#calls Char a hunk

[punsmaster69]

25/DEC/20XX

wooooooooooooooo.

that day.

the one.

the twenty fifth.

the holiday.

if i list what everyone got from everyone, i'll be here all night, so just the most notable stuff.

got some new books. and socks. and a giant blanket. and a sweater.

i'm feeling very cozy.

frisk shrieked when they got one of those rock excavation kits from my bro.

(little known fact: frisk has an innate fascination with rocks.)

asgore gifted them an art kit.

alphys got them a mini salt lamp. they immediately licked it.

i got 'em a tungsten cube.

"Why are you so excited over a hunk of metal?"

"It's not a 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘬, it's a 𝘤𝘶𝘣𝘦."

"It's a hunk of metal."

"I'm gonna 'hunk' this at your face in a second."

"Do you WANT to kill me?!"

"No. But stop calling it a hunk of metal. It's a tungsten cube."

"Why do you care, anyway? It's MY cube, not yours."

"It's boring."

"Not to me."

"You underestimate my ability to find entertainment in shiny objects."

"Whatever. Suit yourself."

a lot of us had similar ideas, because flowey got a decent amount of (mostly dinosaur related) brick sets.

it's hard not to notice the pieces constantly strewn about flowey's half of their room.

walking over there's like a spike trap.

might be purposeful.

tori also got him some simulator game. he apparently already had the others in the series, so it makes sense.

papyrus has been using the same pots and pans for ages.

they're a bit charred and dented in places.

so, paps got gifted new cookware.

undyne got him utensils, and alphys got the pots.

tori gave him new oven mitts that don't have holes in them, unlike the previous pair.

i got him a giant puzzle cube. it's got so many rows.

it'll take him forever to solve.

he seems excited.

mettaton got him a robe, because apparently paps been admiring his. they match now.

got asgore some new teacups.

his current ones work fine, but didn't have many ideas outside of that. besides, when have extras hurt anyone?

undyne gifted him a book on slang and how to use it.

alphys' face dropped when she saw it.

"have fun with that."

(some kind of disgruntled lizard sound.)

alphys was ecstatic about receiving a manga she's wanted for ages from undyne.

tori got her some t-shirts. the one alphys liked the most is printed with a ramen brand.

undyne was gifted another giant foam sword.

that was the most exciting one for her.

they've been into collecting these specific stuffed animal things lately, so i got alphys and undyne matching ones.

mettaton had a similar gift, but luckily we didn't end up on the exact same stuffed animal.

something i'll probably regret was getting mtt a tub of glitter.

i know he likes the stuff, but i'm realizing now how this is probably ending.

already preparing to have glitter stuck to me every time he's in the vicinity.

...so not much will change, actually.

papyrus gave him a pillow custom-altered to have mettaton's branding on it.

giving mtt an mtt themed item...

he loved it. suggested that paps could help design products with him at some point.

alphys' gift was apparently done earlier, as it was an adjustment that enabled him to sign things without having to worry about carrying pens.

because his finger turns into the pen. kinda neat, honestly.

napstablook's headphone cord was looking a bit rough, so that's what i got them.

simple, but they smiled.

must not have been too bad a choice.

mettaton gifted tickets to a live band. they'll go together at some point.

me and tori, being old nerdy bookworms, exchanged exactly that: books.

frisk gave tori a cutesy handmade card, signed "by frisk and flowey but mostly frisk" on the back.

asgore gave her a necklace.

she stared at it and flatly thanked him before tucking it into her purse.

undyne gave a pie tin. self-explanatory.

probably exactly as expected, grillby was gotten a lot of various kitchenwares.

we have a lot of cooks in our friend group, i realize.

anyway, he was fond of the sturdy glass mugs i picked out for him.

that's the notable stuff gift-wise.

as for stockings, i went with chocolate bars for the other adults.

plain, simple, don't know anyone who doesn't like it.

safe bet, y'know?

got frisk a bag of those fake rock chocolates. the ones that look exactly like real rocks. they always talk about wanting to eat certain rocks; figured this would be a better alternative to shattering their teeth on real ones.

gave flowey a bag of fake coal.

"for being a butthead this year."

"Jokes on you, I'll gladly take this. And I'm STILL being the same next year!"

"didn't expect any different."

"besides, that's why you got coal last year too."

"Does it even count if it's chocolate coal? Not much of a punishment."

"it's the idea."

"The idea?"

"that you're eating rocks."

"Frisk is the one eating the rocks."

"you want real coal next year?"

"No!"

"Give that to Frisk instead."

"wouldn't be a punishment to them."

there's a lot of candy in each stocking, and most have forgotten who got what anyway.

the certain thing was everyone getting a bone in their stocking.

you know who from.

he gives 'em every year, this being no exception.

——

previous rock-paper-scissors decisions on who brings what dish collaborates now into a holiday feast aplenty.

or whatever jolly terminology i'm supposed to use to say: there was a lot of food. it was good. asgore overcooked the rolls a little. edible enough though.

——

somehow still full of energy, paps, mettaton and frisk are belting holiday songs.

napstablook's dj-ing for them.

undyne and alphys are chatting quietly beside the tree.

asgore is trying to help flowey put together that brick set.

his big hands aren't doing great with the small pieces.

grillby's trying to help him help better.

leaned against me, tori is chilling on the couch. i think she's convinced everyone else she's asleep, but under the blanket, her hand lightly tightens around mine every once in a while.

might be that she doesn't want to draw any attention to it.

...

i don't either, so i'll close my eyes too.

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands!

B4R3: The Extinction

London Calling:

“The song is all about the world tearing itself apart through war, famine, and disasters. The sound intensity lends itself to a feeling of danger. At the end of the song, there is a repeating "SOS" (the international distress signal) in Morse code, implying an outgoing call for help at the end of the world.”

We Will All Go Together When We Go:

“Its literally about how we will all die if a nuclear bomb got dropped on us but cheerfully:)”

Lyrics below the line!

London Calling:

London calling to the faraway towns Now war is declared, and battle come down London calling to the underworld Come outta the cupboard, ya boys and girls

London calling, now don't look to us Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust London calling, see we ain't got no swing Except for the ring of that truncheon thing

The ice age is coming, the sun's zoomin' in Meltdown expected, the wheat is growin' thin Engines stop running, but I have no fear 'Cause London is drownin', and I live by the river

(London calling) to the imitation zone Forget it, brother, you can go it alone London calling to the zombies of death Quit holdin' out and draw another breath

London calling, and I don't wanna shout But while we were talking, I saw you noddin' out London calling, see we ain't got no Hyde 'Cept for that one with the yellowy eyes

The ice age is coming, the sun's zoomin' in Engines stop running, the wheat is growin' thin A nuclear error, but I have no fear 'Cause London is drowning, and I, I live by the river

The ice age is coming, the sun's zoomin' in Engines stop running, the wheat is growin' thin A nuclear error, but I have no fear 'Cause London is drowning, an' I, I live by the river

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh Ooh, ooh, ooh Now get this

(London calling) Yes, I was there, too And ya know what they said? Well, some of it was true (London calling) At the top of the dial And after all this, won't you give me a smile? (London calling)

I never felt so much alike, alike, alike

We Will All Go Together When We Go:

When you attend a funeral It is sad to think that sooner or l- -ater those you love will do the same for you And you may have thought it tragic (Not to mention other adjec- -tives) to think of all the weeping they will do But don't you worry

No more ashes, no more sackcloth And an armband made of black cloth Will some day nevermore adorn a sleeve For if the bomb that drops on you Gets your friends and neighbors too There'll be nobody left behind to grieve

And we will all go together when we go What a comforting fact that is to know Universal bereavement - An inspiring achievement! Yes, we all will go together when we go

We will all go together when we go All suffused with an incandescent glow No one will have the endurance To collect on his insurance Lloyd's of London will be loaded when they go

Oh, we will all fry together when we fry We'll be French-fried potatoes by-and-by There will be no more misery When the world is our rotisserie Yes, we all will fry together when we fry

Down by the old maelstrom There'll be a storm before the calm

And we will all bake together when we bake There'll be nobody present at the wake With complete participation In that grand incineration Nearly three billion hunks of well-done steak

Oh, we will all char together when we char And let there be no moaning of the bar Just sing out a Te Deum When you see that ICBM And the party will be come-as-you-are

Oh, we will all burn together when we burn There'll be no need to stand and wait your turn When it's time for the fallout And Saint Peter calls us all out We'll just drop our agendas and adjourn You will all go directly to your respective Valhallas Go directly, do not pass 'GO', do not collect two hundred dollars

And we will all go together when we go Every Hottentot and every Eskimo When the air becomes uraneous We will all go simultaneous Yes, we all will go together When we all go together Yes, we all will go together when we go

[asteroidtroglodyte]

I call that state of mind “THE PIT,” in which there is no sunlight and no horizon and everything is wet and cold. I know the inside of The Pit very well, friend, and I know better than to tell you to believe. Instead, because I am vicious and cruel, I will ask you to do something very hard: keep reading, over and over, as many times as you need; and keep Looking: for the hand that will pull you out. And when it comes, you reach for that hand and you pull as hard as you can, ok?

