#but in reality it's just Mori being bored and looking for some entertainment

[akikos-tribble-army]

Mori should have more anatomy models in his office. He's a doctor, where is the random skeleton in the corner? The eye model on the desk? The heart on the shelf? The half open body where the organs always fall out when you look at it? The skull where everyone wants to ask if it is real, bc dude is a mafia boss, you never know?

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die, Chapter 7

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 7)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: The secret history of Logan and Roman begins to come to light while little pieces of Roman's world start to fall apart around him, resulting in a late night confrontation that exposes Roman's role in reuniting Virgil with his big brother.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and future Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: MORE CHAPTERS INCOMING, ‘cause this was getting super bloated. IDK, I just have a lot of feelings, and I’m rushing ‘cause I want the boys to kiss and be happy so I can start my series of smutty one-shots...I mean, what? >.> <.< XD

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1020, A.A.

“Hold on...just hold on...”

It took all his effort to stay calm, keeping the rhythm of his compressions steady the way Remus taught him. It was different, watching his twin tap-tap-tap the chest of a tiny kitten and blowing a careful stream of air into its snout—this was a boy, an entire person and his skin was pale as marble, lips tinged the blue of Father's lapis ring...

The body under his hands spasmed, a gush of water suddenly erupting from his mouth. Thinking as quickly as he could, Roman tipped the boy's head to the side so he could spit the water on the grass beside the river that ran behind the palace, and not swallow it back into his lungs—but you couldn't swallow things into your lungs, could you? Was it wrong? Was he doing this wrong?

...pulse. He should feel for a pulse, right? That's what Remus said...

Roman pressed fingers to the boy's throat, sagging when he felt the rapid flutter of a heartbeat there...at least until the boy twisted away and scrambled back, still hacking and shaking from the chill air and his sodden clothing.

Blue eyes met green, and eleven year old Prince Roman Sanders was struck breathless by the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his short life.

“Careful—it's all right, I won't hurt you.” he soothed, raising his hands and remaining on his knees. “I just want to make sure you're okay.”

The other boy blinked, water dripping off clumped eyelashes like diamonds falling to roll down his wet cheeks. He had jet black hair, plastered to his head, and even with his heart beating again, his skin was still so pale. His eyes sparkled like the river water itself, clear and bright and so blue it almost hurt to look at them.

“I...was dead.” the other boy hiccuped, bringing a hand to his chest as his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I...well, yeah. I mean, your heart wasn't beating, so I used the vital breath to make it start again. My brother taught me.”

The boy blinked, his thin but well formed lips drawing into a curious pout that made him flinch, made him reach up and touch his lower lip—sporting a shallow cut that matched one on Roman's, where he'd been a little too forceful pressing his mouth to the boy's so he could force air into his lungs.

“You...you brought me back from the dead.”

Roman blinked—but when he said it like that, he supposed that he had. Wow.

“I didn't use magic.” he said instead of...literally anything else. “I swear it.”

“On the Spider's Thread?”

“What's that?”

“The bond that unites souls.” the boy explained. “It's the most sacred oath in the world, 'cause if you break it the Fates will tear you from the Living Tapestry.”

“What's the Living Tapestry?” Roman asked, shifting to edge closer to the boy.

“The world.” he replied through chattering teeth. “And all the people in it...and you stopped them. You stopped Fate.”

“But—I didn't use magic. I didn't...really stop Fate, I...I just...you were floating in the river, and—I had to try.” Roman explained, feeling strange with all this talk of bonded souls and raising the dead, and how pretty the boy was.

“Is...is that okay?”

The boy watched him with a look Roman couldn't make heads or tails of...but after a moment he nodded.

“It's okay.” he assured him, shifting onto his knees slowly.

“Good.” Roman replied, then winced a little when the clickclickclickclick of the boy's chattering teeth became audible.

“You're so cold—you'll catch your death without some dry clothes.” He looked down at himself—equally wet from diving into the river to pull the boy out. “I could bring you back to the palace to dry off and--”

“I can't go there.”

Roman flinched at the forceful way he said it, harsh and tinged with fear. He didn't need to be his brother to connect the dots.

The boy knew a lot about death magic, and he was afraid of the palace. He was Necromata...but he was small and beautiful and shivering, and he wasn't sure anyone so awestruck by the vital breath, of all things, could be as evil as he'd been raised to believe.

Could they?

Roman thought for a moment, then struggled to his feet and started pulling off his tailored white tunic, leaving him in a simple black cotton undershirt.

“What--”

“I'm going to walk you home.” Roman insisted. “You're in no shape to be by yourself—and if I'm dressed like a citizen, no one will recognize me as a prince! You'll be safe.”

