobble. It was so hard to stay away from Joel, to distance yourself, but it was all for keeping him safe. Your small fists lightly clutch the button-up shirt he’s wearing around his abdomen, finally feeling a slight sense of security. 

“Joel, I’m so sorry, I lost you the battery.”

“Someone stole it from you.” He corrects, shaking his head as a sinking feeling washes over you. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel a droplet of water land on your nose. You glance up at the sky, seeing the clear summer day has turned into dark clouds overhead threatening to flood the city in rain. Joel doesn’t look up, he stays watching you. 

You can’t seem to meet his eye contact. “But the battery-”

“Don’t care about the battery right now, care about you.” His thumb gently examines the cut on your lip. You curl it inwards to stray from his touch. “Robert do this to you? His guys?” Joel’s asking accusingly, and you know better than to lie to him. You swallow the growing lump in your throat and gently nod, blinking back tears. 

His face grows taut with anger, his brows furrowing and the creases in his forehead are set in stone. His jaw is clamped shut while he grits his teeth. Joel’s probably thinking of a million scenarios of how to put Robert down. Which way would last the longest, string out the torture, make him apologize to you, and beg for his life. Make him apologize to Joel for ever touching a hand on what was his. 

“Joel, you need to take a breath. Focus.” The last thing you wanted was for Joel to go on a rampage tonight in search of Robert. “I’m fine, this shit happens. We’ll get back on track and-”

“Can’t believe they let you live.” He murmurs, taking a look at the damage that he can visibly see before lightly sighing and releasing your face. You’re quick to pull the hood back up and cross your arms in front of you as some sort of shield. 

His eyes are sunken in, his chest is lightly heaving as he tries to sort through his muddled thoughts. The rain is starting to scatter more, hitting your muddy sneakers and Joel’s dark denim shirt. The setting sun meant curfew was just around the corner. 

“Come on. We’re goin’ home. Need to take a look at you in the light." You hesitate but his eyes are pleading for you to just let him take care of you.  So you let him. 

---

You travel up the same staircase you did just a week ago, limping and injured, broken and feeling guilty. Joel needed that battery for the truck. He was going to leave Boston and go to find his brother, Tommy. Neither of you had discussed if you would come with. For Joel, you think you might do just about anything for him if he asked. 

He stabs his key into the lock of his door. You hear a crying baby in a neighboring apartment, it was probably startled awake by the blaring of the curfew alarm. Lightning and thunder crack outside as Joel pushes open the door. You follow him inside and set down your backpack by the door like you usually do. Another strike of lightning makes his apartment flood itself with white-silver streaks of light, if only for a moment. Joel flips the lock back into place and hits the switch to the one overhead light in between the kitchen and the living room. You’re sweating up a storm in your sweatshirt. 

Though living in Boston’s QZ wasn’t great, you had to admit that not every quarantine zone had clean water and electricity. Joel had an old standing oscillating fan that was stationed at the foot of his bed during the summers since he ran so warm all the time. He said he traded about four or five meals worth of ration cards to get it, said that it was considered a steal. You shed the heavy material of your sweatshirt and sit tiredly down at the end of his bed, closing your eyes as the fan wicks away your sweat and cools your face. 

Living in spare housing the past week was hell. You barely slept. The homeless, sick, and injured all found their way to spare housing. You weren’t safe there. And you didn’t have any ration cards to your name. You had to trade one singular, perfectly clean syringe to afford four rolls of bread. It was all you could get at the time being. Everyone was fighting for work, knowing ration cards and food were low. Since you were still somewhat new to the QZ, you weren’t given privileges. You laid on a nasty, old cot for a week. Joel’s small apartment was heaven. The solitude was peaceful. 

Joel was standing at the sink, water running over a cloth as he stared down at the water circling the drain. He needed to take a breath, set his anger aside, and get you to talk. 

Joel wrings out the rag, loose droplets of water splattering in the sink before he sits down at his small wooden kitchen table. “C’mere.” He whispers, taking your attention away from the fan. You slowly stand up and make your way to the table under the central light in his living room, sighing softly as you slowly sink into the accompanying chair. Now in the light, he observes your injuries closer. 

Without your sweatshirt on, he can see bruises and scrapes along your arms, residual blood on your knuckles and under your nails. His little fighter. He notes that your tanktop is a bit shredded, and he fears the worst. 

You catch him staring and intervene. “Don’t worry. I didn’t let them get close enough to touch me like that.” You glance down at the sweaty tank top and lightly tug on the hole. “Just got this while I was running away, trying to hop a fence.” 

Joel frowns and slowly works his eyes over you. “‘S not like you to get caught. You’re pretty damn fast.”

You held down a bubble of laughter as your fingers played with the fraying material of your top. “Yeah, well, they already got one or two good hits on me, so I was a little hazy.” Your words don’t settle him. They infuriate him. 

He brings his attention to your face. Your eye must have been swollen at one point, but it wasn’t anymore. The puffiness had gone down, and the bruises were in their final stages of healing. You have another more prominent bruise on your cheekbone, black and blue, but it’s not broken. That’s good. The cut on your eyebrow and the matching one on your lip catches his attention. A man with a ring. 

“Red hair? Crooked nose, missing a front tooth?” 

You blink a few times rapidly, curious as to how the hell Joel knew the characteristics of one of your attackers. 

“How did you…” You start to say until your words trail off, shaking your head in confusion. 

Joel sneers lightly and brings the wet rag up to gently dab at the cut on your lip. “Not a lot of men are stupid enough to wear a ring that basically signs their name on whoever’s face they’re knocking in.” How he describes your fight makes you flinch and shift uncomfortably in your chair, evading his eye contact. “Sorry.” He mutters quietly. “His name is Chase, Jase, somethin’ stupid like that. One of Robert’s guys.” Joel’s words lightly flitter off as he shifts his attention to your lip once more. 

It was still swollen and angry. You probably tried to eat with it still agitated and delayed its healing. But you know this already. You ate because you didn’t have a choice. It was that, or starve. He hated knowing you were roaming the streets in a horrible hunger, especially when he had ration cards waiting for you at home. 

Your eyes twitch closed as Joel’s wet rag rinses the blood out of the cut on your lip, the old excess blood lightly trickling into your mouth. Your tastebuds catch the tang of metallic and salt. You did what you could with the medical supplies you had, but you didn’t want to waste on yourself what you could potentially sell. If you were avoiding Joel for a while, you needed to be able to make trades of your own. You did use some supplies to clean the cut on your head. You were lucky the wall you were thrown into didn’t leave you with a concussion. 

Joel is still wrestling with why the hell you didn’t come home, why he had to go out and find you. Why, why, why? Why did he let you go alone? Why did the deal go south? A terrible feeling soured his stomach.  Robert’s men were ruthless, they must have felt kind enough to let you live. Or it was a message to Joel from Robert. You’re next. 

Joel wasn’t scared of Robert, but for them to be scared of a young woman was a mystery for the masses. 

He tosses the rag down on the table and stands up. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em.” He grunts up, his lips snarling and his nostrils flaring in heated fury. 

He storms to the kitchen and impatiently fills up a glass of water. Joel was fantasizing about plunging his thumbs into Robert’s eye sockets and squeezing until his head turned into mush. Or maybe Joel could take him to the Eastern district, throw him in the Massachusetts Bay, and hold him underwater, only bringing him up from the brink of drowning before pushing him down again. And again. And again. 

Your sweet voice breaks Joel’s murderous thoughts. “Joel, I owe you the battery, and I promise I’ll find another one. Just give me a little time and-”

Joel slams the glass of water on the counter, the clatter of it echoing around the room. “Don’t care about the damn battery!” His back is to you, broad and strong shoulders heaving lightly as his head hangs low. His hands are gripping the edge of the counter. “Thought they fuckin’ kidnapped you! Or worse!”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, your lower lip wobbling once more as he slowly starts shaking his head. 

“I almost lost you, and it’s my fault.” 

Your eyes soften at his words. He’s felt this way before, and he’s been haunted by the mistake ever since. His daughter, you think. 

His low, southern drawl makes you focus on him once more. “Tell me why you hid. Why didn’t you come to me? We could have figured things out, for fuck’s sake!” He shouts as he turns to face you, his body falling back into the counter as he crosses his arms. 

Your chest swells with heavy emotion. You stand up so fast from your chair that its sent scraping backward. “I did come here! I did! I heard you inside and I..” you pause and shake your head, still finding your voice. 

“I was scared you’d be upset with me letting someone steal the battery, I was afraid you’d go after Robert and get yourself fucking-- killed, Joel! I don’t want you to die, okay? I need you!” 

“And I need you!” He shouts back, lips parted with heavy breaths, both of you trying to settle with the newly shared revelation. 

You both stare at each other from across the room, watching as Joel’s jaw slowly begins to click loose. He shoves himself up off the counter and closes the distance between you two. You hesitantly take a step back, and he pauses his footsteps. His eyes soften, and he looks as broken as you do. 

“Please,” he pleads, gently shaking his head. “Would never hurt you, baby.” He puts his hand out, a gesture of kindness and warmth that you’d missed all week, yet you still hesitate. You almost wait too long, he’s already reeling his hand back into his side. 

“Joel,” you whisper with soft relief. You eagerly take a few steps forward, ignoring his hand, and gently settle your head on his chest as you tightly squeeze your arms around his lower back. You close your eyes and melt into him, finding solace in Joel’s embrace. 

Joel’s arms stay hovering in the air for a moment, lips parted as he looks down at the top of your head. He shames himself for even hesitating. He puts one hand on the side of your head and holds you to his chest, while the other settles low on your back. He breaths peacefully for the first time in a week. 

You stay like that for who knows how long. He’s warm, and you feel protected. You sink into his arms, he takes on your weight. He walks you backward to the foot of his bed once more, letting you delicately fall back into the mattress. You watch with tired eyes as he unties the laces of your sneakers, one after the other. He shucks down your jeans, making you giggle. 

“Joel, you don’t wanna fuck me right now, I smell like spare housing.” 

The right side of his mouth twitches up as he shakes his head at you. “I know you do. ‘M takin’ you to shower.” 

You sit up on your elbows as you smile a bit bashfully at him. “Good. Because I’m too sore to fool around anyway.” You whisper with a teasing smile as you grab the bottom of your tank top, peeling it up and off of your sticky skin. Joel tries not to stare. You’re not sure if he’s clocking your naked figure or the bruising around your ribs and legs. 

You’d need some time to heal. Joel knows you do. While you shower, he makes you as big of a feast he can muster up with the canned goods he has in his cupboards. You try to eat the first real meal you’ve had in a week slowly, to savor the taste, but you end up shoveling your spoon into the bowl and scraping it clean.  

Joel’s eyes are on you the whole time, watching you, observing you. He won’t let you out of his sight for a while, but maybe that’s what’s good for you. You meet his gaze and he speaks a silent vow. We’ll find Robert, steal the battery back, then kill him and anyone else who laid a finger on you. He nods. You nod too. 

Joel’s not sure how late it is by the time you two fall into bed together. He doesn’t know how to tell you how much you mean to him, but he says it in the way he holds you. Back in his arms, he’s more alert of how sore you are from your fight. He gently cups your face, watching your eyes slowly flutter closed with long blinks. You must be so tired. And he doesn’t want to keep you awake. He’s afraid to look away, like if he lets you out of his sight, you’ll disappear again. 

He speaks your name and gently stirs you awake. “Hm?” You softly murmur, bringing your hand up and gently feeling over the planes of Joel’s chest, fingers lightly grazing his chest hair. 

He looks down at you for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Don’t run away like that again.” His words are stern before he pauses again,  lightly pushing some hair behind your ear and touching you like a delicate flower. You watch him attentively. He cups your jawline and angles you to look up at him.  “We’re takin’ that battery back, and we’re gettin’ the hell out of here. You hear me?” 

Your heart swells at his words. We. You slowly nod in agreement. You feel Joel’s gentle kisses on your forehead and the tip of your nose. You lean up to capture his lips, but he falters by an inch. A confused expression crosses your face. 

“You’re hurt.” He mutters, referring to the cut on your lip. Don’t wanna hurt ya, sweet girl.

You roll your eyes and take his face in your small hands. “Don’t care.” You whisper before you pull him in, and the two of you share a featherlight kiss. You let it last, both of you soaking it in after a week apart. A week too long. 

Joel’s the first to pull away, giving you a playful little glare. The bruising on your face reminds him of the boxing movies he grew up watching. “Easy, Rocky.” 

You look at him confused and cock your head. “Who?”

He rolls his eyes at you and sighs, gently running his hand down your side. “Go to sleep. I’ll teach you about Rocky one through five tomorrow. D’you at least get a few good hits on Robert or his guys?”

You hum quietly and let your eyes dip closed. “Mhm.”

“Like I taught ya?”

“Just like you taught me. Gave ‘em the ole left, right, goodnight." You bring up your fists to demonstrate. "Made Robert’s nose bleed, think I broke it.”  

Your head falls into Joel’s chest, feeling it rumble with laughter and a sense of pride. “That’s my girl.”

His body shields you from the outside world. You sleep like a rock for the rest of the night. You live another day, and so does Joel. But with Joel’s promise, you know Robert’s days are numbered. You’ll be sure of it. 

---

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[ancientwastedlores]

We'll Give It One More Fight (Homelander x Reader)

Thank you again for all the love! This is the third and final installment of the Homelander series!

[TAGS: @helreyy @discowizard88 @slasherho @carlyi @moopiter @casalucard @hom3landr]

1 - Homelander Breaks His Favorite Toys 2 - Don't Be Kind To It

INSPO: Robbers (The 1975)

Hope you like it!

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We'll Give It One More Fight

Not having learned your lesson, you venture out again.

You've accepted it by now - you need him just as much as he needs you. His dependence on you satisfied a part of you that wanted to feel desperately needed. What is your value in someone's life if you cannot be of use somehow? And was there any better high than serving Homelander's desire to be loved by a good person?

The city feels different at night, stripped of its glittering facade. The streets are barren, the air thick with the kind of quiet that amplifies every sound: the scrape of your shoes against the pavement, the distant wail of a siren, the hum of a streetlight flickering above. You walk without purpose, your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, your gaze fixed on nothing. The cold bites at your cheeks, but you don’t bother pulling your scarf tighter.

Your legs just keep carrying you deeper into the city’s dark underbelly as if you might stumble upon him lurking in the shadows.

The unease begins as a prickle at the back of your neck. You pause under the faint glow of a streetlamp, glancing over your shoulder. Nothing. Just empty sidewalks and yawning alleys.

You shake your head, muttering to yourself, “Get a grip.”

But the feeling lingers.

Unknown to you, though there is something there. Watching.

Perched on the ledge of a nearby building, he watches you with predatory stillness. The golden glow of the streetlamp illuminates the slump of your shoulders, the exhaustion in your every movement.

Pathetic, he thinks, the corner of his mouth curling into a sharp grin. The Homelander you know is no longer there...

You don’t even realize you’re being watched, don’t sense the eyes that follow your every step. You’ve let yourself go—dark circles under your eyes, a hollow look on your face. You’re unraveling, piece by piece, and he revels in it.

This is what he wanted: to see you suffer, to see how far you’ll go without him. He doesn’t intervene—not yet. He wants you to reach the brink, to see how much of yourself you’ll lose before you finally admit the truth.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Back in your apartment, you shed the many layers of clothes and let them drop to the floor. Every day has been like this, lately. You don't care to pick things up, put them in the right places, or even cook yourself real food. These days, you live on microwave popcorn and cheese, watching some mind-numbing, pointless show to occupy your brain.