My Life was Gifted to me. I did not Earn it, and by any fair Accounting I did not Deserve it. I was a Wretched Man. She took me in and withstood my rage as she plucked away the thorny seeds of hate that my father left in the matted tangles of my psyche. She set my Inner Child free from his long imprisonment. She soothed my rebellious flesh and charred nerves until the pain and spasms stopped. There are many things i did for her in return; similar things, and she feels reciprocated. Grateful herself, even. But.

What possible word could I use for what she did to me besides “Rescue?”

“Who rescued who” is definitely in play a bit

The Future happens in spite of us, without our consent, but it is not actually our enemy, and does not actually want the worst for us. I am glad you found a place to heal. Enjoy getting better.

And yet, AND YET;

Magic & Sunshine & Rainbows did in fact come to pass! A hunk of goo became a Person! The rains fell upon my garden and the sun came out and there were dazzling lights! and a woman who never expected anyone to bring her flowers woke up to hundreds, growing outside her window, for months on end, within view! She watched a person she had made gain consciousness and language and opinions! She watched a man more handsome than she had ever dared to hope for emerge from the sopping beast that she’d rescued and tattoo a fucking ring on his finger. I became a Druid and took up my Holy Work, giving myself Purpose beyond this lifetime! THERE HAS BEEN SO MUCH MAGIC YOU HAVE NO IDEA

It is perhaps optimistic of me to hope for such Magic for everyone, but part of why My Wife loves me is my militant optimism; and so I say:

The Rains bring the Rainbows; and the Flowers are made of Magic, just like the People; and the thing about the Sunshine is that it is always there; you just can’t see it sometimes, because you’re on the wrong side of the world, or trapped under miles of water; but the Sunlight never actually goes away. Folks just get stuck is all. Help them back into the light when you can.

5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?

It could get good, even.

[loving-jack-kelly]

Hey Slannen from the Ella Enchanted movie is gay. A gay elf. He has a boyfriend. He's gay. His rejection of the traditional Elven narrative is a metaphor for being gay. He's gay, folks.

[tenyall]

alright yall im going to bed but first here’s a rant in the tags yeehaw

[sonxofxgondor]

Collapsed by the weight of its own char, robust beech, burned and blackened twigs that had once housed a tall fire, turned to ashes. Caved into the makeshift pit that the forest floor harbored - an enclosure of grass, weed, and loose rock - crumbled into gray hunks, betwixt orange cinders and pallid smoke. Brought into the airs and whisked away, practically as soon as it had come, as fast as the breath from Boromir's chest had been exhaled. Over dried lips; chafed and unattended to by water, the heaviness that tossed itself onto shoulders most unready. A challenge unexpected, answers still unsolved though Mat proved a good patient. While fingers unknown to he explored the wounds of his face. Graced as gently as could be done across his lost eye, the scars and blood that had dared to mark his skin. Healed by powers that were not so easily possessed, Aragorn satisfied with his handiwork, the salve that would numb pain, divert the burdens, least for a little.

What Boromir could not do - strength of his own a very different kind, born of battle and raised by the glint of sword blade - the learnings of the Steward's eldest. Proud in tradition, trained to the conventions of standard lore, curious yet observant of all else. Aragorn's steady hands as they traveled the beaten path of Mat; the way in which the destined king returned to his place underneath an aged tree, quiet as ever, how the other members of the Fellowship found their peace again. Bundled in blankets and cloaks, regard never not set to the whole of their mysterious companion, started at the bottoms of his boots then moved northward until rested on his expression, sharp and dour. Just as he, they, too, were scared. Confused, uncertain as to what would happen next, awaited for Boromir to do as he promised. Calm in all appearances, but even so, better was known, eager for reasons and rationale, hands and feet twitching in anticipation, dug into the dirt or fidgeting within warm grip.

Boromir's own hand flexed against the tension, brushed through his hair then down along his beard, the comfort that came from old habit, wits gathered before word was spoken. Carefully, slowly, so soft that the entire start seemed more akin to a whisper than direct conversation. As if Boromir feared that enemy stood nearby, listening and waiting, arrows drawn from quivers and shields raised in defense. Silent in their snarls and war-cries but nothing else; ichor on steel still to be dripped, the losses of their foes, the gentle sons and daughters of Gondor, of Middle Earth, butchered.

"What I and my friends intend to do is no simple matter, Mat." Boromir described, his explanation, at last, decided. "An evil, of which has ruined more than just the land we call home, has been restored. An evil that does not sleep. An evil that is ever-watchful - ruler to a most barren wasteland, riddled with poison fume and dust. Life does not survive; there is only death. I've seen it. Sauron is the name of this evil. He is the eye that always watches, the king to the desolation known as Mordor, the lord of darkness. He is the shadow that steals all light."

Chilled to the bone, frozen all over, a sigh stopped Boromir, forced him to take recess and rethink, muster his courage and begin anew, seconds lost to the space around.

"You know not of his true purposes, nor the extent of his ways, but trust, Mat. Sauron cannot be saved. He must be ended. All his wills, the gold that contains his powers, they must be destroyed. That is what we are tasked. By the order of the highest council, to the land of Sauron my friends and I go. A band made of all free people found in Middle Earth, where you and us each stands now: Men, Dwarves, Elves, and Hobbits. Aragorn was the one who tended to you. No better man have I come to know, though we do not always see as one. Should you need him, he'll be there. Legolas and Gimli, sons of grand fathers, the either of them, for they make their people proud, the Elves and the Dwarves. I am honored to be alongside them both."

"Frodo, Samwise, Pippin, and Merry, the smallest who look to you, they are the Hobbits. Kindhearted they are, but never have I met braver men in all my time. They're good and strong; to know them is to understand what matters most, what it is we are fighting for. Gandalf, the elder dressed in gray, he is the wisest of us nine. His knowledge spans what has been written, goes beyond what feels to be the history of the world entire. Our group would be nothing without him. Wisdom comes about him."

Boromir smiled, but so faint, so rushed, was the tenderness, the love he held for the Fellowship. "There it is. The explanation you so sought for. No more can be said on it from me, not without putting my friends into danger further than they already are. Not without putting you, Mat, within the same risk. I wouldn't wish for you to suffer needlessly. You have endured much thus far. But please, I beg you, do not share what I have told you with anyone else. If you go beyond these woods, keep it to your heart. Sauron's loyalties are not bound to law. His enemies will become afraid of you, do all to protect themselves and their homes; his friends ever eager to learn more, would not be shy to extract what they needed through means most foul. Mat, they'll torture and kill you the moment that the chance is given to them. For your safety, and that of my companions and I, please, do not share a word."