The boy watched him as he finished stripping off anything that would mark him as nobility, even discarding his boots so he was walking barefoot. When he was done, the boy was still kneeling on the ground, just...staring at him.

“What?”

“You said 'citizen.' Not 'commoner.'”

Roman made a face. “I don't like the word. I don't think people are common—I like to watch the roads from my bedroom window and imagine all the stories that the people who travel them have to tell. Common people are boring, and how can anyone with so many stories be boring?”

The boy hesitated, but finally started to get to his feet.

“Thank you...apologies. I don't know which prince you are.”

“Roman. I'm Prince Roman.” he offered, extending his hand to the boy to help him up. “And I swear—by the Spider's Thread—that I will see you home safe.”

Regarding the hand thoughtfully, the boy reached up to take it.

“Salutations, Your Highness. I am Logan Crofter.”

Their fingers touched—and Roman's heart froze when the other boy screamed.

********** 1033, A.A.

“At the end of the day, Your Majesty, the truth will come out: you're not merely a pawn of the necromancer. You're in league with him—and the Sanders line will fall from power. After all, twins don't long survive the death of their other half—or so the stories say.”

The words were going to haunt Roman long past the resurrection of his father—then again, so was the broken hand that still throbbed where he'd punched the court mage in a fit of blind fury.

“Roman!”

He stopped in his tracks, finally allowing himself to take stock of his surroundings: he was storming down the corridor that would lead to the north wing, where Patton and Logan were being kept. Head still spinning with the angry shouts and protests of both royal advisors and soldiers loyal to Colonel Mori, he'd fled the crowded throne room after breaking the mage's jaw with only the sound of his brother's cackling to comfort him.

Without his permission, his feet were trying to carry him towards the necromancer—towards Logan.

The one who was depending on him. The one who was helping him...the one...

Footsteps pounded behind him. His eternal, steady awareness of his own twin was all that kept Roman from being startled by the hand that grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“Roman.”

Remus stood there in front of him, hands on his shoulders, wearing an uncharacteristically sober expression. For one moment, in his mind's eye he saw Logan and Virgil, somewhere in the palace, having a similar encounter—the image had clung to the back of his thoughts since a discreet intrusion from Remy let him know that Logan was okay, his hope for both of them a fantasy he couldn't stop himself from willing into reality.

Logan had his brother back. Virgil had his...the notion of it made Roman ache, brought him dangerously close to thinking about things he couldn't entertain. Not a hint, not even a memory.

Hold on.

Do not let go.

I never have...I never will.

Roman was clutching at Remus's hands on his shoulders before he could stop himself, staring down his twin. For a second, Remus's eyes widened and his gaze grew distant—looked at him like he wasn't there, didn't seem to see him through whatever wheels were turning in his head...

Then the wall came down, his hands slid away from Roman's...his arms opened, and Roman collapsed into them. He felt the tears fall, then stream, then shook with sobs torn from his marrow. The dangerous memories fell away, replaced instead by the chill of the king's lifeless body, the stillness in Roman's arms, the stiffness of rigor setting in as he held him close before the guards forced him back into the castle.

His father was dead.

Father was dead.

Father was dead.

In the heart of the palace, Roman came apart, and Remus gently put him back together with strong arms, soft words, and shared pain.

********** 1021, A.A.

“You're sure this is all right?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I wish it.”

The pair were walking by the river, Logan's request. He wouldn't tell Roman anything more than that he had to do something as part of his training, and that he wanted Roman's help. Logan's Grandpap didn't know he was doing it, Roman lied about being sick to get out of his lessons and sneak out for the afternoon...

It was confusing as hell, and Roman would be a lot more afraid of the chances he was taking if it were anyone but Logan asking him to do this.

“But what if your Grandpap finds out about...whatever we're doing, and you get in trouble?” Roman protested.

“Then he can...”

Logan trailed off and stopped walking with a  frown before fumbling with uncharacteristic clumsiness to reach into his pocket for the vocabulary cards that had been a staple since Roman started teaching him outsider slang. The clumsiness came from reaching into his right pocket with his left hand—because his right hand was busy being firmly enmeshed with Roman's.

“...'deal.'” Logan finished once he'd pulled the cards out and read the top one. Glancing up to meet Roman's gaze, he offered him the small, triumphant smirk that anyone else might read as arrogant confidence. Roman knew it was all Logan allowed himself in moments of triumph—pride in the hard-won victories.

“You've been studying.” Roman observed, doing a miserable job of hiding a smile.

Logan stopped in his tracks, released Roman's hand, and shuffled through the vocabulary cards for another one, speaking as he displayed it for Roman's evaluation.

“'Duh.'”

Roman dissolved into giggling, and on impulse reached out, pulling Logan into a hug. The ten year old boy immediately tensed, breath stilling at the unexpected embrace.