And the couch is beckoning to you. But you need to at least have a goddamn bath.

You sit in the tub, your knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around them. The water is lukewarm at best, the kind of temperature that doesn’t comfort but also doesn’t compel you to leave. You stare at the wall, your mind blank, your body heavy with exhaustion.

You haven’t been sleeping well. The dark circles under your eyes are a permanent fixture now, as are the faint tremors in your hands.

The bathroom feels smaller tonight, the walls pressing in.

When the water goes cold, you force yourself to climb out, wrapping yourself in a towel that smells faintly of mildew. You drift into your bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, your laptop balanced on your knees.

Your fingers type his name almost instinctively. You hit "Enter" and brace yourself for disappointment. The same headlines glare back at you:

"HOMELANDER STILL MISSING." "VOUGHT SILENT ON HERO'S WHEREABOUTS." "LEADERSHIP CRISIS: WHO WILL REPLACE HOMELANDER?"

You click on an old clip instead, one you’ve seen a hundred times. Him smiling at the camera after a staged rescue. All-American, blonde-haired, blue-eyed. It makes your heart ache to imagine he is already happy without you.

You slam the laptop shut. How could he not fight for you? Why are you here simpering when he should be the one destroyed over losing you? The only one who saw him? Who loved him?

You've asked yourself the same line of questions a hundred times, and it only entrenches you further into a deep, dark pit.

Anybody watching you... their heart would break for you. But it turns out the person actually watching you doesn't. Not right now, anyway.

Your walls and curtains are as good as glass to him. He floats right outside your apartment, gazing at you as you break down. Your misery is delicious aged red wine to him. He could lap it up, get drunk with it, swim in it, make it a bad habit.

He watches you get up and walk to the living room and floats alongside you, making sure to avoid the windows. You settle into your couch and put on another trashy reality show to fall asleep to.

Soon. Not long now. The moment needs to be perfect.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The women in your office had been watching you spiral for weeks. You heard their whispers, and to their credit, they were genuinely concerned for you. But only because they still believed in the polished, pretty version of Homelander. You suspected if they knew the truth, they would be rejoicing in the separation.

But you are increasingly growing distant from them. Sometimes they bring you freshly baked cookies or banana bread. They can tell you're not eating any of it.

One afternoon, as you're typing away, barely present in your body, one of them approaches you.

"Hey Y/N," Gina's voice is soft. Comforting. "Hello." "So. A bunch of us are going dancing today. It's a classy club downtown, and we're getting dressed at mine and getting a cab from there."

You don't know why you should care about this. You stare at her, mustering up your politest face.

"You should join us," she says. It's very clearly not a request. "I'll come fetch you at 5, kay?"

She leaves no time for a debate. People pleaser that you are, you don't want to go out of your way to decline, either. But you think back to Homelander's visceral hatred for dance clubs. Sweaty, stupid humans jammed together, acting like disgusting fools with no control over themselves. It was a cosmic amalgamation of every single thing Homelander hated.

He would HATE that you're going to one.

Oh.

You can't help but smile yourself a devious little smile. It's everything you can do not to kick your feet in glee.

-------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t remember the name of the club. It doesn’t matter.

It’s the kind of place Gina and the others love—sleek, trendy, all mirrors and neon lights, the music loud enough to rattle your chest. You’re here because you said you’d come, but the truth is... well, you know what the truth is.

You're throwing a final hail Mary.

The others are laughing, carefree, and beautiful, but you hang back, nursing a drink you haven’t touched. The crowd presses in from every side, a swirling mass of bodies that makes your skin crawl. The flashing lights disorient you, the heat and noise wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.

You glance at your phone, the screen lighting up your face. Nothing. No texts. No updates. You almost laugh at yourself. Did you really think he’d—what? Come storming in here, cape snapping, to drag you out like some jealous lover?

Still, the thought lingers.

3 hours later - no chaos. No Homelander ripping the club to shreds.

It hits you: he's really gone.

Isn't this what you wanted? Or were you really just testing him? Don't you know you can't play games with gods?

You grab your coat from the exit and step out into the cool winter air. You look up at the sky for the millionth time since you broke up and see nothing but pitch black.

You slip your hands into your pocket, put your head down, and head for home. No lurking in alleys tonight tempting fate. You're done.

The silence is almost too much after the pounding bass, your ears ringing as you walk aimlessly down the street.

You don’t notice the man following you at first.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice is low, teasing, with an edge that makes your stomach clench.

You glance over your shoulder and see a man. Lanky, frail, but something in the way he stands... it's creepy. Like the twisted, gnarled branches of an old tree. Unnatural. Clearly a Supe, but you can't tell what his powers are yet.

'Not interested,' you choke out as you quicken your pace.

He laughs a low, predatory sound. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Just wanna talk.”

You walk faster, your heart pounding, but he keeps up effortlessly.

“Don’t you know who I am?” His tone is light, almost playful. “You’re lucky I’m paying attention to you at all.”

You duck into an alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of narrow streets, but he follows, his footsteps echoing off the brick walls. Okay... he cannot fly. He clearly can't run fast, either. You might still be able to get away.

You find an overflowing dumpster to hide behind when...

“Is this your idea of fun, sweetheart?”

The voice cuts through the night like a blade. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. A rush of wind blows past you, scattering trash and loose debris as a blur of red and blue slams into the alley.

The Supe is on the ground before you can even process what’s happening, Mirror!Homelander standing over him like a god of vengeance.

The Supe scrambles backward, panic etched across his face. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

Mirror!Homelander doesn’t give him a chance to finish. He moves faster than you can track, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

There’s a sickening crack as he slams the Supe into the wall, leaving him crumpled on the ground. The metallic smell of blood pricks your nose, and you cover it with the collar of your coat, horrified. It's been so long since you've witnessed Homelander's violence,e and it's all coming back to you. Your body is pumping adrenaline, screaming at you to get out, but your feet are firmly planted. Somewhere, you know you are desperate to look into his blue eyes again.

Mirror!Homelander turns to you then, his expression unreadable.

You should feel relief. But you don’t.

He steps closer, his boots crunching against the gravel. His smile is sharp, cruel, and the gleam in his eyes makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

“You’re really trying to get my attention, aren’t you?” he says, his tone mocking. You take a step back, your voice trembling. “I didn’t—” “Oh, don’t play coy.” He laughs, low and dangerous, as he closes the distance between you. “A dance club? Really? You think I wouldn’t know?” “You don’t get to control what I do anymore.”

His smile falters, just for a moment, before it twists into something darker. “You only went because you were so desperate to see me. I'd call that control."

The cold air feels thinner, harder to breathe. You don’t recognize this version of him—the sharp edges, the calculated malice.

“You’re not him,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “You’re not my Homelander.”

His jaw tightens, and his expression hardens into something terrifying. “Your Homelander?” His voice is low, deadly. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “That simpering bufoon who hung on your fucking praises? He's dead. He was weak."

"He wasn't weak..."

You try to back away, but he grabs your wrist, his grip like iron. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be saved? To be mine?” “No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Not like this.” "How, then? I get on my knees and fucking beg?"

If you're being honest... yes. Was that too much to ask after everything you'd given him?

As if he reads your mind, the next words out of his mouth cut you: "You fed him. You were kind to him. You invited him in. And then you tossed him out. Why the fuck should he beg?"

Tears well up as you search his eyes for the tiniest hint of your John.

"Now. Are you going to go back to him? Or are you going to keep pretending he owes you something?"

And suddenly, all the sadness, pain, grief, confusion, and self-loathing... turns into seething anger. Your awakening to your own neediness has not been a delightful journey, and you've had no outlet for it.

“You don't fool me,” you stare into his eyes. “You don’t want this—you want me to forgive you. You need me. This isn't a fucking Vought movie, the only person you're convincing right now is yourself. So DROP the fucking act."

His grip loosens. Your words hit him like a blow he wasn’t prepared for, and for a moment, he looks stunned at the audacity. The sharp, cruel smirk falters, replaced by something rawer, something almost pitiful. His hand drops from your wrist, and he takes a step back as though your anger burned him.

The night air feels colder now, sharper against your skin. You take a shaky breath, but your chest still feels tight, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

“Forgive me?” His voice cracks, low and trembling, a far cry from the venom that laced it moments ago. He laughs bitterly, the sound broken. “Forgive me for what? For loving you? For being good to you?"

His shoulders slump, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that borders on childlike. It’s the look of someone clinging to a lifeline, someone terrified of being abandoned again.

“You say I need you,” he whispers, his voice trembling, “and maybe I do. But you need me just as much. Don’t you?”

The truth of those words claws at your chest, undeniable and suffocating. You hate him for saying it, and you hate yourself more for agreeing.

You don’t answer, and he steps closer, his movements slower now, more deliberate. His hands hover near your face, hesitant, before finally cupping your cheeks. His touch is surprisingly gentle, as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he presses too hard.

“You want me to drop the act?” he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost reverent. “Fine. No act. No games.” His eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded. “I love you. I hate myself for it because it makes me weak, but I do. You’re the only good thing I’ve ever had. The only person who looked at me like I was more than… this.”

You should push him away, scream at him, tell him he’s lying—but you don’t. Because you don’t actually want him to let go. Him cradling your face, being this close to you, feels safe. You move into him, wrap yourself in him, feel his arms encircle you. Trap you.

“I can’t do this without you,” he says, his voice cracking again. “And I don’t want to. You’re all I have.”

Your throat tightens, the tears finally spilling over. “You don’t know how to love me.”

He flinches as if you've slapped him.

“I can learn.”

The words hang between you, heavy and suffocating. You know they aren’t enough—far from it. They don’t erase the pain he’s caused, the fear, the doubt. But they’re enough to make you stay.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Then don’t. You can hate me. Just don’t leave me.”

And right there, the mask falls.

As a request, it's the most earnest and vulnerable Homelander could ask for. He craves love; he will bear your hate, but he cannot tolerate indifference.

Not from you.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, his arms are around you, pulling you close, and he kisses you. He gets rougher as you return his kiss, pulling you closer, tighter. It’s not sweet or tender, not the kind of kiss you’d find in a fairytale. It’s desperate, raw, and devastating, as though he’s trying to pour every unsaid word, every broken promise, every piece of himself into it.

You’re drowning in him, in the sharp press of his mouth and the way his hands tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him. It feels like falling, like spinning out of control, and you hate how much you need it—how much you need him.

Your thoughts swirl, confusing and chaotic, torn between anger and longing. You should hate him for this, for dragging you back into his orbit, for making you feel like you can’t breathe without him. But right now, you don’t care.

It just feels so good.

Right now, you’re leaning into him, clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling around you.

He groans softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you, making your chest tighten. His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, sliding down to your waist, gripping you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The intensity is overwhelming, suffocating, and it feels like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin, to leave a mark that will never fade.

When you finally pull back, gasping for air, his forehead presses against yours, his breathing ragged. His eyes bore into yours, bright and unrelenting, filled with something that looks like both hunger and fear.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, and you think for a moment that his other self is back. But the other one had dead eyes. This one... his pupils are dilated, and he looks drunk. “You’ve always been mine.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Your lips are still tingling, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. You let your head fall against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms wrap around you, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And holding you, he floats up slowly.

How you've missed flying with him.

The ascent is slow because he knows you're out of practice. You hate him for being mindful of that. You love him for knowing you so well. You need him, and you wish you didn’t.

And you know, deep down, that you’ll never escape him.

Only because you don’t really want to.

The city stretches out below you, cold and indifferent, as the two of you cling to each other like lifelines. You let your eyes close and feel the gentle, crisp winter air as he slowly picks up speed.

And he smiles down at you, planting another kiss on your forehead as he murmurs, “We’ll give it one more fight. Just one more.”

You close your eyes, letting the lie wrap around you like a warm blanket.

One more fight. Yeah right.

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I hope you liked it! <3

[adoriels-tears-if]

Adoriel's Tear Q&A (End of the first meeting)

The room is silent, except for the slight rustle of leaves outside the window. Elianna remains kneeling beside Ashlyen, her hand still in his, offering silent comfort as he regains his composure.

The door opens softly and Tobias enters, a hesitant expression on his face. His usual vivacity seems muted, replaced by something more measured. He holds two carefully folded parchments in his hand.

“I didn't mean to interrupt,” begins Tobias, "But the readers still have a few questions for you, Ashlyen."

Ashlyen straightens slightly, though he's still holding Elianna's hand. His eyes meet Tobias' briefly, a gleam of curiosity mixed with wariness shining in his pupils.

Tobias approaches and places the parchments on the table in front of Ashlyen. “Before you read them, I'd like to tell you something.”

Elianna looks up at Tobias, her hand still resting on Ashlyen's shoulder twitches slightly and she seems to be holding her breath.

“I know we've had our disagreements,” Tobias continues, his gaze steady but warm. “I don't particularly like you, and you don't particularly like me. But for what it's worth, I don't think you've ever stopped trying to do right by them—by Mc, I mean. And if they knew even half of what you've sacrificed, they'd understand. Probably better than any of us realize.”

Ashlyen's lips press into a thin line, his gaze flickering to the parchment. He blinks, a rare vulnerability softening his usually stoic demeanor. His fingers graze the edge of the first piece of parchment as if grounding himself. “I hope you're right. And I wanted to tell you that I'm aware you've been more of a father to them than I could ever hope to be,” he admits softly, his voice laced with regret.

Tobias shakes his head. “You’ve been their father from the moment they were born. I just filled in where I could.”

Ashlyen leans back slightly, his shoulders relaxing for the first time. His voice drops even lower, thick with sincerity. "You filled a lot. You don't have to, but you've done it, and you'll continue to do it. What I want to say is... thank you."

“Oh, stop it, pointy ear,” grumbles Tobias, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks flush slightly, betraying his discomfort with the moment’s intensity. “As if I could leave Elia to manage everything on her own. She can't even cook; she'd burn the farm down in a week. And like she said, Mc is very easy to love.”

Ashlyen chuckles faintly, glancing at Elianna. “They must take after me. I'm very easy to love.”

Elianna swats at his arm lightly, a smile curving her lips as a warm blush spreads across her cheeks. "You're impossible."

Tobias snickers, the tension in the room lifting.

“Right, well, before this turns into a love fest, let’s get to the last questions.” He gestures to the parchments on the table with a nod.

Ashlyen picks up the first one, unfolding it carefully as though the paper itself might hold some profound truth. His eyes scan the words, and his expression softens almost immediately.

Ashlyen is the best dad in the world. I want to protect him from all the hate from other readers (#🏳️). He doesn’t deserve it. 😢💛

His lips part slightly as he rereads it, his fingers tightening on the edges of the parchment.

“I… didn’t expect that,” he says, his voice low, almost inaudible.

Elianna leans closer, peering at the parchment. “It’s true,” she says gently. “You’ve always carried so much on your shoulders. But they see you for who you really are.”

Ashlyen blinks a few times, then sets the parchment down with a careful precision, as if it’s something fragile. “I never thought anyone would defend me like that,” he admits, his voice trembling just enough to betray the emotions he’s fighting to hold back.

“Welcome to parenthood,” Tobias remarks, his tone teasing but his gaze warm. “They’re going to keep surprising you, pointy ear. They do that a lot!”

Ashlyen’s smile is faint but genuine as he picks up the second parchment. He unfolds it carefully, his eyes moving slowly over the words.