"Though, part of me believes you to be the faithful sort. You do not seem like a man who would jeopardize others, not even just met strangers. Of course, I cannot force you, but if you'd rather not make leave of us, you're more than welcome to stay. We travel light and often. We share what food we have. We protect one another as brothers. In the very least, until you have regained your strength, you have a place amongst our group, should you so like it, Mat. If you do, perhaps we could come to terms with the woes you, yourself, face."

it happens before he can even object. he's unsure of how to even respond to it. first he feels the eyes of all of them on him. the children, the old man, the others. peering into him as he spoke, as boromir spoke. and then they advanced him. but not to attack. with assurances and healing hands they touched his face, probed at him. and the soreness of his empty eye socket seemed to get worse. he felt light headed, overcome suddenly with everything all around him.

they said the strangest things. dragons were dead. finn wouldn't hurt him. as if they knew but it sounded as if they knew nothing at all. rand wasn't dead. the bloody dragon reborn was alive and well and the last battle was coming. light help them all, didn't think know that the last battle was coming? but the thought seemed to fade.

and he's not sure how long his mind goes blank. until finally they're done with his face, with his eye. with the assurances that didn't seem to make anything better. now that things had settled a bit he looks between this group, they looked a little tired. he wonders what they are - what they are aiming for. nothing that they're saying to him just then makes much sense to him.

"i think i'll need that explanation." he says, hating the way he feels a little lost then. with no where to go. no where to turn he supposes that he's stuck here with this group. he can't seem to place them anywhere. and it dawns on him that this must be another dimension. like the doorway had taken him to the dimension of the finn this must also be something else. only he doesn't know where. and that unnerves him nearly as much as the finn had.

blood and ashes, this was starting to make his head hurt. or maybe it was the probing and prodding they had done to his empty eye socket that made his head this badly. he can hear the dice rolling loudly in his head and that sends a chill down his back. was this something bad? or was this something that he was supposed to be doing? nothing make sense and he's felt disorientated the entire time. would that feeling go away?

but it's with some relief that they know nothing about rand. not in the slightest. and he wouldn't have to mention again. he doesn't think they'll ask him about the dragon again. and why should they? they were claiming dragons were ancient dead things. and that was that. so he sits there, waiting for the explanation. tossing around a million versions of his own story that he could give. he had been far too opened earlier, hadn't he? and he knew that he couldn't spare anymore details.

[fuckit-hero-of-trains]

Can we see red go apeshit :3 like some thing happened while they were split the boys are worried about them all yeah but he's been the most targeted as a suposed weak link up meanwhile blue green vio are slowly backing away while equipping fire protection gear?

Or the suggestion that since their bodies are crafted from the elements they have minor bending powers?

I saw "Red go apeshit," blacked out, and wrote this. Also inspired by the fwof prompt of a very similar kind!

Warnings: Graphic depiction of injury. If this was on ao3 I would rate it Teen so be careful if this kind of thing isn't your bag. Please check the TWs in the tags.

The first one to go down is Vio.

It's a lucky shot that gets him. Not anyone's fault. Wrong place at the wrong time. The purple wearing smith simply leaps out of the way of one of Sky’s lizalfos punches at the same moment that Blue ducks a tail swipe from another.

It’s just bad luck that the mace-like tail of Blue’s enemy connects with the back of Vio’s head.

The sickening crunch of metal on skull that follows echoes over even the sounds of battle. The tiny, punched out gasp that slips from Vio’s shocked, slack lips is somehow even louder. The crackle of displaced grit and rock as he collapses to the ground is loudest of all.

Or maybe it just seems that way to Red.

Red can’t seem to hear anything else; not the hiss of success the monster spits out, not the concerned shout that pushes its way out of his own throat. Even the pounding of his heart in his ears has gone horribly silent.

Red can’t seem to see anything else either. Can't look away from the sight in front of him. It’s like the world has narrowed down to Vio, the pool of red sprouting from his head like a halo, and the monstrous lizard that stands over him, rearing back, ready to throw another punch now that it’s target can’t get away.

Red doesn't even register himself moving forward. Doesn't even think about it, really.  It’s instinct, a burning tangle of fear and anger in his stomach, in his veins, that sends him diving forward, shield outstretched to deflect the blow.

The beast, not expecting to be denied one again, is thrown off balance with a confused hiss, which Red cuts off with an angry shout and a slash to the things belly.

He turns, sword held at the ready to take on the one that had landed the hit in the first place but Blue is already there, a snarling, unrelenting tide of sword and hammer, protecting Vio’s other side. A decisive mallet swing to the lizalfos' head sends it flying with a crack and a tiny whimper of pain.

They lock eyes for a moment, tsunami meeting lava, and with a quick nod, they take up position on either side of Vio, twin swords a blur.

On Blue’s far side, Red catches a glimpse of Green shoving his own lizalfos away with his shield before turning tail, ducking seamlessly under Blue’s latest swing and skidding to a stop at Vio's side.

Something like warm relief begins to flicker in Red’s chest as Green tosses Vio’s arm over his shoulder and begins to drag the other away.

A flickering relief that is smothered out in the blink of an eye.

Or, rather, in the flash of an arrow.

Between the glint of his own blade and the flurry of punches and tail swipes sent his way by the group of lizalfos in front of him, Red catches sight of one of Wild’s lizalfos lining up a shot too late. He barely has time to register the familiar greenish-yellow energy Red remembers surrounding Wild’s shock arrows before the thing is loosed.

The arrow sings through the air, an arc of crackling ozone that flies across the battlefield, through the swarm of lizalfos bearing down on them before finally diving directly between Red and Blue’s shoulders.

Red doesn't have to look back to know its found its target.

The distorted, jittering scream and acrid smell of singed hair and flesh speaks for itself. As does the thump of two bodies crumpling back into the dirt.

Red feels something inside him crackle at the sound. Feels the moment that the fear and anger twine together in his stomach, twin blazes eating up all the air inside him until he feels breathless with them.

Red also sees the moment that the sound registers to Blue.

And sees the second the dam breaks, releasing the flood.

“Blue, no!”

The warning comes too little, too late. The words are hardly out of Red’s mouth before Blue dives forward with a guttural yell, straight into the swarm of lizalfos, leaving Red to take up position in front of their fallen counterparts, feeling less air in his body by the second.

From there Red only catches glimpses of Blue cutting his way through the hoard. Sees a familiar blade coated in blood, the too fast swing of a mallet as it connects with a head, a flash of dirtied blonde hair. And he sees injuries appear on enemies.  A slashed open throat here, a collapsed skull there. Crushed ribs, ripped bellies, torn tails, gauntlets so dented that blood leaks onto metal.

Any that are injured and foolish enough to stumble Red’s way are taken down without hesitation. Red can’t afford to waste his time with them. He’s too busy glancing back at Green and Vio to make sure they’re still okay, still breathing, too busy craning his neck to try and keep track of Blue.

There is a break in the swarm and Blue crashes into the middle of it, looking bruised and battered but standing. Still standing and snarling and swinging at anything that comes within reach. He’s a tornado of strength and momentum and blade and hammer but he's moving too fast, too wildly. Red can see how each swing pulls him that much more off balance, how every frantic turn tangles his legs further and- and–!

Blue swings his hammer into the chest of one lizalfos, pivots to slash at another creeping towards his back and the momentum of both is just too much for him to handle. His front leg slips in the dirt and Blue goes down hard with a growl, his shoulder and face taking the brunt of his weight.

He’s barely hit the dirt before the lizalfos descend on like vultures, gauntlets and mace-tails raised to strike, completely hiding him behind a horde of green scales and unforgiving steel.

The sound of blunt metal connecting with skin and an infuriated but pained shout is the flint.

Or maybe the spark came earlier, from the electric arrow, the jolted scream.

Or maybe it was there from the beginning of this mess, the kindling a crunch and a gasp and a thump.

Or maybe Red was always on fire.

That's what it feels like at least. It feels like he's on fire. It feels like the burning fear and anxiety and anger have left the confines of his stomach, have coalesced, sparked up his veins, charred his lungs and burned up his throat and he’s screaming.

In an instant, his shield has left his right hand, replaced by the searing grip of the Fire Rod.

And now the fire has reached his skin and it feels like he's caught alight. No longer is fear distinguishable from anger, from rage, all that matters is the heat, the power, and the pain. The heat beginning to gather at the end of the Fire Rod. The pain of blisters bubbling on his hands as the temperature swells higher. The power just waiting to burst forth.