Roman didn't let go, but he did loosen his arms for Logan's benefit. He waited to see if he'd bolt or...

Roman watched the vocabulary card flutter to the ground as Logan let them go, and very deliberately wrapped his arms around Roman's waist, laying his cheek against Roman's shoulder. He was still tense, but held on.

“Too much?” Roman asked softly.

“Yes.” Logan replied.

“Hurts?”

“Yes.”

“Should I stop?”

“...no. I...”

“Breathe, Logan. Remus says it's important to breathe—and important to take it slow 'cause you're touch starved.” Roman reminded him. “I'm sorry I didn't ask first, but I really don't want to hurt you. I'll let go if you ask me to.”

“I know, just...”

“What is it, Logan?”

“...more.”

The way his voice fractured and his arms reflexively tightened broke something inside of Roman as he did as he was asked: held tighter, pressed his face to Logan's hair, stood still and gave hugging his best friend his whole attention.

That was the moment Logan let out a shaky sigh and sagged in Roman's arms. He didn't know what it was, but he had to be thinking about touching Logan for it to stop hurting. Sometimes it was still too warm and too overwhelming, but it didn't seem to hurt him as bad when he was just standing there, willing his whole attention into Logan.

“...it's the Warping.”

Roman frowned a little, lifting his head just enough to rest his cheek against Logan's hair instead of his whole face. “What?”

“The Warping.” Logan repeated quietly, his breath puffing warm against Roman's neck. “I must commune with the dead as part of my training. The fiber strung onto the loom for weaving is called the warp, while the fiber that is strung across this is called the weft. The Warping is preparing myself to learn how to find the Loom of Memory—a state of consciousness where I can work my power properly.”

Roman nodded against Logan's head. “What do I need to do?”

“Just be with me...technically, I am supposed to do it alone, but I researched the ritual, and it is believed that, in the Old Times, a Weaver could bring their Animata to the Warping.”

“But I'm not an Animata.”

“No, but the Animata's defining characteristic was that they were twin souls—and you are a twin. I believe your presence will be acceptable.” Logan replied. “I...am supposed to acclimate myself to the emotions of the dead. It's not really my strongest area—feelings—and...”

Logan didn't finish. Just held on, tensing a little, then relaxing—leaning into Roman's embrace.

“You're afraid.” Roman finished for him softly.

“Fear is an emotion. I feel nothing.” Logan insisted petulantly—and it was petulant with the way he huffed soft against Roman's neck. “Necromancers have no souls with which to feel.”

“So you keep saying.”

“It's true.”

Silence fell again.

“...if I had a soul, however...I would entrust it to you.”

Roman felt something in his stomach tremble at that, soft and shivery and bright.

“Swear it on the Spider's Thread?” he asked softly.

Logan didn't answer right away—as he did with things he was never terribly sure of.

“Grandpap says that the Spider's Thread is woven by Fate, not by magic.” he replied instead of a real answer.

Roman fell silent at that, just holding onto Logan and trying to ignore the way that having Logan close like this, pledging him his non-existent soul, quiet breaths on his neck and head on his shoulder made his chest warm, made his heart do pleasant, squirmy things in his chest.

“Do...you believe in Fate, Logan?” he asked softly, not sure why he suddenly felt like holding his breath. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

Like most things Logan knew—which was almost everything—he answered immediately.

“I have since I met you.”

********** 1033, A.A.

Roman couldn't sleep that night—which was a good thing, seeing as how his room was invaded at three AM.

It happened silently, but he was emotionally raw and vaguely paranoid after what had happened to his father, after the threats made against him and all he cared for by the members of his own guard, his own court—or, perhaps, he just felt Logan's magic still teeming in his veins, keeping his heart beating and his lungs full of air. Maybe the nearness of him set something off, magic calling to magic.

One moment, the dark was empty and gaping like the hole in his chest that lingered ever since his breakdown in the halls with Remus, and the next it opened wider before filling with a presence that teased him with both the promise of danger and comfort.

When the blade touched his throat, he already had his hand under the pillow.

“Virgil, don't.”

Roman expected Logan's voice—he did not, however, expect that Logan had company.

Snapping his fingers to call to life the luminaries in his room, Roman sat up and pulled his hand out from under his pillow, a dagger in his hand and pressed to the hollow of the cadet's throat. Virgil hissed—actually hissed out loud—and backpedaled, his own dagger dragging a thin line against the side of Roman's throat.

“OW! You venomous little shit!” he spat, touching his bleeding neck as he blinked against the onslaught of light.

His hand was jerked away, and cool fingers probed his throat with deft, clinical precision. Abruptly, his head grew foggy with something akin to sleep, but cold and light...Logan's magic working, taking control of him again.

“Relax—I'm not taking your mind, I'm healing you.”