To Ashlyen: How does it feel knowing that my MC loves you and what she wants most is to not have to hide that you are her father? Extra question: When are you and Elianna getting married?

His breath catches, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak. Elianna watches him intently, her hand still resting on his shoulder.

“It feels…” He stops, inspires, and starts again slowly. “It feels like I don’t deserve it... But it also feels like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Elianna’s eyes glisten as she squeezes his shoulder. “They love you, Ash. And they’re stronger than we think. One day, they won’t have to hide anymore.”

Ashlyen nods slowly, swallowing hard before turning to the last part of the question. A faint blush creeps up his neck as he glances at Elianna.

“And the marriage?” Tobias prompts, his smirk returning.

Ashlyen chuckles, his voice lighter now. “If we’re getting married, it’s only because I proposed,” he says, earning a mock-scandalized gasp from Elianna.

“Excuse me? I don’t recall you ever proposing!” she retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“You would have said yes?!”

"No!" she retorts blushing.

Tobias snickers, leaning back against the doorframe. “Well, now you have an audience. Might be a good time to get on one knee, Ash.”

Ashlyen rolls his eyes, though the smile on his face remains. “Not with you watching.”

“Coward,” Tobias quips, but there’s no real malice in his tone.

Elianna laughs softly, her hand slipping from Ashlyen’s shoulder to entwine with his. “We’ve never needed a ceremony to know what we mean to each other,” she says. “But if it’s something our child wants… we’ll think about it.”

Ashlyen nods, his gaze dropping to their intertwined hands. “We’ll think about it,” he echoes, his voice full of quiet determination.

Tobias watches them for a few minutes before clearing his throat, eyes darting left and right. “Alright, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. Don't make a mess on the carpet!”

"Tobias!"

He turns to go smirking, but not before tossing over his shoulder, “Just don’t forget to tell me if you set a date. I’ll need time to prepare my speech.”

Elianna chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Tobias calls back as he disappears through the door.

For a moment, the room is still again, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves outside. Ashlyen lifts Elianna’s hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?” she asks, tilting her head.

“For always believing in me,” he replies. “Even when I don’t believe in myself anymore.”

Elianna smiles, leaning her forehead against his. “Always,” she whispers.

"Always," He whispers back kissing her.

<<The end>>

[say-hwaet]

High Sierra: A Red Dead Redemption Story

Chapter 10: Taking a Gamble Author's note: Sorry this took so long! I've been pretty busy with another fic, but I'm back to working on the rewrite of this fanfiction! I will try to post more regularly now and hopefully, it will be finished before too long. It is a shorter fic by nature, so it should be easy peasy. Summary: After Eliza shared her conversation she had with Edith, Arthur tries to dive deeper into all of the clues he has gathered.

A couple of weeks have passed since Eliza shared her findings with Arthur. Upon learning of her discovery, he decided to do some more digging of his own and has successfully recovered pieces over the last few days. Maybe nothing substantial when standing alone, but when put all together, it might mean something.

What used to be drawings in his sketchbook have since been replaced with hypotheses and clues, all of which have begun to form a coherent picture, hinting at a larger conspiracy than either Eliza or Arthur initially suspected. Each scribbled note and hastily drawn line connects back to one person, in ways both direct and unsettlingly tangential. Lying across his wooden desk in his office, the sketchbook seems to hold more questions than answers.

He feels like he’s been reviewing all of the information for hours, but the pieces of the puzzle are finally starting to connect in his mind. Thomas Downes and Leigh Gray, both victims of the mysterious killings, have something in common--they had both taken a loan from the infamous loan shark, Leopold Strauss. The more he thinks about it, the more this revelation sends shivers down Arthur's spine.

“It can’t just be ideas anymore,” he says out loud to himself. “Gotta put in the leg work now.”

Determined to uncover the truth, Arthur knows what he needs to do. Finding evidence against Strauss won’t be easy, as the man seems to operate under the radar.

Arthur isn’t a fan of technology, but when finishing reports and logging the k9 program’s spending and progress, he has had to, regrettably, use his office computer. For the past few days, once he is off duty, he has scoured the internet for any information, but it seems that he keeps coming up on empty. This is one of those nights.

He thought that this time would be different, maybe something would come up that wasn’t uploaded before. But one doesn’t become a good loan shark by letting information slip on the internet. Maybe he’ll have to resort to the old-fashioned way: by word of mouth or paper.

He leans forward on his desk, resting his elbows on the surface. His eyes look away from the glaring bright screen of his computer to a framed picture of his son, holding his first fish he ever caught. Brook trout are pretty measly on the fisherman’s scale, but the pride in his son’s eyes that day, the way his small hands struggled to hold it steady for the camera, seemed to Arthur like he had caught a great whale. It's moments like these that remind him why he fights so hard, why every dark forest and every hidden truth must be illuminated—not just for himself or the potential victims, but for his son and the future he will inherit. If this world could be a little less murky, a little more just, then all the sleepless nights and haunting uncertainties would be worth it.

“Where else can I try…?” he asks himself. He isn’t a detective, not in the typical LA Noire sense. This isn’t an urban crime. Things aren’t documented in the same fashion.

He looks toward the door and a thought occurs to him.

The file room. Any criminal activity that is not logged in the database, it would be in there.

His gaze returns to the computer with renewed determination. Arthur stands up, pulls on his coat, and decides it's time to take the risk.

He steps out of his office, looking down the dimly lit hallway. He hadn't realized how late it is, and is relieved that no one is around.

Even so, silence is key. Stepping out of his office, he closes the door behind him and walks down the narrow hallway.

He feels like a criminal, his steps light and his eyes vigilant. It would be convenient if Charles were with him now, that way someone could stand and watch.

Arthur discreetly enters the file room, hoping to find something that will connect the dots. As he rummages through the records, the door creaks open, and Captain Monroe steps inside, his stern expression fixed on Arthur.

"What are you doing here after hours, Morgan?" Captain Monroe's voice echoes through the room.

Arthur hurriedly turns around, startled. "Oh, Captain Monroe! I was just...erm...organizing some files," he stammers, trying to feign innocence.

Captain Monroe's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Organizing files, huh? Seems a bit late for that, don't you think?"

Arthur knows he has to tread carefully. "I was just trying to be more efficient, sir. Thought I could get ahead on some paperwork," he offers, praying his excuse would be enough.

Captain Monroe walks a steady pace closer to Arthur, eyeing him suspiciously. "Is that so? Well, it seems more like you were searching for something specific. Care to enlighten me?"

"No, Captain. I swear, just routine paperwork. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Captain Monroe leans in closer, his voice low and sincere. "Arthur, I have known you for a long time. I can sense when something is not right. If you're hiding something, I suggest you come clean."

Arthur feels his body want to move away, but he remains planted. "Captain, I assure you, there's nothing to come clean about. I was just curious about these files. That's all."

Captain Monroe lets out a deep breath, crossing his arms. "Morgan, I've heard some rumors about you poking your nose where it doesn't belong. It seems you've got an unhealthy fixation on these accidents."

Arthur's heart pounds in his chest. He had expected some resistance, but he hadn't anticipated this level of scrutiny. However, he can’t back down now, not when he has finally found some leads. Perhaps, the captain will help him.

"Captain, I believe there's something more to these deaths. Both Downes and Gray are dead within days of each other and both had taken a loan from Leopold Strauss. It can't be a coincidence."

Captain Monroe scoffs, his disbelief evident. "I understand your concern, Morgan, but let the justice system handle it. You're a game warden, not a detective. That is what the Special Operations Unit is for."

Arthur's frustration boils, but he bites his tongue, trying to retain a semblance of professionalism. "With all due respect, Captain, I don't think that Warden Barnes and his team aren't bein’ as thorough as they should be. Don't you think we owe it to these victims to dig deeper? They deserve more than just bein’ dismissed as accidents."

Arthur can see the cognitive dissonance in the captain’s eyes, struggling with keeping it by the book or going on a limb. He bites the skin off of his lower lip, his eyes cast downward for a moment. Arthur holds onto the hope that he’s made a point, maybe Captain Monroe will agree to help him.

Then, after a moment longer, the captain sighs and meets Arthur’s gaze. "Arthur, you've always been an overachiever. Always wanting to be some kind of hero. Do you think you can play detective just because you have a hunch?"

What a blow, but he can’t give up.

Arthur takes a step towards Captain Monroe, lifting his hands in an open gesture. "Captain, I'm not tryin’ to play the hero. I genuinely believe these deaths are linked. I think we owe it to the victims to pursue this further."

Captain Monroe leans in, a stern look on his face. "Loyalties, Arthur. Where do your loyalties lie? With the law, or with anarchy? Are you trying to prove yourself for that promotion you've always wanted?"

Arthur's eyebrows furrow. He's not getting through to the Captain, and it frustrates him. "This ain’t about the promotion! I'm telling you the truth. I want to make a difference and protect the innocent. That is what we all swore to do. But I can't do it alone. I need your help."

Captain Monroe leans back, his tone cold. "I have faith in the justice system, Arthur. That's where this belongs. We investigate poaching and hunting accidents, not supposed conspiracies. Let the system do its job."

"But what if the system fails, Captain? What if there's somethin' bigger at play here? Can't we at least look into it? For the victims' sake?" Arthur makes one desperate plea. He knows that challenging the authority of the captain is risky, but he isn’t one to let things go, not when lives are involved.

Captain Monroe is quiet for a moment before speaking. "No, Morgan. I won't entertain your fantasies. You're straying from your duty. Don't let your ambition blind you. Stick to your duties. Drop this investigation immediately."

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken consequences. Arthur knows in his heart that he can’t stand idly by, waiting for justice to take its course. Lives are at stake, and he can’t let any more innocent blood be shed.

Without another word, Arthur gathers himself and walks out of the file room. He knows what he has to do: he has to take matters into his own hands. The law may be blind, but he isn’t going to let evil roam free, even if he doesn’t have help from Captain Monroe.

***

Fumbling for his keys, Arthur finally unlocks his car and lets himself in the driver’s seat. He lets out a deep exhale as his eyes are cast upon the empty parking lot. Well, except for Captain Monroe’s vehicle.

He needs to keep going. He needs to find different connections.

Who knows people? Who has a way to find out the inner workings? Who knows their way through money?

He turns on the ignition and lets the car idle for a moment.

Then it occurs to him.

Dutch. Dutch and is charismatic air. While he doesn’t want to question Dutch’s business practices, there have been times when his connections have appeared to be…problematic.

Eliza had always doubted Dutch’s motivations whenever Arthur would come over and share the next big idea the music manager was coming up with. “Where does he get all of his money?” she would ask. “It can’t just come out of thin air.”

Maybe there is more to it than Arthur realized.

The car is warmed up, so Arthur puts it in drive and pulls out of the parking lot.

It is pitch black, with not even a single star in the sky. Arthur is no stranger to night driving, and he keeps his eyes alert and watchful, looking for reflecting eyes on the sides of the road. One can never know when a raccoon or lone buck gets the urge to run out into the open road.

And as his eyes scan the view in front of him, he takes a glance at the rearview mirror.

And sees a pair of headlights.

It is hard to get a view of the car, but he knows well enough that they aren’t headlights of any vehicle he recognizes.

It could be someone heading home, like he is.

But this is an unutilized road, especially at this hour.

He can’t just jump to conclusions like this, that would make him too paranoid.

He needs to test his theories. Seeing another road, he makes a quick right without signaling his direction.

If the car behind him mirrors his actions, then there's no doubt — he's being followed. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers pale with the pressure. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. If they are following him, what do they want? Information? To talk to him?

He isn’t so sure he wants to know.

The headlights behind him turn as well, confirming his suspicion. Arthur's jaw sets firm, a blend of fear and determination stiffening his posture. This isn't good. He knows it ain't just paranoia now; someone's got their sights set on him, but for what?

The road ahead is less traveled, canopied by trees and an old fence line that lines the sides of the road. This could be someone’s farm or ranchland, no one is sure to spot him or hear him should something go wrong.

He pushes harder on the gas, picking up speed.

The winding road stretches ahead, shadows playing tricks with Arthur's vision as he navigates sharp turns and uneven surfaces. His heart pounds like a drum in his chest, echoing the thumping of the tires over the gravel. He squints to keep the tailing vehicle in his rearview mirror, watching every move it makes with hawk-like precision. The road narrows, branches scraping against the sides of his truck as he barrels down the path that seems more suited for a horse than a motor vehicle.

That’s when the headlights draw closer and the bumper makes contact with the back of his car.

The jolt sends a shudder through the frame of Arthur's SUV, his pulse racing in tandem with the engine's roar. He grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white as he tries to maintain control. The impact wasn't strong enough to disable his vehicle, but it's clear that whoever is behind him isn't just trying to send a message; they are trying to force him off the road.

Arthur's mind races as he considers his options. He could try to outrun them, but with the road getting rougher and his SUV already taking a hit, that might lead to disaster. Alternatively, he could stop and confront them, but that's a risk he's not sure he can afford with everything that's hanging in the balance. Isaac's face flashes in his mind, a sharp reminder that he’s got more than just his own life to consider.

With a gritted determination, Arthur slows his pace slightly, planning his next move. His eyes catch a glimpse of a small clearing just ahead, to the right of the road—a potential spot to maneuver and confront his pursuer under more controlled circumstances. He steels himself, sucking in a sharp breath as he prepares for whatever comes next.

As he approaches the clearing, Arthur abruptly cuts the wheel, steering his SUV off the road and into the clearing, ramming through some old barbed wire. He hears it scratch the side of his car, but he can’t focus on that now. As he tries to navigate the escape off-road, his eyes go back to his rearview mirror.

The headlights are still there.

He curses under his breath. How can he shake them? He wants to think this is just intimidation, but it almost seems that they are trying to accomplish more than that.

The ground beneath his SUV rattles and bounces, soft dirt kicking up behind as he maneuvers through the clearing. Grass and wild brush clutch at the tires, attempting to slow him down, but Arthur's resolve is forged in steel. He presses harder on the accelerator, the engine growling like a caged beast eager for release. In the chaos of movement, his mind reels back to his rodeo days with Hosea, who always said, "Keep your head when all about are losing theirs." But right now, the distant memory can barely pierce the fog of his adrenaline.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur spots an opportunity—a narrow path veering left, and an old farm truck is coming from the opposite direction. It will be cutting it close, but if he times it right, he will lose his assailant.

The farm truck is laden with hay, and it trundles slowly along the path, unaware of the drama unfolding fast toward it. Arthur’s pulse throbs in his ears as he calculates the timing, steering his SUV so it slips behind the truck just as they pass a thick copse of trees, effectively blocking him from view.

His heart hammers against his ribs, loud in the sudden silence as he waits, hidden by the hay-laden truck and the dense foliage. He quickly turns off his lights for a moment, driving blind but slowing down just enough. He peers through a gap in the tree branches, eyes squinting as he scans for any sign of the headlights that have been dogging him. Seconds tick by, each one stretched thin like a wire pulled taut. Then, relief washes over Arthur as the headlights don’t reappear from behind the cover of trees and truck. He lets out a long, shuddering breath he didn't realize he was holding, his hands trembling on the wheel.

Now, hidden away in this makeshift refuge, Arthur allows himself a moment to think, his mind racing as fast as his heart. He knows that he must figure out who is chasing him and why. His life as a game warden has taught him to be watchful, to notice the out-of-place details that might have been ignored by even the most avid of outdoorsmen.