Red screams and screams and screams, a mixture of agony and anger and more, bears his teeth for the lizalfos to see despite the tears boiling down his face, raises the Fire Rod, and lets the world explode.

Everything is a blur of crimson after that. Flames lick at the ground and pull themselves swirling through the air, clawing at anything and everything that stands between Red and Blue.

There might be brief moments of green scales and glinting metal in his vision, seconds when claws and tails and gauntlets score him, bruise him, slice him open, but all it does is add more crimson. More places for flames to escape his body, making it that much easier for Red to cut them down and set them ablaze, filling his sight with scarlet once more.

At once, Red can both feel the heat and feel nothing. Pain and power. Each breath in is agony, filling his lungs with sparks and smoke, and each exhale is ripped from him in a scream, burning so hot that it feels like he might actually be breathing fire.

A roar fills his ears, but Red can’t tell if it's his heart or the sound of the flames or the screams of lizalfos as they fall.

He doesn't care what it is either.

Not with the fire around him. In him. Fueling and fueled by him. Breathing his air and stealing it.

All that matters is watching everything turn to ash and–!

A hand, warm but no scalding, catches his wrist.

Red whirls around, intent on wrenching his arm away, in letting the fire burn and burn and burn until it can burn nothing else.

And then he looks down and sees Blue.

Blue who is looking up at him from behind purpled, swollen eyelids. Blue, with blood dripping from his scalp and nose and a cut open cheekbone. Blue, whose left arm looks to be broken even as he holds Red’s wrist tightly with the other.

“It’s okay, Red,” he says, voice hoarse and lips bleeding. “You got them.”

The words enter Red’s ears, but he doesn't quite understand them. The hand that Blue had caught flexes slightly in its hold and the Fire Rod responds to the call of his magic, sparks beginning to sprout of the red gem once again.

“I-” Red coughs, swallows, tries again. “I got them?”

Blue gives him a nod and a weary, bleeding smile.

“You got them,” he confirms in a voice softer than Red thinks he’s heard in a long time. “We’re gonna be okay.”

“We’re…?”

Reality, their situation, it all slams into Red and he whips around, looking back. Behind him is a path of carnage, a path of blacked, scorched dirt, torn and burning scaled bodies, metal gauntlets and tails reduced to misshapen, half melted hunks of steel.

But there, behind the burned dirt and cloud of smoke, beyond any danger, is Green and Vio, the former awake if shaky, still holding on to their unconscious counterpart.

“We’re okay,” Red repeats slowly, numbly, turning back to look at Blue. “We’re safe.”

His body must register the words before his brain does because suddenly his knees are hitting the dirt, bringing Red to sit next to Blue, who wraps his good arm around Red’s shoulder and pulls him gently into his side.

The pain in his lungs and the skin of his hands and any other parts of his body that had been licked by flames, unfortunately, flares to life then, overpowered only by the bone deep exhaustion that comes with using the amount of magic he did.

“We’re safe, we’re okay, we’re safe, we’re okay,” the words keep spilling from Red’s lips in hoarse whispers, even as his throat fails him, and his vision begins to blur.

In the distance, Red thinks he sees eight shapes breaking into a sprint to get to them.

“We’re safe,” Blue agrees, his voice barely making it through the cotton that has stuffed itself into Red’s ears. “You made sure of that.”

Red just hums and nods, letting everything go lax.

They’re safe.

They’re okay.

And knowing that, Red drifts off into the dark, a barely there smile pulling at cracked lips.

[spellbook-gayboy]

prompt 22? 🎄

22.

"Oh, I'm sure it can't be that... bad...?" Rex trailed off, looking off as he seemed to notice something. "Okay, I'm gonna take an educated guess and say that plume of really bad-smelling smoke has something to do with it."

"Hmm?" Mark said, before looking back at the kitchen stove, and the smoke rising from it. "Oh shit!" he swore, immediately floating over to the burning stove and taking a small towel to hit the fire with. “Don’t worry about it, It’ll be out soon!”

“Honey...” Rex called. 

“Don’t worry, I got it!”

“Honey.” He was next to the stove now.

“I said I got it!”

“Honey!”

“What?!”

Rex reached down to the dials on the stove and gave one of them a quick turn. Almost immediately, the large flames in the pan began to die down, leaving a charred hunk of chicken to smoulder disappointingly, like even it was unhappy with Mark’s performance. 

“...Oh.” Mark said quietly. Then he groaned, his head falling into his hands. “Huuuuhh, I wanted to do something nice! Why can I still not cook?!”

Rex was quick to comfort him, peppering kisses along his neck as he hugged his boyfriend from behind. “I wouldn’t worry, honey. I’ll order us some good takeout while you try on some of the pyjamas I bought earlier.”

“Pyjamas?” 

“Pyjamas, baby. Shot for some comic-booky ones, too. Séance Dog, I think?” 

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands!

B4R1: The Extinction

We Will All Go Together When We Go:

“Its literally about how we will all die if a nuclear bomb got dropped on us but cheerfully:)”

40,000 In Gehenna:

“Long story short, in a gambit, 40,000 settlers are left without supply on a supposedly uninhabited planet, it is in fact inhabited, some go off and become weirds, living with the native inhabitants, cloned humans, treated not as such originally, become the majority on the world, forming two warring nations.”

Lyrics below the line!

We Will All Go Together When We Go:

When you attend a funeral It is sad to think that sooner or l- -ater those you love will do the same for you And you may have thought it tragic (Not to mention other adjec- -tives) to think of all the weeping they will do But don't you worry

No more ashes, no more sackcloth And an armband made of black cloth Will some day nevermore adorn a sleeve For if the bomb that drops on you Gets your friends and neighbors too There'll be nobody left behind to grieve

And we will all go together when we go What a comforting fact that is to know Universal bereavement - An inspiring achievement! Yes, we all will go together when we go

We will all go together when we go All suffused with an incandescent glow No one will have the endurance To collect on his insurance Lloyd's of London will be loaded when they go

Oh, we will all fry together when we fry We'll be French-fried potatoes by-and-by There will be no more misery When the world is our rotisserie Yes, we all will fry together when we fry

Down by the old maelstrom There'll be a storm before the calm

And we will all bake together when we bake There'll be nobody present at the wake With complete participation In that grand incineration Nearly three billion hunks of well-done steak

Oh, we will all char together when we char And let there be no moaning of the bar Just sing out a Te Deum When you see that ICBM And the party will be come-as-you-are

Oh, we will all burn together when we burn There'll be no need to stand and wait your turn When it's time for the fallout And Saint Peter calls us all out We'll just drop our agendas and adjourn You will all go directly to your respective Valhallas Go directly, do not pass 'GO', do not collect two hundred dollars

And we will all go together when we go Every Hottentot and every Eskimo When the air becomes uraneous We will all go simultaneous Yes, we all will go together When we all go together Yes, we all will go together when we go

40,000 In Gehenna:

Forty thousand in Gehenna, Colonists—so they were told Forty thousand in Gehenna, Left amid the rain and cold Union knows another tale They were meant to die and fail To distract the new Alliance In Gehenna they were sold

Forty thousand in Gehenna, Men and azi, born and not, Forty thousand in Gehenna, Victims of a heartless plot Chose the types that should have died On their own or suicide Weak of body, too dependent, In Gehenna left to rot!

Chorus: Guess again, you mathematicians! Your equation's incomplete Forces that you did not count on That will cause your plan's defeat Man's more like to change than die Though your stats won't tell you why And something lives within Gehenna That your planners did not meet…

Something patient plots a pattern As you plot a game of chess Thinks in ways that would confound you Underneath the wilderness You who wear the form of man Meet your equal, Caliban, As forty thousand in Gehenna With a pattern you can't guess

(Chorus)

Forty thousand in Gehenna, Colonists—so they were told Forty thousand in Gehenna, Left amid the rain and cold Union knows another tale They were meant to die and fail To distract the new Alliance In Gehenna they were sold

[kingofthewilderwest]

Aw yeah. I again am happy the story starts with Commander Hawkins. The respectable commander of **Vehicle Force** Voltron!! We chose to begin with a Vehicle Force character! (one of my favorite VF chars) He's the perfect choice. His character has always been of leading Voltron crew through the thick of it. By DD establishing him as Garrison leadership assembling the Lion Force team, we select one of the most heroic officer members in early Voltrondom, and provide a link between Lion Force and Vehicle Force which doesn't get seen as often (hmhmhm almost like they were originally two separate anime.....).