“You're what?! Logan, you're a Weaver! You can't heal!”

Roman had to work at it a little, but his free hand lifted to rub his eyes. When he let it fall again, he had  Logan sitting on the edge of his bed, hand pressed to his chest just below his collarbone, eyes lit up with that dazzling blue-white, misty light again.

“Apparently, I can when I'm animating someone.” Logan pointed out, lifting his hand and running it along Roman's throat. The touch, with Logan so close, raised gooseflesh on his skin—and there was a lot of it, given Roman slept only in loose trousers and nothing else.

Virgil leaned in as he sheathed his dagger, his eyes going wide. “Ohhhhhh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit...”

Roman reached up, following the trail Logan's palm had taken—and found no trace of the wound. Not even a scar remained.

What troubled him was that Virgil was right. It wasn't something Roman was allowed to know, something he couldn't glean from the things he read in secret or the tidbits Remus shared from his Anima lovers...and he couldn't communicate how he knew.

Logan looked at Virgil pointedly over his shoulder, then turned back to Roman when his brother fell silent again.

“I apologize for the unexpected arrival, but Virgil insisted on secrecy once he realized he'd been exposed.”

“E-exposed?” Roman stammered, his head still spinning with surprise, the lingering effects of Logan's power, and very genuine confusion. “I don't understand.”

“Yeah, you do.” Virgil snapped, folding his arms. “You knew who I was before Master Picani felt my connection to Logan and outed me in the war room. That's how I got in, and with a shard of Necromatic magic hidden in a healing object, no less.”

Roman felt his blood run cold, and in a manner that was anything but light or misty like Logan's magic.

“Don't deny it: I asked around after Logan got back to Patton this evening. You personally cleared me when I applied to join the guard. Pair that with the fact that Logan remembers the night he was arrested? And you're lucky he stopped me from killing you.”

The world stopped turning in that instant. Everything came to a halt, from the spinning of the earth to the beating of his heart as he met Logan's eyes—those crystal blue depths that he barely kept at bay, the swirling tempest that he restrained for ten years...

Roman balled his hands into fists and tried to remember how to breathe again around the nameless emotion trying to claw its way out of his heart.

“You...remember me, Logan?”

Logan just stared at him, features inscrutable. His brow furrowed, his lips pursed—he was thinking, he was...uncertain.

“I was half conscious in the war room.” he finally replied. “The Spider's Thread—Virgil told me what that oath references. I...I don't remember you, but I feel certain you swore that oath for a reason.”

The nameless feeling in his heart grew claws, ripped and tore and drew blood.

“I did.”

“...how long have we known each other?”

“Ten years. Since the night we met in the dungeon.”

“And in total?”

Roman shut his eyes, bowing his head to avoid that look, those eyes that would unmake him.

“...thirteen. We've known each other for thirteen years.”

[spaceyshenanigans]

One Year

Characters: Mark, Ethan, Amy, Memento, Mori, UA

Summary: The origins of Unus Annus

Word Count: 2001

Notes: I really like the idea of Memento and Mori as egos, so this is basically an origin story of how they created the channel. I also wanted to stay relatively consistent with the lore on SCP-11325, so this is an origin story for her as well.This story includes my personal head canons about their powers and personalities.

-----

There are many layers of reality. There is the layer of life, where all people and creatures are born. There is the upside-down, a dark and twisted place that exists parallel to life. And there is a layer for all the common souls’ final resting place. Nothing lives in this layer of reality save three entities whose sole purpose is to keep the world running smoothly. Death is inevitable, after all, so there has to be someone around to stop any chaos. 

It’s hard to say if these beings actually do stop chaos, or if they’re just fixing their own mistakes.

“I’m boreeeeed,” one of them whined. He dressed in all black, slumped over the spiraling space around him. 

The entity beside him appeared to roll his eyes, though it’s hard to say for sure since his eyes were pure white, almost glowing. “Don’t you have work to do, Memento? These souls need to be processed.”

Memento sighed. “All we ever do is process souls! From the beginning of eternity to now. We don’t even get paid!”

He shot a confused glance at Memento. “‘Payed’? What does that even mean?”

Memento shot up, seemingly perfectly energetic now. “Come here, Mori, I’ll show you.”

Mori sighed, carefully putting away the soul he had been working with before following Memento. Memento grabbed a random soul, projecting out it’s memories all around them. The human was sitting in a building full of other humans, all of whom were slouched at desks and computers. 

“See?” Memento said, “They have these ‘jobs’ where they work all day like us, but they get paid to do it. Isn’t that cool? What do you think?”

“I think that you’re too attached to humans.” Mori replied.