And there is no doubt in his mind that whoever was behind that wheel, is also connected to the two murders.

After waiting for almost thirty minutes, he relaxes his grip on the steering wheel, and gets back on the road to drive home.

Come morning, he has to pay a social call to Mr. Van Der Linde.

***

The morning sun casts a golden glow upon the small city of Pine Crest, nestled in the heart of High Sierra. Arthur walks with purpose towards the old Victorian house that serves as Dutch Van Der Linde's office. His heart pounding with a mix of apprehension and determination, he is on a mission to uncover the truth behind the mysterious killings that plagued the state he loves. And after last night, he is more convinced than ever that it is more than what the media or even Captain Monroe seems to believe.

He walks up the steps calmly, as though he didn’t just get accosted by an unknown vehicle last night. He turns to look at the beaten-up car over his shoulder. He really wishes he had driven his truck this morning, but he has to take it to the Call Me Uncle’s auto body shop, anyway.

He exhales, running a hand down his face, and reaches for the door. Letting himself inside, he closes the door quietly behind him. The entire house has been remodeled to function as a business establishment while keeping that old Victorian charm. Steadying himself, he looks ahead to his secretary at the front desk and they smile at each other. She knows who he is and is already picking up her phone to let Dutch know.

As he turns to absentmindedly peruse, a familiar figure catches the corner of his eye.

It is Mary. She is standing in the corner of the waiting room with a tablet and stylus in her hand, writing something.

Her shiny, dark hair cascades down her shoulders, contrasting against her fair skin. In a moment of hesitation, Arthur's mind swirls with bittersweet memories of their past. He hasn’t seen her hair like that since they were teenagers. He can still recall the nights they spent stargazing, promising each other forever.

And just as he is about to turn back around and leave, she lifts her head from her tablet and their eyes meet.

"Arthur!" Marcy calls out, her voice laced with a mix of joy and longing. She hurries over to him, as fast as she can in that narrow pencil skirt she wears. The pearls strung about her neck catch the light from the window, making her look like the queen of Sheba.

Startled, Arthur just looks at her. "Mary," he murmurs, caught off guard by her excitement. The unresolved emotions between them strain the air, like a taut wire ready to snap.

Mary locks her tablet and holds it close to her chest, her eyes never leaving him. "I've been waiting for you. It's been a while since we last talked, and I thought we could catch up over dinner tonight."

His heart twists in his chest, torn between the turbulent memories of their past and the tangled web of the present. "Mary, I–" he begins, only to be interrupted by her persistent pleading.

"Please, Arthur." she implores, her voice tinged with a mix of desperation and longing. “I…I really want to talk to you.”

Right. That’s all she wants to do is talk. It seems that is all they ever do is talk, but nothing is really ever said. What is this all for? What is the goal? How can he get his mind made up when all is ever done is talk?

No, he can’t do this. He doesn’t have time for words. Every second that goes by is a second wasted in not solving these two murders. His own problems will just have to wait.

Arthur's gaze flickers with regret as he struggles to find the right words. "Mary, I am knee-deep in somethin’ right now. I can't explain it, but it's very important."

Mary's eyes soften, a hint of confusion glimmering in their depths. "I'm not sure I understand."

He shakes his head. "Like I said, it is too difficult to explain."

Her smile fades, but just as quickly as it left it reappears, her eyelashes fluttering past her sparkling irises. "You can explain it to me over dinner then," she offers.

Arthur hesitates, his mind racing with thoughts of his investigation and the danger lurking in the shadows. He has to let her down gently, lest they make a scene in front of Dutch’s secretary. "Mary, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t think about dinners right now. It just isn't the right time."

Mary's face contorts with determination as she leans in closer, her voice pleading and desperate. "Please, Arthur," she implores, her eyes searching his for any sign of remorse. "You promised you would call me, but you never did." Her words are laced with disappointment and a touch of anger, betraying the hurt she feels from being ignored by someone she thought still cared.

Before Arthur can respond, the door to Dutch's office swings open, revealing the aging manager of the country rock band. Dutch is impeccably styled, his charming smile painting an illusion of success.

He couldn’t have come at a better time. Arthur lets out a sigh of relief and Mary catches it, looking at him with a pinched brow.

"Arthur!" Dutch exclaims jovially, and once within arm’s reach, he grips Arthur in a bone-crushing embrace. "I was just on the phone talking to John about the tour. We're goin’ to take the high country by storm!" He steps aside, motioning for Arthur to come into the office. “Why don’t we talk about it?”

Arthur nods. “Shoah, Dutch.”

Mary steps forward, raising a forefinger. “Mr. Van Der Linde—”

“In a minute, Mary.” Disregarding Mrs. Linton, Dutch leads Arthur towards his office. Arthur doesn’t look back at Mary; he already knows the expression on her face. They step right through the threshold and Dutch closes the door behind them, leaving Mary to her own thoughts.

“Make yourself comfortable, son,” Dutch says warmly as he removes his hand from Arthur’s shoulder and makes his way back to his desk. Arthur pauses in his steps to refamiliarize himself with Dutch’s office.

Inside, the office exudes an old-world charm. Faded photographs adorned the walls, capturing moments of triumph and camaraderie. Dutch smiles at Arthur, the lines etched on his face told tales of a life lived on the edge, of risks taken for the sake of adventure. Arthur respected him, and admired him, but also saw the vulnerability that lay beneath the charming facade.

"How's Annabelle, Dutch?" Arthur asks, lifting up an old figurine off of Dutch's desk.

"Oh, still visiting her sister," he sighs.

"So that make-up artiste must be doing a marvelous job."

"Molly? Sure. Marvelous woman. Can do that cat eye like no one else can."

Arthur forces a smile, the weight of his discovery heavy on his shoulders. He needs answers and Dutch has always seemed to have the uncanny ability to know everyone. Seizing the opportunity, Arthur now searches for a moment to broach the topic that lingered in the air like an unsolved mystery. But he needs to appeal to the man’s ego first.

“So business must be real good then, huh?”

Dutch studies the game warden with a raised brow. “I suppose.”

“Must take a lot of footwork to get a business like yours off the ground, right?”

Dutch slowly sits down in his leather chair. “Sure.”

“And a lot of networking? Even if the people ain’t in the same business as you?”

There is a sudden silence in the room and Dutch’s gaze narrows. “Arthur, what the hell are you getting at?”

Arthur finally sets that ridiculous trinket back on Dutch’s desk and rests both hands on its edge, casting a serious gaze. "Dutch, do you know anything about a man named Leopold Strauss?" he asks, his voice laced with both curiosity and suspicion.

Dutch's eyes flicker with a hint of unease, his jovial facade slipping for a moment. "Strauss? Why do you ask, old friend?"

Arthur takes a deep breath, his heart pounding. "I've been investigating a series of killings linked to him, Dutch. The victims, Mr. Downes and Leigh Gray, both had connections to Strauss."

A fire ignites in Dutch's eyes, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Arthur, you're playing with fire here. Strauss is not someone you want to mess with. Trust. Me."

But Arthur's resolve only strengthens, fueled by the knowledge of Strauss' true nature. "Dutch, I've uncovered something dark about him. Those two people who borrowed from him? They ended up dead," he emphasizes, a tremor of anger and fear running through his body.

Dutch’s eyes widen. "Dead?"

"Yes, Dutch. Haven't you seen the news?”

“Yes, I’ve seen the news! But they’ve all been saying—!”

Arthur cuts him off, laying out the truth bare. “Those deaths weren't accidents." There is a dead pause, only the sound of Dutch’s antique grandfather clock ticking rhythmically in the silence. “Someone doesn’t want folk to know, and I am determined to find out why.”

Dutch shakes his head. “You’re just a game warden. You aren’t the FBI or…or some other highfalutin detective agency.”

“Someone tried to kill me last night.”

Dutch looks back up at Arthur, his mouth agape. “What?”

“You heard me. A dark car chased me. Ran me off the road. Someone wants me either dead or to stop lookin’ into this. Well, I don’t want there to be another victim. And if Strauss is part of it, I need to talk to him and find out who is all on his list.”

Dutch becomes quiet, his fingertips pressed together as his elbows rest on the top of his desk. Arthur slowly rises to a standing position, eyeing him carefully.

Dutch's chair screeches as he abruptly stands up and paces around the room, his movements tense and agitated. Arthur's eyes track him, a sense of unease growing in his gut as he waits for Dutch to speak.

With a frustrated sigh, Dutch runs a hand through his hair, revealing the weight of his own dark secrets etched on his face like deep scars. The tension in the room thickens with each passing moment, until it feels suffocating and unbearable.

"Arthur, I have a confession to make," Dutch begins with a trembling voice, his face pale and tense with regret. "I...I also took a loan from Strauss." As their eyes lock, Arthur's heart drops and his mind races with alarm. "I'm financially ruined, and I've been desperately relying on John's music just to stay afloat." His words hang heavy in the air as they both come to terms with the crushing weight of their dire situation.

Arthur's heart sinks. This revelation strikes him like a blow to the gut. If Dutch has been involved with Strauss, that means that he, too, could become a victim of this dark web of deceit. He wrestles with this knowledge, now also knowing that he’s been taking advantage of John for who knows how long. And Dutch still lives lavishly. All the parties, promos, hiring Mary, all of it has been riding on John and his recent success.

However, even with all of that, Dutch is still in danger and could still share the same fate as the two others, if his theory is correct about the connection to Strauss. Arthur can’t allow that to happen. He has a responsibility to protect his friend. It was what he swore to do when he became a game warden.

His brow pinches as he looks at the bankrupt manager, shaking his head softly. "Why, Dutch?"

Dutch's face twists in a mix of guilt and vulnerability. He looks down at the floor, fumbling for an answer. "Arthur, I...I couldn't see another way out. We needed money, and Leopold offered it to me. I...I took the loan, hoping I could turn things around. John has worked hard to get the band going."

“You’re damned right, he has…” Arthur says sharply but as he looks into Dutch’s eyes, he knows that he already recognizes that. Arthur lets out a deep exhale and goes to Dutch, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You should have trusted us, Dutch. We would have found a way, all of us. Now you could be in danger."

Dutch sighs, nodding his head. "I know, Arthur, and I'm sorry. Please, don't speak of this John. He doesn't need to carry the burden of my mistakes."

Arthur thinks for a moment, weighing his options. It won’t do John any good to know, at least right now. The priority is to get Dutch off of Strauss’ list and see if this theory even holds any weight. There will be a time of confessions and redemption later.

After a minute later, Arthur sighs and nods his head."Alright, Dutch, I'll keep your secret," he answers firmly. "But you're coming with me to confront Strauss. I'll protect your family, no matter the cost."

Dutch nods, a sense of relief coming over him. "Agreed, Arthur. Thank you." Arthur removes his hand from Dutch’s shoulder. “When are you going?”

Arthur doesn’t take but a second to answer. “Right now.”

Dutch nods, his charismatic and confident gaze returning. “Alright. Let’s go.”

As Arthur and Dutch leave the office, Arthur avoids meeting Mary's gaze. He can feel her eyes on him, filled with disappointment and hurt. But he knows her well enough to know that their story is far from over. The tension between them crackles like electricity, every word left unsaid hanging in the air. A part of him wants to turn back, to apologize and make things right. But another part of him knows it's too late for that. The sun continues its path across the sky, casting a warm glow over the street as Dutch and Arthur step outside, his mind lost in thoughts about what could have been.

A loud snort from Dutch interrupts his thoughts. “My god, Arthur, what the hell happened to your car?”

“The detour I had to take last night remember?” He walks around to the driver's side. “Just get in.”

And Dutch, while not being above poverty, reluctantly gets in and they drive off to pay a visit to Leopold Strauss.

Tag Requests:

@moeitsu @photo1030 @cassietrn

[charlieeenby]

wasn't a fighter 'till somebody told me i had better lean into the punch

he's not coming. he's not coming. he's not coming, he's not coming, he's not coming. he's not coming! (he is, he will, he just won't make it in time to save you)

jason's death and revival

warnings and tags: character death, angst, dick, jason, tim and damian are brothers

title from stay down by boygenius

He’s not coming. He’s not coming. He’s not coming, he’s not coming, he’s not coming. He’s not coming!

(He is, he will, he just won’t make it in time to save you)

She says he didn’t come. She says he replaced you. She says your brother couldn’t be bothered to go to your funeral.

(These are all lies)

She says that he won’t kill the joker.

(He won’t, but someone close to you will)

You want to go home but the green won’t let you. You want to go home but she won’t let you. You want to go home but he needs you.

(You can go home)

You go back. Not home, but to the city. You flood the streets with blood. You just want his attention. You just want to go home.

(It’ll all be okay one day)

He’s angry, he fights you, he hurts you more.

(He doesn’t know it’s you)

He knows it’s you and he begs you to stop. You tell him that he failed you when he didn’t kill that monster.

(He already knows this and it eats him alive)

You fight your brother. You tell him who you are and he falls apart. He sobs and screams and wails. He does not beg.

(He’d do anything for you)

You want to be angry at him. You ask why he didn’t go to your funeral and his eyes go cold. Then he tells you why and you hate your father even more.

(That is his fault)

Your brother tells you he’s sorry. Tells you that he loves you, no matter what. When you ask if he’ll love you if you kill people, he says yes without hesitation.

(He’s telling the truth. He will always love you)

You attack your replacement. He is not your replacement. He’s sorry.

(She lied to you. This is just one of many)

You say sorry and you run away from the broken, bloody bird. The green eats you alive for a while and you let it.

(It’s not your fault)

The monster is dead, torn apart. Your father blames you but you didn’t do it. Your brother appears. He tells your father that he killed the monster that took his brother. He tore him to pieces so he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

(Your brother loves you)

Your father is enraged. He is livid and angry. He yells and he is loud in his anger. You are six years old and the first man that was your father is drunk and beating your mother. She is telling you to run.

(You are twenty now and it feels the same)

The little bird you hurt shows up and tells your father that this is all his fault. He should have just killed the joker or let hi stay dead the first time. Tells him that he’s had enough, he’s done.

(When was the first time? Who killed him the first time?)

Your brother invites you along, tells you that he loves you and they’d be happy to work with him.

(You have two brothers now)

You agree on one condition. They have to help you save the little boy that’s still with her. She’s not going to be good to him and he’s just a child.

(Three becomes four just six months later)

Your father won’t ever forgive you. He blames your for your bothers going ‘rouge’, says it’s all your fault. It is not your fault you died, but he says it is.

(It’s more his fault than yours. You were a child)

You were just a child when you were killed and none of this was your fault. You saved your youngest brother. You reconciled with the one you hurt. He forgives you.

(You were only fifteen)

The world is cruel and dark and mean. She takes without warning, without thought. But she gives as much as she takes and now you have your own family.

(The green is gone)

They are all safe and you are healing together.

[sollucets]

rowan!! that prompt you wrote that takes place around ep 10 has me REELING <33 it made me want to rewatch all over again! i'm obsessed with the way you write akkaye, you're one of my favorite writers for them. may i please request another prompt around that same canon timeframe (aka anywhere from the sort-of-secret-sort-of-official boyfriends stage in ep 10 to ep 12)? [rattles can] in return i'm offering u all my savings and my eternal devotion!!

i can't decide between 45, 20, or 8 so feel free to pick either (or all) as you please! thank you thank you thank you, and congrats on your milestone! <33 Xx

(the prompt in question) ah nonny thank you so much :') i loved writing it hehe. i refuse ur savings but i'll accept ur devotion so long as i can reciprocate!

touch prompts 8 (shielding the other one with their body) + episode 11, combined for ~1.2k of pain

💜

Aye loses track of time on those steps. He loses track of a lot of things, actually, focus narrowed to the places where he’s touching Akk, to all the points of their connection. He has a hand around the back of Akk’s neck, his thumb over Akk’s pulse point, anchoring, holding. Clinging, the same way Akk’s fingers are tangled in his uniform jacket. He wishes he were closer. He wishes he could wrap himself around and through Akk, close enough to cover his bones, to keep him from this. To keep him here. 