For people only familiar with VLD, there could be surprising character differences, but the differences make sense when you remember their common origin point is DotU. DD lifted concepts from DotU like VLD did, just differently. VLD introduced inexperienced versions of the cast and had them grow towards the veterans we know in DotU. But because VLD took a life of its own (as a good story does), the characters don't necessarily converge to their DotU counterparts. Meanwhile, DD looked at the DotU characters and asked, "What can we add that emphasizes or builds upon those traits, appealing to a realistic side for adult readers?" Ergo VLD gives us a plucky, loud-mouthed, insecure, still-learning-the-ropes Lance who barely squeaked into fighter class piloting, and only as a member of Voltron becomes the powerful pilot we know; DD gives us a cocky daredevil felon who's recruited for Voltron because he's already a notorious ace pilot. VLD!Keith reluctantly learns how to lead; DD gives us a man with the background and temperament to already be a fit leader. DD characters tend to have a history that's hardbaked them more by the time we meet them.

But these versions fit them gloriously. DD also looks back on the OG Japanese animes and incorporates things. The character's original name was Akira Kogane; in DotU they called him Keith [no surname]; so DD decided, "Heck. Let's keep his Japanese heritage and name him Keith Akira Kogane." The Japanese origins of the story were also respected by giving Hunk [no real name or surname given] the name of his OG counterpart, Tsuyoshi Seidou. DD calls him Tsuyoshi "Hunk" Garrett (you catch the Garrett, VLD nerds? Lots of the surnames you know come out of DD). I've liked the international nature of DD (though they wimped out by having characters move to the USA in their youth); in my VLD headcanons, I've placed the characters rather internationally.

But anyway like. Check out this good character stuff:

Keith Akira Kogane: Half-Japanese, half-Chinese, born in Hong Kong, moved to the USA at three years old. Both parents died in an accident when he was twelve, and Keith moved in with an aunt and uncle [the loss of familial support as a kid is something VLD fans would nod at]. To cope with the loss, he cracked down learning martial arts. "Unsure of the future," he enlisted in the marines, and "soon came to love the perfect discipline and order the Corps offered him, and spent several years in the field as a field reconnaisance specialist, earning several commendations in the process" [a sentence DotU fans would nod vigorously along with for their conception of Keith, if a sentence VLD fans would scratch their head on]. But DD!Keith's been on autopilot since his fiance died in a plane accident (lots of accidents rip), "waiting for his life to take shape and make sense again."

Lance Charles McClain: A reckless risk-taker who grew up in a poor town in rural Nebraska. "Lance was a below-average student, not because he was mentally lacking, but because he found himself intensely bored by school; couple that with several narrowly-avoided brushes with the law, and Lance seemed primed to become the poster child for a delinquent youth. Then he won a radio contest, received a gift certificate for ten free flying lessons, and changed his life forever." [aside from having issues as a student, this is material VLD fans would've expected for Keith, whose delinquency sabotaged his performance until Shiro stepped in to get him to Garrison flight lessons -- but again, getting to know your various Lances, this is fantastic for him.]

Tsuyoshi "Hunk" Garrett: Born in Tokyo to a Japanese mother and American father, moved to Tennessee at thirteen, the smallest of the five Garrett boys and got nicknamed "Hunk" ironically. While Hunk's brothers went after athletic feats, Hunk became adept at all things mechanical. [a DD characterization VLDers would again have some synergy with] "More embarrassed by his size than emboldened by it, Hunk withdrew from the social scene." I love how Hunk has a Masters degree in engineering before enlisting in the army. Introverted academic achiever, yeet!

Darrell Stoker: While the rest of the crew is in their mid to late twenties, Darrell is sixteen, 5' 2", and barely over 100 lbs. He was orphaned as an infant in Denver, CO [I am bringing up Denver, CO because my pride as a Coloradoan flares up PIDGE IS FROM COLORADO YAAAAAAEEEEAAA REPRESEEEENT] Pidge is put into college at a young age, making him feel out-of-place. [coughs in direction of VLDers] And again, not in DotU, though elsewhere, but DD provides us a portrayal of Pidge as the ultimate tech genius. [hacks up a storm in the direction of VLDers]

Sven Holgersson: Swedish parents, grew up around Reykjavik, became a badass military operative, has killed people who were supposed to be allies before. Doesn't play well with others. "How's that temperament space dad?" people may ask. Aligns more with his character's earlier versions, and the antisocialness plays well into the story they tell. [eyebrow wiggles] This is a good Sven iteration.

Aaaaaand I am writing more than I am reading. I should be READING. AHHHHHH.

So it was about a 40% chance I was going return to my Voltron craze with VLD, a 45% chance with the Devil's Due comics, and a [squints for basic math] 15% chance it would be something else. I was off rambling to friends this week about Beast King Golion, Armored Fleet Dairugger XV, Defender of the Universe, and Voltron Force, so it was anyone's game. But Devil's Due has won out, so prepare for a liveblog as I reread one of my favorite iterations of Voltron.

I will liveblog by replying to this post for starters. Blacklist #voltron liveblog if you want to flee from any rambling, though it probably won't be excessive. If it is excessive, sorry not sorry, this is where fun times are made.

[hunterontheedge]

0.4% catch rate and totally not worth it!

(that other char is my partners, we sat on call while I raged at this hunk of metal)

[spidermilkshake]

The Moloch, Fiends Plaguing Ancardia

The crevice burst open, the huge, shrouded form responsible for the bursting neither acknowledging nor caring about the flaming, half-solid hunks of lava rock streaming out and colliding with the various lesser demons and swarming blister-imps. Neji reloaded and ignored them as well. Disturbingly-proportioned figures scrabbled to the outer verges of the wider part of the passage and howled with laughter and triumph despite quite a few of them either missing limbs or treading on charred, further-twisted carcasses to clear the way for the juggernaut. Twidgie hid behind the solid line of Jalmag and his two hulking hounds; there was no question in the gnome's mind it was time to hide when the wolfish dogs and the sleek, stoic troll all raised their hackles to the same thing.

The troll hefted his shield and spiked mace higher, glancing towards the dark elf in a brief glitter of calculation. "What is tha big one?"

Neji shivered, feeling the gravity of the old onyx amulet under his cuirass shift in the presence of it. The certain knowledge that Jalmag wanted flooded to his mind from the onyx, and the voice of it seemed to, much like the big mutts who followed the little gnome everywhere, snarl in a dire warning.

The mass stepped through the large, molten-edged doorway it had created. The heft and build much like the troll warrior, it looked to be clad in an iridescent, blackish armor, but while this demon indeed was a lot more evenly-distributed as far as number and placement of limbs went, no two of the shifting, seething plates were matching. Some of them seemed to elongate, or shorten, or sharpen, the longer Neji stared at them. It was thick, high, broad, and had only as many armor-plated digits as needed for rending those things which dwelled in the world. But at the center, protruding from the armor hint of a stubby neck, was the darkness. Inky and old and stale, the kind of darkness that didn't decay the dead, or call for mourning, or dance in delight of the mischievous, the ever-curious, or the hedonistic. This kind of darkness did not want to leave room for the light, and resisted the shapes of the shadows it was meant to lie in. This darkness was the Corruption, the Chaos of Andor Drakon, and the only thing it wanted was senseless blood-letting and violence. It craved murder. It was sadism itself, in its worst possible form. The darkness spilled out to form the thing's "face", from which the dirty lights of gleaming eyes locked themselves onto the draulf, sensing their artifact.

"Moloch," Neji pronounced, and raised the blessed crossbow.