“Don’t give me that, you’re attached, too!” Memento stuck out his tongue. Mori chuckled at the childish display, but didn’t deny it. He did love humans, even with his limited view. Sometimes Memento would share with him a funny or sad memory, but Mori rarely saw the whole life of a human. No, he saw death. The end preserves everything about a human, their emotions, their drive, their light. It would be hard not to love something so beautiful. Sometimes, Mori wished he could see humans in any other context than death, but it was not his place.

“You two seem busy.” A voice broke Mori from his head. Standing behind them was the only other person that lived in this place.

“UA, come look, I was showing Mori human jobs.” Memento said excitedly. UA, her full name Unus Annus, smiled and watched the memory. UA wasn’t like Memento or Mori. She controls the life cycle, and is arguably the most powerful entity in the layer. For one year, she lives, then dies, and a new year starts. All of the long dead souls come to make her, and she uses the energy to recycle the souls into new life. UA only ever retains pieces of her past iterations, and is a little different each life. In this iteration, UA is the most curious, always entertained by humanity's minutia.

“I take it today’s been slow?” UA asked after the memory ends.

“You have no idea. It’s so boring, doing the same thing every day until the end of everything.” Memento complained. “I want to do some of the human stuff!”

UA and Mori laughed at Memento’s mock despair. Soon enough, he joined them, laughing at nothing. Memento and Mori went back to their work, cataloging memories and setting the dead souls to rest, while UA wandered through the spirals. Memento’s words struck her. She had never considered actually doing human things before. The thought wouldn’t leave her be. She ran a hand through her black and white hair.

Her curiosity got the better of her.

-----

Mori held one particularly unsettled soul out in front of him. It was angry, lashing out at everything. This soul met a particularly violent death, and was not happy about it. Souls couldn’t manifest physical bodies in this layer, but this one was doing it’s damnedest. It took an hour to fully put the soul to rest, but Mori managed.

He let out a long sigh, tired. As he closed his eyes, Mori noticed something forming in the spiral. Now wide awake, Mori examined the spiral. Words formed in the center, alternating black and white. UA sent him a message? 

Mem, Mori, whoever sees this first, I might be in a bit of a… predicament. Please hurry.

Well shit. “Memento! Get over here!”

“What’s wrong?”

“UA needs help.” Memento quickly reads the message. “I can portal us to her.” Mori nods. Memento raised his arm, and slashed downwards, cutting an opening through the spiral. “This should take us to her location, or at least very close to it.”

Both entities walk through the opening, before it closed behind them. When they came out, they knew immediately something was very, very, wrong. This wasn’t their layer of reality. This was the layer of life, inside some human’s house by the look of their surroundings. Memento and Mori ghosted around the room, taking the form of invisible gas to hide from any humans in the area.

Just as they suspected, two humans walked into the room, talking in whispers. Memento and Mori listened in.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, Ethan, but Amy’s been acting super weird since I picked her up from the airport.” The dark hair human said.

“Maybe she’s sick?” The other human, presumably Ethan, replied. “Wait. Mark, where are you going?” 

‘Mark’ had been walking off in another direction, and stopped to look back at Ethan. “I have videos to record. I’m super behind on uploads. Do you think you could keep an eye on Amy for me?”

“Sure, man,” 

Memento and Mori decided to go to the room the two humans came from. There, they would a woman holding a calendar, the date November 14 circled. The woman turned around and looked straight at Memento and Mori, an impossible feat for a human. Mori new exactly who he was looking at by her black and white swirling eyes.

“Why would you possess a human, UA?! This is incredibly dangerous for everyone involved!”

UA looked sheepish. “It really was an accident, I swear. I tried to get out, but for some reason I got stuck inside. I was hoping you would bring me back.”

“Well, it’s not like we can leave you here.”

“Mori…” Memento grabbed his attention. “Those two humans out there suspect something. If we take her, they’ll know.”

“Shit. We have to take them, too.”

“I hate erasing memories.” Memento grumbled.

“I hate dealing with living souls.” Mori agreed. “You take UA, I’ll take the humans.”

Mori goes back into the open room. Human-Ethan was on a couch, reading through a device. Living souls were much harder to remove from the physical body. It took a lifetime's worth of skill to separate the two without causing damage. Once the soul was removed, the body slumped backwards, alive only in that the brain sent signals to the heart to pump blood, and the lungs to breath oxygen, and the stomach to break down energy. He did the same to Human-Mark.

Memento and Mori left the way they came, through the portal. UA immediately separated from Human-Amy, and the other human woke up.

“Where the fuck are we?!” Mark said, already in a panic.

“This will be much quicker if you calm down.” Mori said evenly.

“What will be easier?” Ethan said, also panicking.

“It wasn’t your fault, but you’ve seen too much. We have to purge some of your memories.” Memento said sadly.