It’s a while before he masters himself enough to remember, faintly, that this isn’t sustainable. They’re still in the middle of campus, collapsed on the ground in a little puddle together, and if they were supposed to be following along with Wat’s story they’ve already failed. 

The thought of letting go of Akk while he’s all jagged edges and crumpled limbs in Aye’s hold is — impossible, though, unthinkable. He can’t. But they can’t stay here. 

Aye takes a deep breath that comes out ragged and painful, ignores the tear tracks on his cheeks, and pulls back, just a little. Akk looks up at him, face red and mouth trembling. 

“Akk,” he says, barely a whisper. He slips his hand around the front of Akk’s neck, brushes tears away even as they’re immediately replaced. “Akk, baby, we need to get up.” 

Baby. He’s never said it before, but it feels right enough in his mouth. He’d say every sweet little thing if Akk would let him. 

He does let him, this time, but Aye thinks Akk might honestly let him do anything right now. “Come on,” he says, shifting enough to catch Akk under the arms. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.” 

Because it’s starting to be not quiet, here. These are the front steps of the school, and class being in session by now aside, people pass here enough, and Aye wants to hide them. They need time to decompress before anyone can even start thinking about what to do next. 

Akk goes with him after a moment, though his legs don’t seem entirely steady under him once he’s standing. Aye slips an arm around his waist, though he doesn’t actually have that much confidence in catching the taller boy if they should both slip. He just needs to hold on. Akk is warm under his hands, like he always is. Warm and still here. 

“Let’s go to the bleachers,” Aye says, because it might not be completely private but vanishingly few people ever go there at this time, unused as the space is outside of club hours. 

He doesn’t get a response, verbal or otherwise, but Akk doesn’t fight when he starts walking, and so that’s how they go. There are a few people around, and they stare, but whatever Aye’s face is doing must be enough to warn them off. 

It’s unreal for a moment. Here they are, clinging to each other openly in the halls of Suppalo, all the truth out in the air. Aye used to think it’d be a triumph, that Akk would finally admit to it because he’d come to terms with it, and then they could — he doesn’t know, but he thought it’d be a moment of catharsis, of relief. Maybe it was naive. Maybe it was always going to be like this, them both going to pieces for everyone to stare at and pick apart. 

He just has to get them both through a couple of tight hallways and across part of a courtyard, and then they’ll — he doesn’t know. Sit more, maybe. Wait. Even though that was the big bombshell, it doesn’t feel like the barrage is over. It still feels too still, like they’re waiting for something else. 

People are mostly in class right now, he thinks, although he doesn’t know how much learning is actually getting done after something like that. They pass some people in the hall, people who stare, their gazes sticking in accusation as they pass. 

They almost make it, too. They’re just across the courtyard from the bleachers when they pass too close in the hall to someone with a blue armband. Aye doesn’t know his name, but he’s seen him a couple times, a junior of Akk’s. He stares at first, like everyone else, and Aye ducks his head, tightens his grip on Akk’s waist, and speeds up. 

But unlike everyone else, he stops walking, partially in front of them. Akk stiffens in his arms, although Aye doesn’t see him look up from under the curtain of his bangs. 

“Phi,” the prefect says slowly. He has light eyes, clear and amber and conflicted. “P’Akk, is it— really true? I know you said— but that was in front of everyone. Really?” 

“Yes,” rasps Akk, before Aye can even figure out how to address this. “Yes. All of it.”

The boy takes a quick breath, and looks, for half a second, shattered. Aye empathizes, but he can’t deal with this right now, so he starts to move them again. 

Their path is blocked. 

Aye fixes his gaze on the other prefect. He has no idea, again, what his face must look like, but the boy very nearly shrinks back. He sees it.

It isn't enough, though. “Then you did that to all of us, too,” he says, very quiet. 

It’s true, is the thing, if you only look at it from where the prefects had been standing on those steps. Akk dragged the entire club along with him into enforcing that curse, into believing in those rules, into hurting those people. 

But the real problem is a lot older than Akk, and a lot bigger than him, and a lot harder to properly place the blame for. And even if it wasn’t — Aye is too far in now, too far lost in the stars in Akk’s eyes. 

Akk takes a hurt breath in next to Aye, a ragged little gasp, and that’s enough. They need time. He shoves himself forward, placing himself bodily between the prefect and Aye just as the boy starts to take a step towards them. 

“And why,” snaps Aye, “did you follow?” 

The prefect’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to say something else. One hand still at Akk’s waist, Aye moves forward again.

They’re almost the same height, Aye probably a little shorter. There are still dried tear tracks on his face. He cannot possibly be physically intimidating in any way that matters, but he snarls, still, at the end of his rope. “Shouldn’t you be in class, little prefect? Get going. Listen to your seniors. Isn’t that supposed to be what you’re good at?”

He keeps himself between Akk and the boy the entire time as they pass him, and he doesn’t move again as Aye pulls Akk with him all the way to the bleachers, their bleachers. There’s enough of a line of sight here that he’ll see if anyone’s coming, and he can get Akk’s back to a fence and see if he can eventually bring himself long enough to get them both a drink. They’ve lost a lot of water. 

The moment they arrive, Akk drops like a puppet with its strings cut, legs falling out from under him. Aye hates this, hates it with a force he hadn’t been sure he was really capable of. He follows Akk down, sits next to him. He can’t let go yet. Not while he doesn’t know Akk will stay.

He doesn’t know what to say yet, if there’s anything he can say. He’ll think of something soon. He tips their heads together, grip tight, and waits, because at the very least, Akk hasn’t let go either. 

[girl4music]

*Doc throws his knife into a dart board. A bullseye*

DOLLS:

*whistles*

“That new demon's a nasty piece of work. We're regrouping at BBD in an hour. You were late to the party last night.”

DOC: “Yep.”

DOLLS: “Wanna talk about it?”

DOC: “Nope.”

DOLLS: “OK... So it's not baby Alice?”

DOC:

*retrieves his knife from the dart board*

“No, she is safe. That is all I can ask for. No, I am angry because the fight has been fixed.”

DOLLS: “What fight?”

DOC:

*gets up in his face*

“The fight. Between the living and the dying. When the Iron Witch made her wish and made Wynonna pop, disappear... you and me, we were enemies. You killed me. And I died.”

DOLLS: “Remind me who shot first.”

DOC: “Dolls... I went to hell. The same place Wynonna sends her demons. That is my reward... for all this?”

DOLLS: “You know, listen, you got time.”

DOC: “Time for what? To replace my bad deeds with good ones? No, that is the rub, Dolls. That is what they do not tell you about turning the hero. It turns you into a killer, too. So you face it, Xavier. We are murderers, you and I. Destined for the dark.”

DOLLS:

*makes eye contact, says calmly but sternly*

“We're not the same. ‘Cause I don't need a threat of damnation to fight for the right side.

*walks away, turns back to him*

We're gonna be alright.”

Some powerful dialogue here between these two characters. Especially considering what happens to Dolls. He knows what his endgame is and he isn’t afraid in the slightest regardless of where he ends up. But what Doc says about how whether you’re the hero or villain - you’re still made into a killer. A murderer. That cannot be overlooked because it is very true.

I love that this show and its writers refuse to play good VS evil, peace VS war, right VS wrong, love VS hate, black VS white, light VS dark. Refuse to play duality.

They keep the GREY approach all throughout. They don’t contradict themselves for even one second. What they’re teaching is much more the truth than the classic fairytales and legends would have you believe.

That it’s either one or the other. It isn’t. It is BOTH. And that anyone can be both simultaneously and it does not damn them. It does not break or ruin their character. It does not make them better or worse.

And if they should fall like Lucifer fell and end up in hell. Well, that’s just the way it is. It shouldn’t stop them from trying to do good or trying to be good.

So Dolls is right. It doesn’t matter about the destination or the outcome. The result of your deeds. You do good now and you are good regardless of what evil that you have done. It isn’t a case of whether you have a soul or not or whether you are a demon or not.

It’s a case that you choose to do what you do now. How you’re treated for it either now or later isn’t something you can control. So it isn’t something that you should concern yourself with. Just do good now because that’s all that matters when nothing matters.

Give up trying to search for a redemption or a reward because if you truly want to do good,… then you do it.

Because even the Garden of Eden itself is treacherous.

R.I.P. Deputy Marshall Xavier Dolls.

And thank you.

[bestworstcase]

do you think there's any merit to a little prince-and-the-rose metaphor in which Spring is the rose and Ozpin is the prince? and including the poem, Raven is the one who "scatters the petals of the rose" (mercy kills the rose that couldn't protect itself)

the one killing the rose would be the sheep in any case (<- that sound you hear is me bodily wrestling the unhinged SHEEP SUMMER ROSE WHITE QUEEN tangent away from myself. some other time)

but no i’m not convinced there’s any configuration in which it’s sensible to interpret ozpin (or ozma) as the prince to anyone’s rose, if only for the obvious problem of him being jaded and symbolically blind. he is, of course, the stranded pilot to oscar’s prince (<- the prince’s childlike love and wonder clear the eyes of the weary man’s heart, reawakening him to the magic of the world; he’s the blind man lost and searching for his love in the wasteland twice over) and insofar as ozma could be retrofitted to the little prince given his alienness to remnant, the immediate problem that emerges is that salem would in that case have to be his rose and there is no plausible way to argue that because it’s nonsense. 

with ozpin and any maiden the core issue is that he… doesn’t love the maidens and certainly at no point does he seem to have taken care of them (indeed in the fairytale he made of the first four it is they who took care of him); they are, ultimately, quasi-replacement-daughters whom he weaponizes in his war with salem—deeply deeply cynical way to (not) handle his grief. he is retreading the final duel over and over again at global scale.

(if “dancing and fighting aren’t so different; two partners interlocked…” delivered in the gooiest tone ozpin has ever used doesn’t make you SCREAM LAUGH every time you hear it…)

summer is likewise thorny (snrk) in that there is no evidence to suggest ozpin was ever especially close to her or had any kind of parental bond with her (and the distrust evinced by her secret shenanigans with raven would suggest that she didn’t feel especially close to him, as would her decision to jump ship to salem’s cause—see also general jinjur).

generally my thinking as of now on the basis of what we glimpsed in V9 and the temporal dovetailing of spring running away / gretchen rainart dying as a student / raven having some unknown involvement in spring’s death for which she clearly feels guilty is that A) spring was in fact gretchen rainart and B) all of this is about her, and her death, and whatever the fuck happened when she and summer and raven and salem all collided that night. 

it is vaguely interesting to mark that there were four and all of them have significant associations with knowledge (salem: the only character who knows her secrets + hatred of deception + keen interest in the lamp; summer: silver eyes [truth will rise/revealed by mirrored eyes] + the mystery of her disappearance; raven: alludes to the woggle-bug + spy + became maiden of knowledge; gretchen: died as a student + probable spring maiden + symbol of ozpin’s deceit). so on the one hand, it seems… obvious that SOMETHING BIG came out that night; obvious, specifically, that salem decided to talk. the question is to whom and what her audience did with that information. it is also at least notionally possible, if the fourth person was spring, that they used the lamp’s first question (<- i do not think it likely however because ozpin kept her name a secret and habitually swore that the lamp had no questions left.)

on the other rwby doesn’t often pile up singular qualities like that; in the narrative sense it seems inevitable that this ended in calamity because… knowledge/knowledge/knowledge/knowledge is not a balanced configuration. but you know what is? salem offering knowledge, summer making a choice, and gretchen’s death making raven the new maiden: knowledge/choice/destruction/creation. 

everything adds up so strongly to summer joining salem that the missing piece does really feel like it’s actually… what happened to number four. gretchen or whoever else the spring maiden might have been. is it that raven mercy-killed the proverbial first rose of spring? the only things we know FOR SURE are that raven was involved enough to feel like the killer and that she was the one the spring maiden thought of; circumstantially, salem and/or summer were probably there too. tenuously, there is the possible parallelism with jaune and penny (in which case summer probably struck the killing blow, as the proto-cinder).

in… all of this ozpin is fairly irrelevant except insofar as he presumes summer to be dead and spring to be alive (but missing) and is wrong on both counts; which if put into the little prince framing would again make him the pilot, forever wondering and guessing. the prince seeks out the rose, one way or another; for summer that tracks with ruby as the prince, and if the last spring maiden is anyone’s rose—well, gretchen, hazel. obv. though i think that’s tentative at best and the presumptive broadening of allusion is generally not very speculatively sound (<- unless you’re me in V9 hitting 9.8 and going insane but THAT came down to rwby being unusually direct.)

and with the rainart twins there is the much more straightforward allusion to hansel and gretel; gretel outwits the witch, gretchen presumably did not (and in that case bequeathed the maiden of knowledge to a different twin who does outwit the witch—jot that down as another point in favor of summer being the proto-cinder who cut gretchen/spring down.)

rubs head

this is the problem with rwby really it’s too fucking well put together

[bookbutterfly1999]

Zoe Hange IS. One of the best- “passionate about my specific research interest” science nerd character I have seen.

Mind we have had a couple of mad scientist tropes, some pretty much doomed for the narrative, others shelved aside as a plot moving device. But this lady, is, simply awesome.

I love her internal conflict. This lady HATES titans. Like any other person within those walls, who only knew about the dangers these creatures possessed towards her kind.

And yet… she decides to do what most would hate to: to be passionate towards learning more about the titans.

Don’t mistake the passion for compassion (but that too, she is compassionate, too, but that’s a different essay), she absolutely is fuelled by the need to save human lives and take down these giant wreckers.

But, she doesn’t let all those complications ruin her scientific zest for more information.

That’s Hange.

She simply needs more data. And has pledged her life in the hopes to get more data. And she’ll do what most wall dwellers would never do, get down to business, risk their lives, and actually get their hands on the information, even at the peril of their’s or their compatriots’ lives.

Now imagine Hange, realising there’s a whole new world beyond the walls! She would have been more than excited to know and learn more about it. New technological advancements and engineering? Sweet! No wonder she got along with Onyakapon like a house on fire. And she took the effort to know their names, learn more about their cultures and let herself be the inquisitive, vulnerable and courageous scientist she is!

And in between all this she still fought that titans and killed a lot of them. The pursuit of truth, was her life’s motto, and even when the truth was so hurtful, she refused to let genocide be how the story went. Till the bittersweet end, she stuck to her moral guns. She went down fighting.

She lost an eye, her squad, almost everyone she knew, and yet she never lost her zest for the truth, knowledge or her own life.

Even when she decided to go down, she chose to go down in flames. She chose to end her life, but she didn’t do it in “I give up now” kinda way. She went down like her compatriots she lost, knowing full well that this was the end, but pouring her heart and soul into it, one last time, even without knowing how much actual impact it may create considering everything already being set into motion by the Jaegerists and everyone.

She never let her personal ideals blind the objective morality of the situation.