-------

Moloch in the Ancardian homebrew, as depicted by a bit of old Chaos Crisis-based writing! The named characters can all be found in the ADOM game in the form of old statues dedicated to them.

[xamassed]

good food. ( inspired by @demonsofdevildom )

She had almost forgotten about it. After many hours spent slogging through mathematics, seductive speechcraft, illusions, potions and the handful of other classes she barely paid attention to, it was understandable that a small memory from early in the morning would fade into obscurity somewhere in the back of her already clouded mind.

Sadly, once lunchtime rolled in, the famished demon couldn’t ignore the small, plastic container sitting at the bottom of her bag. Spotting it wedged between her books, her dread swelled to uncomfortable proportions.

❝I forgot you were in there. . .❞

She pulled the container out and lifted it high, eyes peering through the clear portion. There, stuck to the bottom and sweating, was a large piece of charred meat. Deer, she recalled. The hunt from that weekend had been a fruitful one, and she had been glad for it. No jobs and no menial chores to breeze through meant no grimm, and no grimm meant no cafeteria lunches — at least for a little while. She didn’t mind. If she wanted to keep her senses keen and sharp, she needed to wander the wilds of the Devildom and hunt the way she had when she was nothing more than a simple bear. Only difference now was that her beastly form as faster, stronger and ten times more fun to be in.

No amount of hunting and the thrill of remembering could make what she had cooked up that morning taste any better, unfortunately.

❝Why am I so bad at cooking? It’s not that hard.❞ Anita peeled the lid off the container and was immediately hit with the tongue-drying scent of ash. Her nose wrinkled at the stench, but she knew that it was all she had to eat between classes. Either she gnashed and tore her way through the leathery piece of meat to satisfy her hunger, or she went without and risked becoming grumpy for the rest of the day.

The former option was best, she knew this. 

As she was about to yank a portion off with her teeth, however, she realized with a start that she wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her, perched on a similar-looking stone bench, was a vaguely familiar figure. Hair the shade of sand after the waves rolled past, eyes bright and blue despite sitting in a stony expression, and clothes so elegant and white they made her feel soiled just by glimpsing them. His name eluded her, but she recalled two important facts: he was new, and he was an angel.

Sitting with someone in the courtyard wasn’t an issue, and neither was it the first time. She could have gone on to eat her sad excuse for a lunch and ignored him, except he seemed strangely intent on watching her. It was unnerving, having a glare as steely as his trained on her.

❝You good, dude?❞

He didn’t answer, but his gaze remained firm. It made her uneasy, but that unease began to creep into irritation. Any longer, and it was sure to morph into unreasonable rage. ❝Seriously, what’s your deal?❞

❝What is that?❞ He finally spoke, tone flat as he pointed towards the container in her lap.

❝Oh.❞ She sucked in a calming breath, willed herself not to fly into a rage over something as silly as staring, and lifted the hunk of meat with her fork. ❝Venison. No, wait. It used to be venison.❞

❝Deer meat?❞

❝Mhmm. Dunno what I’d call it now ‘cause I messed up cooking it this morning.❞ She shrugged, as if that fact didn’t disappoint her. Somewhere, deep down, it did.

❝It looks fine to me.❞

Anita gaped, earthen eyes flicking between the angel and the meat that looked more like the sole of a shoe. ❝You’re kidding me.❞

❝I don’t kid.❞ He gathered up his own mess and made a solid beeline for her. With a spot open on the bench, he welcomed himself into her space. Old habits and preconceptions made her shudder at the proximity. He was a pure and enlightened being, and the thought of being near one always made her chest fill with small, disgusting bubbles — not because she disliked angels, but because she didn’t want to sully them.

❝What did you come over here for?❞ There was no room to inch away, so she settled for leaning in the opposite direction.

❝Can I try it?❞ He made the request so clearly and concisely that it prompted a bark of laughter from the onikuma.

❝No! Look at it, it’ll take your puny little jaw ten years to chew through this!❞

❝I doubt that.❞ He paused, observed the hunk of meat in silence, then tried again. ❝Please.❞

❝You’re serious?❞ Anita knew she was already on thin ice with her awful grades, fluctuating attendance and spotty behavioral record. The last thing she needed was a murder of an angel on her hands. ❝You might get sick.❞

❝Do you assume all angels have weak constitutions?❞ He arched one, thick brow and held his hand out. Anita felt her own stomach pinch, partially out of guilt and mostly out of apprehension. This felt like a horribly moronic idea, but he seemed certain that her awful cooking wouldn’t mean his demise.

❝Fine. Here.❞ She held the fork out, and he took it without hesitation. The next second, his blunt teeth sank into the tough meat with little resistance. He yanked, the portion tearing away effortlessly. Flecks of blackened skin and muscle fell away, staining his lower lip as he chewed, chewed, chewed.

He didn’t gag, he didn’t spit the bite out. He swallowed it, let out a considerate hum, then tore another chunk away.

Anita watched with her jaw slack, her horror slowly shifting to confusion, to concern.

❝How are you eating that?❞

❝It’s good. I like it.❞ An easily given answer for an easy question. ❝I don’t know why you were hesitating to eat it.❞

❝I burned it,❞ breathed the demon in awe, ❝and I’m pretty sure I added too many spices. Are you already sick? Did you get dropped on your head a lot, or what?❞

The angel blinked and slowly shook his head. ❝No, not that I remember.❞

Anita snorted and passed her now empty container over, giving him something to catch the loose pieces of meat in as he feasted. ❝Alright, whatever. I’m out a lunch, but I guess if someone liked it, that’s fine.❞

❝Was this all you had?❞ A flicker of guilt melted away the stoicism in his eyes.

❝Don’t worry about it. I have more at home.❞ She waved away the sudden wash of concern, but her reassurance did nothing to ease his guilt.

❝If I’d known——❞

❝Seriously, you’re fine. I know for a fact that it’s bad, but you said something nice about it, so it’s worth it. Relax.❞

The angel frowned deeply for a moment, thoughts taking him elsewhere before he let out a grunt and chowed down again. Around a smaller mouthful, he grumbled. ❝Come to Purgatory Hall after school. You can have dinner with us, as thanks for letting me eat this.❞

❝I don’t think I’m allowed there.❞ She wasn’t a stickler for the rules, obviously, but those bone-deep thoughts that made her assume she was dirty kept her from going anywhere near the dormitory where she knew the angels lived.

❝I’ll ask Simeon and Solomon. I’m sure they’ll agree that it’s only right I offer you something in return.❞ Another flicker of vibrant glee touched at the crystal blue of his eyes. ❝You can try Solomon’s cooking!❞

❝Yeah? Is he good?❞

❝He’s amazing. Simeon and Luke are good too, but there’s something about Solomon’s cooking that I can’t quite get enough of.❞ His excitement was contagious, even if it only lasted for a singular, fleeting moment. ❝You’ll come?❞

❝I feel like I’m gonna look like a total ass if I don’t, so — yeah. Sure.❞ Free food was free food, and she wasn’t all that inclined to reject the offer now that he insisted. ❝After school?❞

❝I might be a little late getting there myself, but I’ll let them know you’re coming. If they don’t get my messages, tell them Raphael sent you.❞ He licked his lips clean, closed the fork inside the container, then popped the lid back on. It was returned to Anita’s hand, her stomach growling at the reminder that she had now skipped lunch. ❝Thank you.❞

❝Raphael? Anita. Uh, yeah. No problem. Still think you’re a little weird, but at least it didn’t go to waste.❞ She wouldn’t mention then, or even years from now, that he had brightened her mood. Hunger pains would have driven her to grouchiness, but the shamelessness with which he ate her horrid cooking and his sincerity had made up for it.

Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a bad idea to spend a little more time around angels.

[swan-of-sunrise]

Taking Care of Business (Chapter Sixteen)

Summary: Din and (Y/N) try and process the loss of Grogu after teaming up with Boba Fett and Fennec Shand.