That seemed to make Ethan panic more. “Please don’t do that, I really like my memories, and if it wasn’t our fault then there shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

Mori sighed, “If you’re trying to make a deal with death, you’re not doing a good job with it.” He hoped that would shut them all up.

Ethan’s mouth clamped shut, along with Mark who had been about to speak. Another voice took him by surprise.

“She said she wanted to experience humanity…” Amy said quietly. Mori shot a glare at UA. You poke to her?! His expression conveyed. We shared a head space. UA replied, not meeting the white of his eyes.

Mori turned back to the human girl, waving at her to continue. She spoke hesitatingly. “If you let us keep our memories, maybe we could show you humanity?”

Mori blinked, not expecting the proposition. It was an outlandish idea, but he was intrigued. “How, exactly, would you do that?”

“Uh, I have a pretty large following on the internet. They’re used to me doing weird shit, so they wouldn’t be bothered by experiments.”

Mori thought for a moment, before taking Memento and UA to the side. “Stay there,” He told the humans.

Now alone with the only beings he’d ever know, Mori asks for their opinion. 

“It does sound fun. Something interesting hasn’t happened here for years.” Memento says. 

“I’m only here for a year,” UA said. “There might be a new version of me after, but I’m going to be gone. Might as well make the most of it, right?”

Mori nodded, and brought them back to the human, waiting patiently and nervously.

“Here is how this will work,” Mori’s voice filled the silence. “You all will remember today. For one year, you will allow us to experience humanity through yourselves and this internet. At the end of the year, all evidence of us must be erased. Am I clear?”

Mark, Ethan, and Amy were silent, before Ethan spoke up. “We might be able to start a new channel, and delete it at the end to make things easier.”

Everyone seemed to be in agreement, so Mori held out his hand, Memento and UA following suit. “Do we have a deal?”

Mark looked to his friends for guidance. They all gave subtle nods. Mark steeled himself, and shook Mori’s hand. Following him, Ethan shook Memento’s hand, and Amy shook UA’s. There was a tremor in the universe as the Deal set, linking the souls to the entities. The spiral seemed to grow, warping around everyone into darkness.

Mark, Ethan, and Amy woke up where their souls had been taken, all hyperventilating, Mark rubbing his head where his body had fallen to the floor.

Outside the house, the three entities carefully watched. The building had been crawling with humans in hazmat suits, which Mori quickly relocated. A manila folder fluttered on the ground. Mori eyed the contents. Inside was a picture of UA, how the humans got it Mori had no clue, with the label SCP-11325. Further in, the folder also contained a photo of Memento and Mori, labeled SCP-11325-1 and 2 respectively. Mori let the folder disintegrate to dust.

“Looks like the humans were going to find us either way.” Memento said.

“On a scale of 1 to 10,” Mori said. “How bad of an idea is this ‘channel’ going to be?”

“Definitely 10.” UA said.

Memento perked up. “Hey, we need a name for our channel, right? What should it be?”

Mori thought for a moment. “Unus Annus.”

UA pouted. “You can’t name it after me!”

“You’re the reason we’re doing it.” Mori said.

“I think it’s great!” Memento said.

UA sighed. “Fine, fine, we name it Unus Annus.”

And so it was. Slowly the clock ticked down to the inevitable end. Everyday was a new adventure, a new experience. Sure, they saved time to do their real job in their layer, but everyday they spent more and more time in the layer of life. And when the end did come, the channel was deleted along with every video, every subscriber, every comment, every like. But then the re-uploads were taken down, the downloaded video files corrupted, photographs and video clips erased from the cloud. The only thing left, the only thing anyone was permitted to retain, was the memories.

-----

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[uraharasandals]

Loneliness / Hunger Games AU

Another Hunger Games au that no one asked for! I was tired of reading the books on my reading list so I tried something...more relaxing and got into the amazing world-building again. With that cheery thought, let’s have some more behind the scenes! 

Title: Loneliness

Word count: 2325

Dazai, Mori (other side relationships)

Character study

Weak. Fragile. Worthless. That was what Dazai have been hearing his whole life,  growing up around the other kids in District 2. The other kids were all sturdily built, each of them made up of pure courage, bravery, grim determination and muscle. The other kids could run ten miles without sweating, and still scale the training wall with ease. The other kids could handle basically every weapon without fumbling or letting the sword fall out of their hands. 

Dazai could do none of these things. 

He stopped caring early on, however, mainly because he had other things to worry about. For one, the other children at the orphanage he was at. The staff there told him that his parents were dead, which was why he ended up there. Somehow, his version of the truth was never sugarcoated. He thinks the staff there understood that he could bear the truth, and the truth was given to him. More like shoved; he didn’t have a choice to accept or not. 