And even when interrogating Eren whom she didn’t trust by that point (she totally had a guess of how it was all going to go on… poor woman)… and still treated him with the kindness and respect she had had for him from the start.

Also, one of Hange’s best scenes is her saying it was “her decision” when Reiner escapes due to Jean’s plea. When Jean blames himself, Hange makes it known that she’s partially if not wholly responsible for that, and ensures that Jean doesn’t continue blaming himself, and improving team morale and reducing guilt… and I could go on. Later on Levi takes a page from this when he chooses who gets to have the colossal Titan and bring them back from the brink of death (though that choice is much much more complicated, of course).

As someone unaware of the behind the scenes 4-D chess at play, Hange was the Eldian wisehold, at the forefront of negotiations, being the person moving the checker pieces that the world that was the actual situation. Someone had to. And Hange stepped up. Not Pixis as a more experienced commander, not Historia as queen or other Eldian authority figures. Hange, as Erwin’s replacement, shoes she knew didn’t fit her, but wore them anyways because someone had to, and she did it to the best of her capabilities.

She knew not to trust Eren or Zeke. She knew to save Levi- where any weak willed person might have given up and attempted to let Levi go, she knew what Levi clung on to, and made sure to help him survive to complete that particular destiny, years in the making (Levi killing Zeke).

She’s… just so smart. Not just in terms of scientific, or engineering acumen though she had that in plenty, it was also her ability to read humans that let her be such a successful survey corp warrior AND a commander.

She’s just so damn underrated man come on

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Gutless in Mar-a-Lago

STEVE SCHMIDT

Trump is a bully, and like all bullies, he is a coward.

His empire of malice is collapsing, and his end days are at hand. His poll numbers are faltering and the structural cracks are starting to show. 

Trump is afraid. He has taken refuge in his version of the Führer bunker. Tucker Carlson will be there, playing the role of a mop-haired Goebbels, spewing conspiracies, replacement theory calumnies, racial antagonism, Putin’s propaganda and vitriolic smears, while the broken Trump is hidden, coddled and puffed up. The so-called “champ” won’t fight in next week’s debate. The bully can’t take a punch, and there is a heavy hitter on the debate stage. Trump is terrified of Chris Christie like Elon Musk is terrified of Mark Zuckerberg. Their egos can’t stop the shit talk, and their character can’t back it up. Though they may be rich, they are brittle and small. All the money in the world can’t buy grit and toughness. Guts are like grace and as it was once explained to Elaine Benes upon the occasion of her first encounter with Mr. Pitt, “you don’t want too much grace or you won’t be able to stand.”

Trump has neither. No matter. There will be other lesser cowards and imbeciles for Chris Christie to hunt and devour during the evening. There will also be consequences for Trump.

Trump’s greatest political danger isn’t being seen on the debate stage. It is not being seen. At the exact moment that indicators are flashing that Republican voters are ready to move on from their criminal leader, Trump is going to create the perfect setting to imagine the world beyond the one where his ubiquity is omnipresent and suffocating. Guess what? The voters are going to like it. He won’t be missed. That is Trump’s greatest risk. How much of the show and his power are utterly illusory at this point? Soon, we will know.

What matters heading into the first debate are the tea leaves that are already present. DeSantis is done. Ramaswamy is an inch deep. Nikki Haley is invisible. Tim Scott is lined up for the win in Iowa, while Christie is lining up to win New Hampshire. Trump, meanwhile, will likely be sentenced to prison. That is the structure of the race, and everything that is predicted to happen, according to the experts in Washington, DC, seems less certain to me everyday. The American people don’t like being told what to do — and they like the politicians and media much less.

Chris Christie should look into the camera and call Trump out. He should cut him to pieces with his humor, wit and prosecutorial skill. Trump doesn’t have to be there to be politically prosecuted by Christie. In fact, an unfiltered exposure to the truth will be refreshing for the Republican audience viewing at home and the absence of Trump’s venal bullshit, lies and bluster may be restorative for their souls — at least for an hour.

There is no question whatsoever that Trump will watch every second of the debate, and that is all you need to know about its relevance and who it will be about. There is a truism in presidential politics when it comes to tactical maneuvers that seek to avoid debates, primaries, or set advantageous primary schedules. Usually it achieves the exact opposite result than the intended result. Such are the vagaries of political physics in America.

Christie has been written off by the DC pundit class. The overwhelming majority have never been involved in an actual political campaign, let alone a presidential, and never mind the New Hampshire primary. It is a foolish prediction.

What has always been true of Chris Christie as a 2024 presidential candidate is that he had to face the reality that his candidacy was outside his control in the sense that he needs events to shape outcomes that make his lift-off possible that are completely beyond his capacity to engineer them. A simpler way to put it is that he is like a surfer waiting for a wave. It may not come…or maybe it will. Either way, when or if it does doesn’t matter if the auger isn’t in position. Trump’s cowardice has turned the proverbial ball over to Christie, whose highly experienced, small, tight team of professionals will see this in their sleep. Trump’s absence in the first debate is a political disaster only outdone by his 91 felony counts. For whatever reason, many millions of Americans regard Trump as tough and strong. This shows he isn’t.

By the way, imagine if Governor John Dutton were running for president. Would he skip the debate because the former governor of New Jersey was going to possibly kick his ass? No, he would not. Neither would John Wayne. Can you imagine?

Speaking of men, what is it about the MAGA men that makes them so skilled at running, hiding and evading?

Remember Josh Hawley going from fascist inciter to inspired sprinter?

Ted Cruz is like the Shohei Ohtani of hide and seek — if being found out was the purpose of the game. It was the closet for January 6th, and Cancun for lethal ice storms.

By the way, while in hiding, it is widely known that Cruz was uncomfortably sweaty. When Lying Ted and Sweatin’ Ted come together the party is always just getting started.

Donald Trump is like a giant Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. He is deflating, leaking and decaying. It may be a bit to soon to see with the naked eye, but it is happening.

Chris Christie actually knows Trump. He should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about him. He should also look Ron DeSantis in the eye, and tell him the meanest thing that Trump ever said about him. Chris Christie’s debate strategy should be to make DeSantis cry on stage, and Trump scream at home.

Meanwhile, the historically inept candidacy of GRD can keep focused on the Ramaswamy threat and showing emotion. I do have one question about the DeSantis debate memos. Why no guidance on attire? Does that mean DeSantis is wearing his “commander in crisis” outfit? Will he be pulling up his white rubbers on a dry day to connect with the little people? The excitement never ends. Perhaps a post-debate pudding will ease the sting of humiliation. As they say, “With malice towards none, with charity for all,” right?

The circus will look different without its malevolent clown in chief. He won’t be far though. He will be with Tucker Carlson, just two guys looking out for you, your family and our country, hiding out, making nice memories in the dog days of summer.

[writingpaperghost]

Blur the Line (Chapter 4)

Chapter 4: Who's the Real Reaper?

Medic modifies Roidmudes to "aid" Shin's duties. Shin is less than thrilled about this. And when Shin is injured, some painful truths come out.

Hello, hi, it's me. Back after… *checks watch* uh… almost two years exactly. Whoops. I've been working on this chapter off and on since I finished the previous chapter, but finally managed to get it finished in time to post something for Drive's 1oth anniversary. There's like, no way I'll finish this fic before the end of the year, even if that would be cool, but that's fine. We've got this at least, I think it's the longest chapter so far. Hope it was worth the wait!

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42588966/chapters/153164719

“Mr. Heart, Shin,” Medic called, “I have something wonderful to share with you.”

Shin plopped a milk candy in his mouth before looking over, while Heart turned his attention much quicker. “I recall you were working on something new, Medic,” Heart said.

The smile on Medic’s face was… strange. Off. Shin didn’t like it. “Yes, I’ve modified Roidmudes to create the Reaper Legion – they can take over Shin’s job, much more easily going after rogue Roidmudes, as there are more of them.” She seemed incredibly proud of her creation.

Heart seemed interested. Shin was not. Shin was… upset, he decided that was the proper word. “You want to replace me?” He asked, his voice sharper than usual.

“Not at all,” Heart was quick to reassure, “Think of it this way, a job is easier the more people you have doing it.”

“You both just don’t want me fighting,” No matter how much either tried to say, Shin was not going to believe that the creation of these modified Roidmudes weren’t simply just to keep him from fighting – or at least get him to fight less. “So, you’re trying to get them to take my place.”

“Shin,” Medic began, her voice almost loving, “You know we care about you; we want you to be safe.”

He crossed his arms, “You’re trying to coddle me.” Like he was still some child. “I’m not that- that small and helpless anymore.”

That version of him was long gone, burned away with everything else, that night. Even before that, it had been slowly replaced, piece by piece, but whatever was left burned when the world froze. He wasn’t a helpless child who sobbed and hid behind Heart. He wasn’t a helpless anything and he didn’t need Heart or Medic to protect him.

---

Of course, Masanori showed up while both of the “Kyus” were present. He stands in the doorway, staring at the two with confusion, lips turning slowly into a frown. “Why… are there two… Saijos?”

Both of the Kyus stare at him, startled. His question is answered by Gou, though, “One of ‘em’s a Roidmude, we just don’t know which.”

“Oh…” Masanori looks between the two. “Well, they both seem like Kyu, so the Roidmude’s… probably… decently friendly?”

“What kind of deduction is that?” Gou huffed, “Obviously the Roidmude’s just acting, honestly big bro, you’d be terrible at this detective work.”

Kiriko sighed, “Sorry, Masanori, but it’s probably better you come back later.”

He doesn’t respond right away, seemingly in thought. She could see the ideas turning and spinning in his mind, though she wasn’t sure what they were about. Finally, he pulled Kiriko aside, “Have you considered testing to see which is more athletic?”

“What?”

“I mean, we both know Saijo doesn’t really… exercise, but a Roidmude would be naturally quicker. So then all you’d have to do is give them the right motivation… er, Saijo really likes that one anime, maybe something from that but a bit fragile, so they have reason to go after it.” Listening to Masanori’s idea, Kiriko found that it seemed… good enough. But she’d also feel bad if something got broken.

In the end, she uses Colorful Commercial to make a hologram of a Murmur Mansion plate, then dropped it. She hoped that Masanori was right about this. One of the Kyus, the one in white, leaped forward and caught the plate, while the other dawdled behind.

Masanori smiled, “I think that answers it for you,”

Gou looked between the Kyu in white, Masanori, and Kiriko, “Okay, so maybe I stand corrected and you’re decent at this, Nori.”

“Such a vote of confidence,” Masanori mumbled.

Now that they know which is the real Kyu and which was the Roidmude, 072 got a scared expression before running off. Worried and defeated, Kyu explained how he and 072 met. Chase had stayed just long enough to hear that story before hurrying off to go after 072. Masanori left right after himself, saying that he should probably leave them to their jobs.

---

When Shin finds 072, he also finds Proto Zero, though thankfully untransformed. 072 was explaining to Proto Zero as to what had happened earlier, ending by begging to get to stay with Saijo.

He had a human he also wanted to stay with, Shin felt… something about that. Something kind of nice, he thinks. No matter what Proto Zero and Krim chose to do, he was going to make sure that 072 survived this – though that wouldn’t really let him continue to be with Saijo, but that was a different problem.

To Shin’s surprise, Proto Zero seemed to be considering letting 072 go. Then, to Shin’s further surprise, though he probably shouldn’t have been, Medic arrives, with her legion of replacements, but neither 072 or Proto Zero saw her.

The moment she went to attack 072 – and she was surely going to try to kill him – Shin rushed forward, blocking her attack. Now, surely both of their presences were known.

“T-The Grim Reaper?” 072 hurried to hide behind Proto Zero.

“Shin,”

“Shin! Why did you do that?” Medic frowned, “That was dangerous, you could have been hurt.”

Taking a slow breath, Shin asked, “Why were you trying to kill 072?”

Carefully, she answered, “You know what your and the Reaper Legion’s duties are. To deal with rogue Roidmudes,” she looked past Shin, over his shoulder and back at Proto Zero and 072. He didn’t like having his back to Proto Zero, but for this, he’d take the chance.

“Last I checked, my duty was to bring rogue Roidmudes back so they could be reprogrammed,” He said, voice firm, “Not killed.”

“That’s because you can’t destroy their cores,”

“That’s not my point! Are you trying to tell me 072 deserves to die for- for being friends with a human?” He keeps his tone sharp, glaring at her, “If that’s his crime, then aren’t I guilty of it too?”

Something in Medic’s expression wavered, her determination to go through with this. She studied Shin, like she was trying to determine if he was really going through with this. At what point would he give up, decide that this wasn’t worth it?

Except Shin didn’t think that point existed. If it was truly so wrong to be friends with a human, then he should be punished too. He kept his glare steady, waiting for Medic to make her move.

“Fine,” she sighed. “But we’re going to talk about this later.” ‘we’ certainly included Heart in that matter.

But Shin felt good at her agreeing, he had kept 072 both free of being reset or dead. Able to have the chance to be Saijo more, with his friend. He smiled, before Medic left, leaving him with just 072 and Proto Zero.

He turned to face them as 072 spoke, “You- you saved me?”

“Yes,” Shin said, “You seem surprised.”

“You’re the Grim Reaper. You don’t- save Roidmudes.” 072 creeps out from behind Proto Zero, “Are you really friends with a human?”

In that moment, Shin thought of Kiriko’s smile, nodding, “Of course,”

Proto Zero takes a step forward, “That is why you don’t go out of your way to attack humans, correct?”

“No, I just don’t see the point in fighting people who aren’t involved.”

“Then what about Kiriko? When she stood in your way, you stopped yourself from attacking her.” He takes another step towards Shin.

“She wasn’t a part of the fight,” Shin answered quickly, “So even though she put herself in the way, I wasn’t going to hurt someone just because of it.” He turned, quickly leaving.

---

It had been decided that 072 would continue aiding the SIU as he had been under the guise of Kyu previously. Gou… didn’t like that, much – in his eyes working with Chase had obviously been bad enough, but now having another, he was pretty annoyed. When he heard he got all silent, and Kiriko was surprised he didn’t leave the room right then and there.

“What do you know about Shin?” Krim asked, while they were in the Drive Pit and Rinna was doing some tests to see if there was anything strange about 072. Though they didn’t think there was anything unusual, it was a good way to see if it was possible that 072 was somehow unique compared to other Roidmudes. Kiriko just thought that he was further proof that humans and Roidmudes could get along.

“He’s Heart and Medic’s favorite, for one,” 072 answered, “that’s why he was tasked to be the Grim Reaper – he wanted to help but they don’t want him too near to danger. So they let him deal with Rogue Roidmudes or something, though now he’s obviously fighting you guys.”

Gou rolled his eyes, “So why’d he keep Medic from scrapping you?”

Chase answered that one, “He said that he was friends with a human too, and that if it was reason enough to kill 072 then he should be punished too.”

“Like I said, he’s treated differently. He’s… special, more human than the rest of us can ever be.”

“So still not very?” Gou commented. “You’re machines, you can’t be humans.”

“Gou,” Kiriko scolded, though he was unbothered.

---

“He’s getting in the way again,” Shin overheard Brain say as he approached the room that Heart, Brain, and Medic were in. “Heart, you need to keep him under control.”

“He’s not getting in the way, Brain,” Medic hissed, “He’s just… been misguided by that human.”

That’s when Shin reached the room, entering. He looks between the three, waiting for one of them to say something. It’s Heart who speaks first, “Shin… I believe we need to discuss recent events.”