Pairing: Din Djarin X Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: I promised you angst so here it is! This chapter’s a little shorter than usual, but I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Sixteen The Loss (Previous Chapter)

Before he met Grogu and (Y/N), Din had learned not to grow attachments to people or places; the life of a bounty hunter was too unpredictable, too dangerous, to allow for such luxuries and being a Mandalorian only added to that danger. But the one thing he allowed himself to cherish was the Razor Crest, his faithful ship that had never once let him down. Almost every piece of it had been repaired or replaced and he couldn’t deny that it looked like a hunk of junk at first glance, but it had also been his home and the one place where he didn’t have to hide behind his Creed. And now it’s gone along with the kid, Din thought to himself, blinking back tears as he walked through the smoking crater and the remains of his ship.

(Y/N) was standing at the edge of the crater beside Fennec and Boba, his jetpack resting under her arm while her hand pressed against the blaster wound on her side. He hadn’t had the heart to go back and retrieve his jetpack, knowing that he could’ve saved Grogu from the droids if only he’d been wearing it, so (Y/N) had gone and gotten it herself. The pain written across her face made Din look down at the charred remains of the ship, and a small part of him hoped that something – anything – of hers had survived the blast. After a moment of looking around, he caught sight of a piece of a familiar storage container and his heart sank even further; all of the captain’s belongings, the things that had meant so much to her that she’d hired a fearsome Mandalorian to help get them back from a crime syndicate, were all gone.

“Ni ceta, alor’ad,” He whispered, his eyes continuing to scan the piles of ash. A rounded metal sphere sticking out from one pile caught his attention and when he picked it up, he realized with a jolt that it was the same metal sphere that the child loved playing with from the moment he first boarded the ship. His gloved fingers tightened around the sphere for a moment before he tucked it away in the pouch at his waist.

“Din,” The captain’s voice softly called out behind him; he turned around to see her standing before him with the beskar spear they’d received from Ahsoka Tano in her hand. “I think this is the only weapon that survived.”

His eyes were drawn to the singed and bloody clothing on her side and without hesitation, he quickly took the jetpack and fastened it to his back before taking the spear from her. “We should get that wound looked at, alor’ad.”

“It looks worse than it is; I’ll be okay once I put a bacta patch on it.” (Y/N)’s gaze was lowered, and he realized that she was looking at what little was left of her storage container. “I think they both wanna talk to us…”

Din nodded and the two of them walked side-by-side out of the crater, his free hand moving to rest on the small of her back. They made their way to where the pair stood and he held out the spear for them to see. “This is all that survived.”

“Beskar,” Boba remarked, glancing between Din and (Y/N) before tapping on his vambrace. “I want you both to take a look at something.” A golden hologram flickered to life and it took Din a moment to recognize the Mando’a letters. “My chain code had been encoded in this armor for twenty-five years.” He brought his other hand up and pointed to a section of the hologram. “You see, this is me, Boba Fett and this is my father, Jango Fett.”

As he read the letters, Din’s brow rose in surprise. “Your father was a foundling.”

“Yes. He even fought in the Mandalorian Civil Wars.”

Boba turned off the hologram and Din let out a sigh. “Then that armor belongs to you.”

The man, who (Y/N) had earlier stated was an infamous bounty hunter, nodded once. “I appreciate its return.”

“Then our deal is complete.”

“…Not quite.”

(Y/N) shifted beside Din. “How so?”

“We agreed in exchange for the return of my armor,” Boba gestured towards himself and Fennec as he addressed Din’s partner. “That we will ensure the safety of the child, Captain.”

Din swallowed the lump in his throat. “The child’s gone.”

“Until he is returned to you both safely, we are in your debt.” Boba’s expression was resolute and beside him, Fennec nodded in agreement. “We should head to my ship; our medkit isn’t fully stocked, but we have enough supplies to treat that blaster wound. Then, we can plan our next move.”

With nods of thanks, Din and (Y/N) followed Boba and Fennec into his ship, the Slave I; the bounty hunter disappeared into the cockpit while Fennec retrieved their medkit and helped (Y/N) sit down on a bench near the back. The sharpshooter moved to sit at the opposite end of the ship, giving the two of them some privacy as the ship began its takeoff. After helping the captain take off her coat and removing his gloves, Din knelt on the floor of the ship and carefully rolled up the hem of her shirt, furrowing his brow in concern at what he saw. “You’re right, it looks worse than it probably is but I still need to clean it before putting any bacta on.”

(Y/N) nodded but remained silent, staring down at the floor while Din focused on his work; he was as gentle as he could be, far more gentle than he ever was with his own wounds, and in no time the bacta patch was secured over her wound. Just as he was preparing to stand, the captain grabbed his hand to stop him. “Din?” Her voice was unusually timid and when he looked up at her, he was shocked to see that her eyes were filled with unshed tears. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to protect him, I-I should’ve stayed and-”

“Alor’ad, no, it wasn’t your fault.” Din interrupted, bringing his free hand up to cradle the side of her face. “You did everything right, and if anyone’s to be blamed it’s me.” There was an argumentative look on her face at his words but he shook his head before she could say anything. “I took off my jetpack, (Y/N), I left the kid defenseless and I didn’t stop…I didn’t stop those droids from taking him.”

“They would’ve hurt you, Din, or worse.”

His fingers tightened around her hand. “This is the Way.”

“Please don’t say that, Din,” She practically begged as she began shaking her head. “It’s bad enough that Grogu’s gone, I-I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you both…!”

Din quickly moved to sit beside (Y/N), mindful of her blaster wound as he eased her onto his lap and held her close. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, ner cyar’ika alor’ad.” His own eyes welled with tears as he silently thanked the Maker that his partner hadn’t been taken from him too. If that had happened, if the Empire had succeeded in taking everything from him again, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the pain; as he took a shuddering breath, he brought one hand up and began stroking her hair while he let her continue squeezing the other. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The captain looked directly into the visor of his helmet while her fingers curled tight around his. “And I’m not going anywhere either, Din. I promise.” Resting her free hand against the side of his helmet, she coaxed his head down before touching her forehead with hers. Din blinked in surprise at her action; he’d never told her about Keldabe kisses and their importance in Mandalorian culture, but it seemed that she somehow understood his impulsive gesture after her farewell song back on Corvus. I don’t know what I’ve done in my life to deserve someone like her, he thought to himself, his eyes squeezing shut as his tears rolled down his cheeks.

As (Y/N)’s eyelids began growing heavy, Din carefully eased her off of his lap and bundled his cowl into a makeshift pillow before guiding her to lie down. He knelt before her and gently wiped away her stray tears, his heart warming as she nuzzled into the fabric of his cowl and quickly fell asleep. Pushing himself off the ground, Din made his way over to where Fennec was seated; she was cleaning her blaster rifle but he got the feeling that the sharpshooter had been watching the two of them.

“Can I speak to you and Fett?”

Fennec nodded, reaching a hand towards the control panel beside her and flipping a switch. “Mando’s ready to talk.”

There was a noise from above and moments later, Boba was making his way down from the cockpit. After moving to stand beside Fennec, the bounty hunter’s eyes flicked over to where (Y/N) was sleeping. “How’s your partner?”

“Better; her blaster wound wasn’t deep but she’s resting now. If we’re gonna track down Moff Gideon then we’ll need some ex-Imperial help, so we’ll need to chart our course for Nevarro.”

“Nevarro?” Fennec raised a skeptical brow. “Rumor has it that the planet’s completely free of Imperial control, all thanks to their brand-new marshal. Are you sure that’s where you think we should start?”

“I have a friend there that can help us find an ex-Imperial I once knew,” Din sighed a little as he spoke. “At least, I hope she can…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Cara Dune, Marshal of the New Republic.” Din examined the metal signet with a small smile before tossing it back to its owner. “I heard rumors that you might’ve gone legit.”

Cara smirked and set her marshal signet down on her desk. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Beside Din, (Y/N) cleared her throat and shifted her weight, stifling a wince of pain as she pressed a hand to her wounded side; he’d tried convincing the captain to stay on the Slave I with Boba and Fennec but she insisted on accompanying him. “We need your help, Cara.”

“Name it.”

Din gestured towards the machine sitting on her desk. “We need you to locate someone in the prison registry.”

“Let’s see what I can do.” The marshal sat up, sliding her ankles off the edge of her desk and reaching toward the registry’s dials.