At any rate, because of his skinny frame that couldn’t be filled out no matter how hard he tried, Dazai was small, even for his age. Which resulted in a boatload of bullying from the older kids, kids his same age, even younger kids, because at the orphanage there never seemed to be enough, despite it being District 2.

District 2. They were taught that it was one of the Capitol’s favourites, and one of the most-fed. It was also the district of peacekeepers, the white-uniformed blank-faced guards that stood at virtually every corner he could see. Everyone aspired to be like them. Not Dazai.

Everyone also aspired to be a victor in the Hunger Games, and everyone who was someone (which was basically everyone except Dazai) signed up for training. Dazai didn’t bother to, not only because he had no interest in the Games entirely, but also he knew that the moment his name was called, someone more brutal, more bloodthirsty than him would take his place. No one in their right mind would let him go to the Hunger Games.

That is, no one in their right mind until he was eight. For some reason, that was when he got tired of being kicked around and bullied. Dazai soon found that he had a way with words. With manipulating others, and talking his way into anything and everything. His brain became sharper, and it was as if the world’s opportunities opened themselves to him. He was still scrawny and thin, but for once, he stood with confidence. 

The constant manipulation came with a pleasant surprise, too. Rumours spread and soon people started steering clear of him. That was perfectly fine with Dazai; he wanted no company and didn’t bother with any. The staff let him keep the pet snake that somehow followed his commands, and thus he lived peacefully like that. (People called him ‘The Devil’s Child, but what did it matter? He even liked the ring of it)

Fourteen. Two years into the Hunger Games circuit and he started to get bored of just manipulating ordinary people. Dazai started stealing things. Well, not stealing per se, but talking people into giving him things. Mostly women, because he had seen in the mirror that he had a distinct sort of charm. Not conventional, but still charming. With his stature, he could even play the part of a pitiful child. So he talked the rich into giving him things. A jewel here, a ring there. Not much. Mostly he got bored with it and pawned it off, throwing in an excuse to avoid suspicion. He never got into trouble with anyone or anything either, and was beginning to think into making this into a living when he was approached one day. 

Where did you learn to manipulate people like that? At first, Mori was just a friendly face. Dazai even bought into his lies, and started manipulating him. He quickly realised the man was more than that though, and somehow Mori was interested in taking him under as a disciple. What he did for a living, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was Mori socialising with important people and doing important things. Dazai also soon realised the gravity of what he was negotiating on a daily basis; the stakes were higher, meaning that more charm was laid on thick. He started to burrow deeper into the job, deeper into the underground network, and deeper into the lies. He also started enjoying it more, because when these people started losing, they fall deeper. 

Dazai soon learnt a word for this; ‘sadistic’. 

At any rate, it soon vanished into reality when his name was called at the Hunger Games drawing when he was seventeen. Seventeen. Just one more year and it would all be over. But no. Just when he turned seventeen, he had to be carted off to the Capitol and fight to the death for the entertainment of other people. The mere thought of it made him boiling with anger, for the first time in his life. 

He held out as long as he could though, until he realised no one would volunteer for him. Dazai, the person who long ago already graduated from being ‘The Devil’s Child’ to probably personifying the devil himself. Dazai, having lurked in the underground connections so long even the light could not purify him. Dazai, Dazai, Dazai. Everyone in the seventeens crowd probably wished him dead from their loathing and their disgust, and he honestly wasn’t surprised. Another name was drawn and a lovely girl with two braids, though obviously one of the best trained of Two’s, hopped onto the stage and the crowd cheered. Dazai shook her hand and could only think of ways to corrupt her as he stared into her eyes. 

They were soon on the train and lo and behold, Mori appeared, along with an unrecognizable woman. Dazai gave him a wan smile, which was mistaken for what passed for friendliness for him by the other two and their escort. He knew that Mori knew better though. After all, he was the only one present who knew his underground personality. 

The days before the Games then flash by in a blur. Time with his prep time. Dazai was already naturally handsome and one of the assistants, a woman with blond curls dangling above the floor, poked his cheek good-naturedly and commented on his looks. His stylist gushed over how lucky he was to have a camera ready tribute on his hands, and he handled the fabric draping and costume testing with ease. 

Mealtimes. Dazai was a natural speaker and commented, gushed, questioned and reacted with appropriate timing and impeccable style. He won over their escort, the female mentor, and even, he suspected, his fellow tribute. The girls were trained for direct confrontation, strength, battle. They weren’t equipped to handle such flattery or the male attention. Dazai had the girl falling at his feet in no time.

He also had the Capitol audience falling at his feet in no time, too. During his time with Caesar Flickerman, he played off his image as a charming young man who was shunned because of his naturally slim frame and background. Sympathy rose from the crowd, and he could see the rich women dabbing at their eyes with lace. Dazai managed to slip in a puppy look here and there, and he could practically see the sponsors lining up, just for him.