With confidence, Shin said, “072 doesn’t deserve to die just for being friends with a human.”

“Humans just get in the way of our plans, they don’t care about us,” Brain scowled.

“Then what about me?” Shin scowled back, “Do you think I should die for being friends with a human?”

Brain pushed his glasses up, causing a chill to run down Shin’s spine, “Perhaps we should do something about that. You have been rather rebellious lately, maybe we should finally reset you.” Shin’s eyes widen in disbelief at Brain’s suggestion, the room suddenly a lot colder.

Medic turned to Brain, “Absolutely not!”

“Why? Sooner or later, he’ll stop listening to either of you entirely!”

That wasn’t true. They were his family, just because Shin didn’t always agree with them didn’t mean he wouldn’t ever listen to them. It hurt that Brain would even dare to suggest that he might leave them.

Heart steps between the two, “No such measures need to be taken,” he looks at Shin, “though I will have to ask that you not do something like this again, Shin. 072 may not be much of a threat to us, even if he joins the humans, but the same may not be true in the future.”

While Medic’s quick defense of him and Heart keeping Brain from pushing the thought of resetting him further made Shin feel a little better, something didn’t feel quite right after that suggestion. He takes a step back, feeling almost overwhelmed by a feeling of… fear. Numbly, he responded, “Yeah, sure,” before turning and hurrying off.

They wouldn’t reset him, right? They- if they did, he could get seriously damaged, right? So they wouldn’t- Heart and Medic wouldn’t risk something happening to him. Right? Right? He didn’t like feeling this scared for his life, again, it brought back too many painful memories…

“Stay away! Please- please don’t hurt me…” Shin cowered against the wall of the room he was in – some kind of lab filled with all sorts of machinery and tools. There was a table in the center. Shin knew the table was bad – that the last time he’d been on it had hurt so much. He didn’t want to go back there, so when the monster with the numbers 004 on its chest tried to place him there, he hurried away.

Besides 004 was the man who hurt him, appearing completely human but Shin had only seen people so terrible in books and on TV and movies. There weren’t many things Shin knew about the man, but one of them was that he was quick to anger – he saw, earlier, as he hurt 002, how he was so angry. He doesn’t even think 002 had done anything to really make the man angry. He just… hurt him.

As 0014 reached for Shin, he screamed again, but it didn’t matter.

Shin wouldn’t be so afraid again, he wouldn’t let himself be. It was bad, that fear let him be hurt and he wouldn’t be hurt again. Heart and Medic wouldn’t let Brain try to reset him, and Medic would never do so herself. He was safe. Safe. That’s what Heart always tells him.

And Shin refuses to believe that Heart is wrong.

---

Medic had some plan, she’d begun to modify her Reaper Legions even more. Shin still didn’t really see the point to their existence, but he ‘politely’ tagged along. He had no intention of helping – if Medic was going to complain about him fighting and try to replace him with a bunch of other Roidmudes, then he wasn’t going to fight. Mostly, he just wanted to watch and see as these garbage replacements would surely get overwhelmed by Drive and Mach.

Slowly, she’s been capturing the little cars that aid Drive, the Shift Cars. He didn’t really get why she was, but they were at least cute, a little neat. Medic’s already tampered with them, taking control over them, but he still idly poked one – who angrily honked something to the effect of “hey stop poking me”.

When finally, the Riders appear, Medic asks Heart to keep Mach occupied while she has one of her Reapers deal with Drive. Without the Shift Cars, the slowdown effected Kiriko, though Proto Zero, as a Roidmude himself, was unaffected. Two of the Shift Cars end up with them, though, which allowed freedom from the slowdown, and Proto Zero the power to transform. He and the Reaper fight for a bit, until the Reaper pulls out something new.

A stronger slowdown, clearly slowing Drive down, despite being transformed. Shin was too far to risk being affected by it, but he could see it. Suddenly he was concerned for Kiriko again – having a Shift Car wasn’t enough, now, this slowdown was too strong. He resolves to keep an eye on her to make sure she stays safe.

Mach arrives using Deadheat, which seems to have given him just enough speed to traverse the stronger slowdown. He passes the power off the Drive, though begrudgingly. Still, that wasn’t enough, the Reaper was still too strong.

Then from somewhere some new power came, another Shift Car. A new form. Shin groaned to himself – Drive just keeps becoming more of a pain. As he hurries to defeat the Reaper – at least for now – the Reaper still succeeds in one last attack. It misses Drive, but it’s headed straight for the still slowed Kiriko.

Before Shin can even think of what he’s doing, he’s running towards her.

---

Kiriko isn’t entirely sure what happened, at first. There was an even stronger slowdown, one that their Shift Cars couldn’t nullify, but everything else is happening too fast. At least, until she’s in someone’s arms and suddenly the world is moving at the correct speed again.

All she sees is black armor, just like before (it feels warm and cold at the same time, a hum under the armor, and a rhythm like a heartbeat). He holds her in his arms, tumbling to the ground and clearly trying to protect her from it. When he finally stops, he gently lets her down, careful. By the time she looks up…

Shin. The one who saved her was Shin. His black and red armor disappeared, there’s a terrible gash across his side and… she knows that face. She’d never seen Shin up close before, never quite could make out his face when he was in his human form.

His face was the same as Masanori’s.

“Kiriko? Are you okay?” Even though he was injured, he still asked if she was okay. Even though he had Masanori’s face – no, that wasn’t it. He was Masanori. He had always been, hadn’t he? That’s why Masanori was so strange – because he was a Roidmude.

But Roidmudes didn’t grow like she’d seen Masanori had. He’d gotten taller – but how?

He seemed worried by her silence, taking her hand carefully, “Kiriko?”

Then Gou called, “Kiriko!” And next thing she knows Shin’s been shoved to the side, yelping. “Get away from her!”

“You seriously think I’m going to try to hurt her?” Shin hissed, pulling himself up. “Why the hell would I hurt Kiriko?”

For a moment, Gou stared at him, before realization came upon his face. He takes a step back, “No way… Masanori?”

Briefly, for a mere fraction of a second, something soft came to Shin’s face. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he turns away. “See, Kiriko. I told you. You didn’t really mean it.”

Before either of them can do much else, he takes off. Angrily, Gou called after him, “You’re running away like a coward!”

“He’s injured, Gou,” Kiriko said, and she felt so terribly sad. Like her heart had been torn in two. Masanori was her friend, but how much of that had been a lie? Had they ever really been friends at all? “Let him be.”

“He lied to you, Kiriko!” Gou growled, “He’s just one of those monsters, too!”

Kiriko stands abruptly, “He’s not a monster, Gou!”

“Yes he is,” He said, “He’s just been using you.”

“For ten years?” She turns towards the direction Shin went. “I don’t believe that.” She begins to follow after him.

Gou called after her, “You’re not seriously going after him, are you?” When he doesn’t get a response, he tries again, “Big sis, he could kill you!”

Kiriko doesn’t care. She knows, deep in her heart, that Shin would never do that. So she was going to see if she could find him – his injury was pretty bad, and while he was able to walk away, how long would that be true? Where had Medic gone and would she find him in time? The rational part of her told her he would be fine, that if 072 was right, Shin was perfectly safe and sound.

After a while, she stops to catch her breath. Maybe there was no point of this, Shin was all okay and she was just wasting her time. A noise in an alleyway catches her attention and she warily creeps over. A person, it was too dark out now to make out much more, but a person, certainly.

Carefully, she called out, “Are you okay?” The person looks up, and just barely she can make out Shin’s face. “Shin?”

He looked away, and now she can see his hand clutching his side, where he’d been injured. “I’m fine, go away.”

“You’re still injured,”

“Medic will fix me,”

“Then where is she?” His shoulders slump at her question.

Slowly, he answered, “She just… hasn’t… found me, yet.”  He sounded very tired, in that moment. “So… so… go away…” He slid to the side, before falling to the ground.

Hurrying over, Kiriko finds that he’s passed out. Given his injuries, it seemed like a terrible idea to leave him here, but she wasn’t sure what she could do. Was taking care of the injuries of a Roidmude like taking care of a humans? When Chase was injured, usually Rinna took care of it.

She drags him back to her apartment, doing her best to at least stop his bleeding, though unsure if it would do much in the long term. Maybe she can get Mad Doctor’s help, it wouldn’t be the most pleasant experience, but it would be better than bleeding out. Than dying.

Shin bled – and she knew that Chase, at least, bled, but there was something about Shin that made it feel… different. He’d been more injured than she’d originally thought – more scrapes and bruises, probably from hitting the ground, and the gash was bigger than it had seemed before. Still, she refused to let that deter her and did her best to take care of it.

There were scars on his chest, more than a few. She wondered too if Roidmudes scarred. Again, she wasn’t sure if Chase could get scars, she’d never really paid attention to that. But now that she was looking at Shin… for some reason those scars stood out to her.

In the end, she gets Mad Doctor’s help – asking him to not tell Chase or Krim, not yet, at least. She isn’t sure if he actually agreed, but he went about helping fix Shin, anyway. He endured the treatment with little sound, despite the pain he was surely in.

It’s then that Kiriko has calmed herself enough to question if she really should have brought Shin back to her apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time that Shin had been there – though the previous times were few. But this felt… different – as sure as she was that Shin wouldn’t hurt her, there was some part of her that still… worried.

Maybe that worry was just for Shin’s wellbeing.

---

When Shin wakes up, he hurts, greeted with a ceiling he doesn’t think he’s seen before. He stares and stares at it, until he finally sighs and gathers the energy to sit up. His side hurts – he had a gash there, right, the injury was probably still a bit present – even Medic couldn’t always fix all of it.

When he sits up, he can see more of the room he’s in, though it’s dark, and that’s when he realized that he was in Kiriko’s apartment. That… wasn’t right. His heart jumps into his chest and quickly stumbles off the couch he’d been lying on. Why was he here?

If he was here, then someone had to bring him here. Someone – Kiriko? And they were the one who bandaged his injury – his jacket and shirt had been torn by the Reaper’s attack, so he could clearly see his bandaged side. But why? Why had she taken him back here? Why take care of his injury?

“Masanori?” He looks to the side, where Kiriko stands, looking tired. It was the middle of the night, he reminded himself. After a moment, she seems to realize that he’s awake. “Are you okay?”

“You…” Looking around the room once more, he can only feel confusion. “Why?”

She seems to contemplate for a moment – why, shouldn’t she know the answer? Or was she only debating as to whether or not to tell him? “You were hurt because you protected me, and I wasn’t going to take the chance as to whether or not Medic would find you in time.”

He was a Roidmude to her, why would she care? She knew that Roidmudes could always come back, as long as their core wasn’t destroyed, and as far as she knew the same applied to him. That he could just be given a new body. That didn’t mean it was true, but as far as she knew, it was. None of his injuries should really have mattered to her, certainly not now that she knew he wasn’t human.

Looking away from her, he scoffed, “I’m a Roidmude. It doesn’t matter what happens to our bodies, so long as our core survives.”

“Maybe so but…”

“It doesn’t matter. I should go.” He stumbles towards the door, internally cursing at how unsteady he was. “Medic will take care of me.”

Grabbing ahold of his jacket, Kiriko tugged him back, “Masanori, wait,”

Spinning back to face her and throwing himself off balance, Shin snapped, “That’s not my name!” his sudden change in balance and unstable movement causes him to fall into her, the two of them supported by back of the couch. He braced his hands against the back, sticking Kiriko between the couch and him. “Masanori was never real, I’m Shin. I’m the Grim Reaper.”

Seeming startled by his outburst, Kiriko said with wide eyes, “That couldn’t all have been an act.”

“Who lies for ten years, Kiriko? No one you should want to be around, that much is certain.” Shin pushes himself off of her, away from the couch.

“Then why did you spend time with me for so long? What would Shin, the Grim Reaper, gain from being around a human like that?” He can’t help but hear desperation in her voice, pleading for answers.

Maybe he did owe her those answers, but… he couldn’t give them here and now. The swirling storm of emotions that he can’t chase out of his chest were making it impossible to sort through his thoughts properly. To try explain to her why that night ten years ago, she became the only good human in his eyes, for reasons he couldn’t entirely even understand.

Good human or not, it didn’t matter. He’d surely lost her now, she shouldn’t want anything to do with him. A Roidmude, her enemy. Whatever friendship they had would be gone now, as much as it seemed to tear at Shin’s very being, to the point he could feel it in his core. Maybe this was why Heart, Medic, and Brain hadn’t wanted him to be friends with her. Because sooner or later she’d find out the truth and it would hurt, would cut through him worse than any injury he’d ever had, than the terrible pain of what that man had put him through.

 He turned around again, walking towards the door once more.

“Shin! Please!”

Despite his better judgement, Shin takes one last look back at Kiriko. She stared back at him with pleading eyes. He shouldn’t just leave her like this, should give her something. Or maybe he should just put an end to it all now. “Kiriko…”

“You saved me, ten years ago, didn’t you? Was that why you kept seeing me?”

“I did save you, that night. Because I didn’t want more people getting hurt. After that… it doesn’t matter after that.” Shin saw no reason to try to explain the feelings he didn’t understand. It would only complicate things, anyway. With that, he finally looks away and leaves.

From there he stumbles from Kiriko’s apartment, intent on making his way back to Heart and Medic. Once he was there, Medic could take care of the rest of his injuries, though somehow Kiriko had done quite a lot for them already – he knew they should have been far worse and he really isn’t sure how she managed to pull that off. But it was enough that he should be able to make it back without trouble, and the likelihood of him running into anyone who might cause some, such as Proto Zero or Gou were low.

He doesn’t make it far, though, barely out of the building before he spots what he knows without a doubt will be trouble. They might not have noticed him yet, but there were Proto Zero and Krim Steinbelt. What were they doing here at this time of night? Surely not to see Kiriko, it was too late for that.

Though he tries to quietly duck away so they can’t see him, he stumbles and knocks into the wall, causing a loud enough sound to catch Proto Zero’s attention. Shin cursed to himself, knowing there was enough light that even his dark clothes wouldn’t be enough to hide him from Proto Zero’s notice or recognition. As he and Krim Steinbelt approached, Shin catches sight of one of their little cars on Proto Zero’s shoulder, as well. Was that why they were here?

The Shift Car, looking like an ambulance, honked. “See, he’s here,” it said, “she had me fix him.”

Oh, this was why Shin’s injuries were as healed as they were. It must have been the power of this Shift Car. And then it’d gone and tattled on it to Proto Zero and Krim Steinbelt.

“It seems Mad Doctor was correct,” Krim Steinbelt noted, “Kiriko did aid Shin.”

Grimacing, Shin asked, “What, are you here to finish the job that the Reaper started? Ready to kill me and get it over with?”

“Mad Doctor reported that Kiriko requested his aid in repairing you,” Proto Zero answered.

“You didn’t answer the question,”

Proto Zero’s gaze raked over him, before his eyes settled on Shin’s injury. Though it was healed to the point it no longer bled, the evidence of what had happened before was still visible, more on Shin’s tattered clothes. There were scars there, too, though they likely weren’t as visible in the low lighting. Then again, he wasn’t familiar with the extent of Proto Zero’s vision.

Finally, Proto Zero said, “You were smaller, once. And you have scars.”

“Don’t have a number, either,” Shin responded, his heart thrumming in his chest an ever constant reminder that he wasn’t a real Roidmude, not like the others. Not even like Proto Zero.

Something akin to a curious look came to Proto Zero – not that he was capable of emotions. “You lack a number?”

“Clearly, 072 didn’t tell you much about me.”

“He told us you were Heart and Medic’s favorite,” Krim Steinbelt said.

Any Roidmude knew that. Then again, 072 likely didn’t know much more – he was far from important, and Shin’s true nature was kept secret from most. Only Heart, Medic, Brain, and a few of the Roidmudes that acted as that man’s lackies knew. Thus, there was no way that Proto Zero or Krim Steinbelt could learn about it. But that didn’t stop them from putting two and two together.

They and Kiriko were the only ones who’d seen him during the Global Freeze. They clearly had figured out he’d grown – something no ordinary Roidmude should be capable of. The only thing that might truly tip them off as to what was up with him was if they saw his true Roidmude form. He had no intention of letting them see that.

Krim Steinbelt continued, “But we can gather that you are unlike most Roidmudes, even without knowing your number or your power.”

Shin let out a bitter laugh, “I’ve already let you in on a secret, like I said, I don’t have a number. I never have.” He took a step, wincing. Despite the Shift Car’s effort, his injury still pained him. It likely would until he could get Medic to take care of it. “What are you after? Like this, I wouldn’t be much of a fight.” He was giving them the opportunity. They could easily kill him and shatter his core.

“The Roidmudes can’t be allowed to reach the Promised Number,” Krim Steinbelt declared in a matter of fact tone. “That means no Roidmude can be left behind.”

“I don’t really count towards that,” Shin took another step. Maybe he could get pretty far just by keeping them busy. Though he doubted they’d let him go, not without a fight. “And what about Proto Zero, he’s a Roidmude too?”

Krim Steinbelt’s face switched to a frown, “Chase knows his purpose,”

Unable to help himself, Shin slammed his fist against the wall he leaned against, “You mean to play dutiful soldier until he’s the only one left? And then what? You’ll probably shut him off, dismantle him, destroy his core too. Right? Because the Roidmudes are the problem.” He spat his words, anger palpable in each one. “Somehow, even our creator’s flaws are our sins.”

“That isn’t true,” Obviously, his words struck a nerve in Krim Steinbelt, as he spoke with a simmering anger.

“I don’t believe the words of someone like you.”

Proto Zero took a step towards him, speaking, “How did you grow?”

He knows better than to say what he’s thinking, but at this point he doesn’t really care. He’s not even entirely sure if he’ll make it out of this encounter, even after the work Kiriko did to help him. Not without catching them off guard, at least. So, despite his better judgement, he says what he thinks, “That’s what children do.”

“Children?” Proto Zero intoned.

“Roidmudes can’t be children,” Krim Steinbelt said, again in that confident and certain tone.

It seems he’d truly forgotten about what had happened to Shin. “Who said I was always a Roidmude?”

He stumbled away, leaving the two in something like a stunned silence.

---

It was always fascinating, in a morbid way, to watch Medic’s power heal him, to fill and meld the damages to the parts of him that were metal, to stitch back together the synthetic skin that had replaced most of his original skin. Though she had a less easy time repairing the damages to the parts of Shin that were still organic, though thankfully much of that damage appeared to have been repaired by the Shift Car earlier.

“That was reckless of you,” Medic said, concern audibly lacing her voice.

His chest heaved a heavy breath, “I couldn’t let Kiriko be hurt.”

“If she hadn’t found a way to heal you, you would have died. If the still human parts of your body fail, I can’t fix that.” She sets a hand gently over where he’d been injured, her gloves too thin to block out of sensation of how cold her hands were. “No human is worth your life.”

He looked away, some terrible feeling hanging heavily over him. Maybe she was right – after all, now that she knew what he was, he doubted Kiriko really, truly, wanted anything to do with him. Still, she was the one good human, and even if she hated him, he wanted to keep her safe. And… she had saved him, too. He’s sure that Krim Steinbelt would not let her off easy for helping him.

Out of his vision, he hears the door open, and who he’s certain is Heart come in. As if to confirm that, he hears Heart speak, “How is he, Medic?”

“He’ll be alright,” She said, though there was a clear hint of frustration in her voice. “The human used one of Drive’s Shift Cars to heal the worst of the damage, particularly to his human organs.”

Heart hummed, “How curious… a human showing a Roidmude kindness.”

Shin turned his gaze over towards Heart, whom Medic had joined the side of. “She’s a good human. Better than the others.”

“So you keep saying, yet I have to wonder what she thinks of you now?” Heart mused. Shin knew that he wasn’t being malicious, but it was another attempt at convincing him to abandon Kiriko. Even now, it wouldn’t work.

It didn’t matter what happened, what Kiriko thought of him… even if he could never see her again, never see her smile… he’d protect her. No one made him feel the same strange feeling she did.

He leaned back, letting out a breath. “I don’t intend to find out.”

“Get some rest, Shin,” Medic tells him, “You’ll feel better once your human parts have finished recovering.”

[simplywrong]

Okay so here it goes (it’s in WCC standings order because I couldn’t think of anything else and I only did the drivers I think got somehow mistreated), a useless case study made by me for no reason at all:

It’s just my opinion, it’s not the truth and it doesn’t have any purpose other than making me stop thinking about this.

Lando and Oscar (I’m putting them together because neither of them was especially mistreated this season in my opinion but there were a few unpleasant cases): The way McLaren handled the brief title fight and the whole ‘supporting driver’ ‘main driver’ thing was unprofessional at best and ridiculous at worst. They made no effort to make it look like teamwork and instead leaned heavily into making it look like a vicious fight - and it might as well have been, I don’t know what went on behind closed doors but it was just not what you would expect from a team with that much experience. It only made Oscar’s wins have that weird undertone of some controversy and it just made the some ‘fans’ (I blame the media for that but when do I not) throw meaningless hate both ways. 0/10 would not watch again.

Carlos:

I’m just gonna say everything about Ferrari is a bit strange and the way they dealt with his departure was weird, even if it was better than what the other drivers got, but it just doesn’t seem right. He was and still is painted as the ‘less than’ for no reason aside from being replaced by a multiple WDC so yeah. We all know how the prancing horse team treats their drivers and I doubt anyone would say it is normal. But what in F1 is?

Charles:

The way Ferrari treats him like some kind of a mascot rubs me the wrong way and that is all I have to say about him in this regard. His season was quite good otherwise, if we don’t count the rivalry he had with Carlos that made things difficult for both of them a few times.

Sergio:

I could write an entire essay about how the team treated Checo this year alone but there is no place for that so I’m just gonna do the short version. RBR went from saying that they had the best drivers duo at the beginning of the season to saying that they want to support him to stating that he is not enough to try to push him out (and not pay any money for breaking the contract) in a few months. He had been expressing worries about the car since April but the team laughed at him and only started trying to fix it when Max joined in with the complaints, they gave him a half-assed apology when it became obvious that the car was the main problem. They did nothing to stop the rumours and fueled the hate, not stopping even when his family started receiving death threats. RBR used him as a scapegoat to get the attention away from everyone leaving the team and the Horner scandal from the beginning of the year. Then, they decided that he should be a lab rat for the upgrades “to fix the car” but the piece of garbage is still the same as it was eight months ago. And I won’t talk about all the bs we have now because it’s just unserious. They made a complete 180 from saying he is the best option for the team not so long ago. Weird and disgusting.

Lewis:

Toto. That’s all I have to say. The way he is not dealing well with the divorce and the weird statements just seem out of place. They should show some more respect for the man who made them the top team for a decade. He really deserved better from them, not this weird hostage situation they have now. Hope he'll get a noce goodbye.

Esteban:

Alpine messed up badly but it’s not the first time so we can’t be surprised. The fact that Esteban had a helmet ready just for them to shut the door in his face one week earlier is an added damage because it means he didn’t know they would do that. He was always doing his best for the team, cared about the mechanics and made sure to improve the car but apparently this wasn’t enough. Neither was the fact that he brought them the best results in the team’s history. He never complained about the car, always tried to make the most of it and it just feels wrong to see him go like that. I have no idea what is going on inside the team but the fact that Oscar and Fernando didn’t end on good note with them and what they did now to Esteban doesn’t make them look very good. It is heartbreaking that his final chequered flag for the team happened without him knowing it was the last, I’m sure he planned a whole farewell for his garage and now? Now he could only post that depressing note and that is it. Shame on you Alpine.

Yuki:

Well, for starters we have the fact that he is better than all of his teammates and somehow he still isn’t considered for the RBR seat. Not even in the future. Now, I know it’s more on Red Bull than RB but I doubt anyone is naive enough to think they work separately. Helmut brought Liam in and said this is 'opportunity to motivate Yuki to do better’ and well after he started to outperform the rookie noone, not even the media are taking him seriously. Aside from the nightmare that working for Marko must be, his situation is tragically funny right now. No matter what he does he will not be good enough.

Daniel:

The way his departure from the sport was handled was atrocious and just wrong. His team let the rumours turn nasty, did nothing to get him a proper farewell (and let’s say that losing a seat mid season isn’t and shouldn’t be common) and just kind of left him behind like a broken toy. The fact that RBR wanted him to stay ‘in the family’ just to be ‘ambassador’ (so yeah, just for making money) makes me mad, it is an option, it is a good option even but not when the team you hoped to help you stepped on you and treated you like dirt. But what can we expect from a team led by Helmut and Horner?

Logan:

I think just mentioning Vowels is enough to make people agree with this. For some reason he was ridiculed from the start, every crash was treated as if no other driver ever did that before, even while everyone was saying that he was just a rookie and somehow the team made it worse. The fact that various sources confirmed that in the last few weeks of Logan’s time in Williams the team principal was ‘not on speaking terms’ with the driver seems childish and stupid. I hope he will thrive in different series and forget the ugly side of F1. 

Alex:

This man started posting baiting feet pics on social media, that speaks of his mental health loud enough. (this is a joke please don’t kill me).

@itsblasttothepast Your takes are alwasy good so feel free to add anything you want

Why is this entire F1 season a one big 'he deserved better' for almost all the drivers? Some of them were forced to leave, some of the were treated like they didn't matter by their teams and some are just overlooked like they aren't in the top 20 of the best drivers in the world. Crazy.

(I'll do a case study of this tomorrow, with memes maybe if I can find the strenght)

[taylorbuggtaylortot]

Say something I’m giving up on you i have a feeling you’re giving up on me too

We both have a lot to lose

How do you come back from hanging on a noose

I’m a danger to myself

My own subconscious hell reminds me of betrayal on my soul that I should sell

Is this what you wanted? To suck out all my life

To leave me in the open and bleed me out to dry?

I’ll have you know I’m on my best behavior for everybody now

Replaced my heart with a stone and a curtsy with a bow

I can’t match your discipline

I competitively over exceed

So I water myself down

In hopes that you won’t leave

Things have gotten very real and I’m really sick of life

No one’s got it easy but I always pay the price

Watered down by all my tears

My soggy shirt is soaked

Water fills up my lungs but you don’t care if I choke

It’s been quite dark forever but I still kept my light

I still knew how to hope so I still knew how to fight

I feel reprogrammed at this time

I’m losing all my color

But if I die then that’s okay cause you’ll just find another

The world rips you open and no one cares so it doesn’t help to cry

So put on a smile and keep your secrets cause living is a lie

But I have all this anger I can’t realize and it leads me down a hole

5 steps forward

10 steps back is always how it goes

I ignored every injustice to keep peace inside of myself until I realized it wasn’t real and I still needed help

I self destruct on the daily with friends and conversations

I push away until nothings left but doses of self hatred

Don’t want a fucking soul to touch me unless they’re planning to stay

But I can’t keep a person close. I don’t know what to say

So at this point I don’t need a savior

I’ve given up on everyone

Cause no one takes the time to listen

So I think they’re dumb

But I know I’m not perfect and I would stop this if I could

I’m running so fast that I don’t stop to think if what I’m doing is good

What do the good ones get from all this shit? I’ve never been rewarded

But If I meet my maker, will he see my truth that’s been distorted?

Maybe I deserve every piece of living hell that I could get

If I could go to a past life to save me from myself being a giant piece of shit

-tf

[chaoskirin]

Fucking. Stop it with the AI Art.

I’m extremely upset by people I respect using AI art more and more. I don't know what to do about it, from the people in comments being like "shut up, people have been inspired by others' art for centuries" to others saying "it's just a tool."

A lot of those people don't know how AI art is made, and either won't believe a factual explanation or just don't care. Datasets aren't "inspired" by art. Datasets are machines. If they're asked to do something, they output their best guess as to what it is you want. Recently, a very famous artist, Kim Jung Gi, died, and someone on Twitter fed his art into a dataset and spit out new art that LITERALLY could have been made by the original artist. And this person just... didn’t see a problem with doing that. He called it an homage.

SO MANY people don’t see a problem with that, either. I don’t get it.

The truth is, AI is replacing artists.

That’s not debatable. From an AI entry in an art contest winning first place to Cosmo using AI art on a cover and bragging that “it only took 20 seconds to do” AI is being used to push artists out of careers.

And let’s all be honest here. If you need a portrait, it must be at LEAST a little tempting to ask MidJourney to do it, because a portrait of similar quality is going to cost you a couple hundred bucks from an ACTUAL artist. And if you pay a dataset to do it for you, it might run you $8bux at most. Easy as fuck, man. And that’s the problem... Why pay a real artist to do it when you can get nearly the same result in 20 seconds?

This might seem doom-and-gloomy, but no one can tell me it’s gonna be okay. No one has offered a logical counterargument to me. No one's said "look, here's why you're fine" and given me a reason that doesn't have a logical rebuttal.

The reason I find it so difficult to keep fighting is because there's no one reason AI art is bad. There's dozens. And more become evident every day. So if I make one argument, I HAVE to be prepared to make another, because someone is going to counter with another argument that has to be refuted. And so on and so forth. I just don’t have the energy to keep up. ALL OF IT IS BAD. The only advantage is to the people who want cheap, fast art.

I’m not gonna name names here, but... There are people out there with the platform to stop this, and it's so demoralizing that instead of taking a stand against it, they are feeding into it. I offer to educate someone and I’m ignored. Immediately after, that person posts more lensa self portraits. God, it’s so fucking frustrating.

Sometimes I do wonder: Am I on the wrong side of history? Is AI art just another panic-scare like photography? Does AI art really have a place in our future? The difference is, photography doesn’t steal other peoples' art. In fact, there are court decisions out there that give artists rights against their pieces being photographed and used without permission. Likewise, photographers are protected against their art being used by traditional artists. (IE, you can't make a sculpture from someone's unique photo. True fact.)

But there’s no protections in place for artists against AI. And so many people don’t understand that the art fed into the dataset is what creates the pieces. It doesn’t draw those things itself. It uses what it has, cobbling things together, to produce something it calls “new.” I saw someone in a Twitter comment say “lol that’s just a collage.” What a fucking bad faith argument. I know those people see the difference between a collage and art theft.

There’s so much more misinformation going around than truth, and people are just parroting it because they want to play with their new AI toy. No one is thinking critically. No one is looking at where this could go.

What’s going to stop people from creating an AI dataset that imitates CCTV footage and places innocent people at the scene of a crime? AI art is getting good enough that with a little tweaking, this is almost possible. I could absolutely do it myself right now, with the number of people feeding their faces into lensa. I have other fears, but that’s one I can post about, because I’m pretty sure my face isn’t inside an AI dataset at the moment.

Anyway. I’m angry. I’m tired. And I just don’t want to draw anymore.