The only problem was his strength, as always. At Mori’s instruction, he tried out every weapon at the Centre, and found out he apparently excelled at throwing and aiming things. A side glance found his fellow Careers showing off around the other malnourished tributes, and he secretly added in some hunting skills, as well as trapping skills. A show of throwing knives got him a decent eight in the Gamemakers’ eyes; he suspected some of it came from his interview.

And of course, he was laying down the charm thick as usual. Dazai befriended everyone and accessed them, before accepting only one tribute for an ally - a tall eighteen year old called Oda Sakunosuke from District Four, who luckily was also part of the Career Gang. Thank god. Otherwise he would arose suspicion.

All too soon he had to take part in the Games. The morning of the Games Dazai felt anxiety clutch at his chest, and nearly lost his confident demeanor in front of the hovercraft personnel. He reminded himself that Mori had won through his wits, and not his strength, though doubt clouded his mind and would have continued if not for the note slipped to him via his stylist. At that, his lips curled up. As always, Mori thought of everything. 

Killing turned out to be surprisingly easy. As long as you dismiss the fact that you were slaughtering live humans it came so much easier. And besides, Dazai was rear guard. He didn’t have to do much except take down the enemy from a distance, and it was easy as long as his opponent didn’t have a long-distance weapon at hand. 

It soon became clear to the rest of the gang that Dazai had brains, and for some incredibly foolish reason they trusted him enough to come up with strategies for gameplay, not thinking that he might even betray them. Once again, his scrawny frame and charm became his assets. 

Soon his allies started dropping dead, but subtly. He made sure they die when they were out hunting in small groups. Having assessed his fellow tributes, he knew which one of them were strong enough, and turned his allies on them. The battleground thinned quickly.

One element he hadn’t counted on affecting him, however, was Oda Sakunosuke. Initially he deemed him the only trustworthy one in the arena, but the more they spent time together the more he found himself dreading losing him. Dazai wasn’t sure what to do with this knowledge. He hadn’t exactly promised to win, but he was desperate enough to live (or at least die by his own methods) that he managed to keep himself alive. Should he allow Oda Sakunosuke to live instead of him? 

The answer came on the fourth day, and it forced his hand. Having let his guard down, he hadn’t realised the arrow until it was too late. Flicking a knife at the direction and successfully hearing the cannon, he immediately rushed back to Oda’s side, blaming himself for not learning healing before, but it was no good. Well, at least he didn’t die by his hand. Dazai found himself, for the first time, ashamed of his thoughts and constant self-preservation. 

Something else began to set in after Oda’s death too, a feeling he wasn’t familiar with until he realised, on the sixth day, what it was after killing another tribute. Loneliness. Desire for company, which was strange, because he had always been a loner. Staring down at the braids in the pool of blood, he silently, for the first time, bid his fellow tribute goodbye.

Twenty-two down, one to go. At this point, the audience was surely at the edge of their seats. Dazai hadn’t thought of the audience since day one and the melancholy after Oda died made him neglect nearly everything else except basic needs, but afterwards he realised the reward he got for charming the audience. A new set of knives after he pinned the Six tribute to a tree resembling crucifixion. Medicine for the mild burns over his hands after tricking a tribute into eating nightlock. Really, his list was endless.

His last tribute died unexpectedly though, and frankly, somewhat disappointingly. Dazai had perched himself on the Cornucopia as an easy target (and close to the lake too, for insurance) and he watched as the wild dogs chased the burly One male tribute down, before they leaped on top of him. The sounds stuck to him ever since, and Dazai thought honestly that no amount of time would erase the trauma. 

The trumpet blew, he was patched up with no more burn scars on his hands, and soon he was waxing poetic about Mori and how much he owed him and all of that bullshit in front of a live audience, but not before holding in tears watching Oda Sakunosuke’s death replayed on a screen in front of him. 

The part about Mori was true, in a way he did owe him. After experiencing the Games himself though, he started doubting whether the man was entirely sane with his methods, and began steering clear of him, though still being in the same industry. Dazai had navigated those waters before, and he continued doing so with ease, thinking he could continue with that lifestyle.

Before realising it was futile, of course. Despite his continuous charm and lies, there was a gnawing at his chest that was confirmed when one of the girls told him there was no heart left behind his words. But what else could he do? No companion would accept him, besides his fellow victors, and most of them were too old anyways (not that he minded sleeping with someone older but for a friend, perhaps the same age was a good start. At least, that was what he heard), or too wary of him. Apparently, even the gossip spread fast in the Victor’s Circle.

That was, until the mess of a Seven tribute was deposited into the Victor’s Circle during his first year of mentoring. The moment Dazai saw his bright orange curls, he knew Nakahara Chuuya would be worth the trouble.