“Ex-Imperial sharpshooter, last name Mayfeld. Apprehended near the Dilesrti system on a derelict prison ship.” As he spoke, he glanced over at (Y/N) beside him and met her critical gaze; after their misadventure with the New Republic Rangers on Maldo Kreis, he’d told her about his brief dealings with Ran and his crew and explained why he’d been wanted by the New Republic. Seems like I’ll never hear the end of that job, Din thought in annoyance, but if working with Mayfeld helps us get the kid back then…

“Migs Mayfeld.” Cara’s brow rose as she began reading off the registry. “Serving fifty years in the Karthon Chop Fields for springing a prisoner himself. Accessory to the death of a New Republic officer. Huh.” She looked up from the registry, her eyes narrowing as she looked between the two of them. “Sounds like a real piece of work. What do you two want with him?”

Din closed his eyes, the memory of Grogu being taken by droids and his ship being destroyed filling his mind as he answered her. “We need to spring him to help us locate Moff Gideon’s light cruiser.”

His eyes opened in time to see her lean back in her seat and frown. “You know how I feel about the Empire, but these stripes mean there are rules I need to follow.”

“Cara…” (Y/N) stepped forward and took hold of one of Din’s hands, biting her lip before speaking the words that he didn’t have the strength to. “They took the little guy.”

The marshal’s expression hardened, and Din knew that they were one step closer to getting Grogu back and ending Moff Gideon once and for all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading!

Mando'a Translations: Ni ceta, alor’ad-Sorry, captain Alor'ad-Captain Ner cyar’ika alor’ad-My darling captain

Chapter Seventeen

Taking Care of Business Masterlist

Tagging: @remmysbounty​ @sinon36​ @seninjakitey​ @thatonedindjarinfan​ @ginger-swag-rapunzel​ @mostclevermiss @momc95​ @welcometothepedroverse​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @zukoyonce​ @itsnottilly​

[lovemykids1234]

In time, everything burns.

Lights will melt out of their shells, because of the energy that radiates from it. The buildings we once loved will wisp away like ash and reassemble into a glorious waterfall of flame and anarchy. Anarchists laugh and say, "What a world we live in!" Those who know better cry and comfort their families before they get added to the rancor of the charred. The rich try their best to build tall piers and mansions beforehand, knowing full well that the answer to this purge of the plague called existence would end their lives. They get struck by the floods soon after, and the fire reclaims their collapsed architecture as well as their souls.

A firefighter I knew, Riggam Worth, told me that he was going to play one last game of tennis with his granddaughter, Venice. I saw his body the day after the floods, curled up in a ball in the middle of an alleyway near Coalbridge, New York, in between the post office and the bank. Venice was nestled with her relatives, at the bottom of a well, it was almost tranquil until I noticed the restraints.

My father, Walton Whitticuck, was considered a valiant man by most of his peers, he ventured day by day around the country to pursue the "Values of the people" and sponsor various charity events under our family name, (He was a former member of congress). Every Thursday until I turned ten, he would always take me to an Ice cream parlor near the great lakes and give the cashier $10 cash for a $6 sundae. He wanted to make sure the low prices were stabilized by the tip he made, so that other people would have the same price. I never understood what he meant and thought that a few extra dollars weren't going to change the situation, so I would make fun of him for it. He didn't mind.

That same Ice cream parlor was my second job after I graduated 10th grade. It was a quaint area: the forest was relaxing, and most of the tourists congregated near Chicago. My coworker was a short classmate of mine named Kyle, and we regularly bonded over the books we read. Two months after I got the job, we were visited by an old woman, who's license plate read Tennessee BLT_417 on it. She sat a table for ten minutes, and Kyle assumed that she was on ketamine because of a video he saw on Reddit. She was slumped over the table but was kept from touching it by her thin arms. Her face was in a position of deep thought, or ketamine-ness, I didn't use reddit that much. I was in the middle of drinking a glass of water when she came and handed use a check for more money than I had ever made during that job, or all of my pre-30's jobs combined. the check was the color of dandelion stems, and there were more names on it than in the math class I was in. "This is for th-the owner of the Pink friends Ice cream parlor." She stuttered out, before stumbling into her car and driving towards the highway.

The instance gave me a sense of reality in the world, while I was taking the check to my boss. The values of community, the idea that anyone can help bring change to the world as they saw fit, the wonders of full team cooperation. I thought back to my father's previous instances of giving this old hunk some cash, that must have been to help me realize this value, and better the world around me. My father's name was not on the check, nor was any of the people he had mentioned in any of his stories, introduced me to in his sponsors, or community leaders that he had told me to look up to. I looked up the name of the only person I could remember on that check and came up with a beggar near Chemsburg who had spent his last bit of money on his sister's prison bail. I couldn't understand how these people were the only ones who could spare more than the occasional common change for a better future, while anyone who could spend more than that chose to put their money into something else. The charities that my father sponsored had turned into dust one by one, each being poured out by a lack of direction or even a lack of any supporters besides the shmuck who put it up on the internet. I could hear the ones on the radio speaking about their inevitable collapse, like a stock market for the pessimistic and cynical. My father could never, even during his final moments, tell me why he spent his money the way he did, but his coworkers were eager to disclose the amount of funds the "Honorable people" donated to him while I was in middle school. I felt lost in the world, wondering who I was, like a puppet who just got his house uprooted and his user claimed by the sickness of death. I would spend hours laying in my dorm, wondering if my life could really be worth a damn, if this is my legacy. Could I really be a community man, when the definition of a community man has nothing to do with the community? I never had time to answer that, as my studies kept me from pondering the subject for long enough.

Kyle was in the same situation as Venice, believe it or not. The man who immediately accused a senior citizen of being on ketamine had gotten chained up inside a well. It really seemed more surprising on paper, but the affect it had on me when I found it was lifechanging, in a way similar to finding a dead rat in your mac and cheese after eating half the package. The well was near Takensbound, Washington, and I had found him whilst looking for a new bedroom couch. I still have his pen in my pocket, the one he held onto in his final moments. You'd think the well-dwellers would be charred, but the water left in the pit kept the bodies in near perfect condition even after the floods. The pen, however, was burnt like a candle's wick, with a small speckle of blue ink spilling out the top. Parchments are quite common in the new world, so I always use the pens whenever I feel like writing something down, usually a profanity-laden fanfiction about my dead family members.

My Father also died in a comedic situation: He died of tetanus, after a homeless man struck his ass with a urinal trough while he was haphazardly trying to climb his mountainous pier. My mother cried at his grave, knowing full well that this man had given money to a corrupt charity, how horrible. His friends had all kicked the bucket on their own terms shortly before the floods, like most of the rich when the saw the water go up to their almost unexaggeratedly massive piers. The day before he died, I had visited a church in Ruvenbourg. The priest was a basking man, yet I could tell, along with the rest of the population considering the silent choir, that his words were only meant to encourage a solution to the threat I came there to forget about. I searched for his body just to see what happened to it, it seemed to have washed away. The church closed less than a week later; the last remnants enflamed.

I look upon the rest of the town of my choosing today, it is barren due to the apocalypse. My efforts to make it anew have done nothing but make the town look disturbing, and my attempts to remedy the scattered corpses have led to the destruction of the sewer system. have only found one decoration for my mantelpiece in this state: a picture of a family of five that I shoved away last week, standing in front of a gas station shaped like a dinosaur. I repurposed a restaurant to look like a fun forest adventure before writing this. It reminded me of my middle school trip to a rollercoaster theme park. My attempts at recording this moment into history have been in vain, and the efforts I have made to decorate my home have only caused me to stop remembering my own daughter's face. All I have to ask for anyone who reads this is a single simple question: Why can't I let myself cry?

[itsclydebitches]

Until proven otherwise, my headcanon is that both Ironwood and Watts survived and are going to team up again out of necessity lmao.

HI, ANON. So let me tell you about how this simple, silly sentence sent me down a 4k writing rabbit hole. “Lol I’m going to write a little parody about that” I thought to myself and then somehow? It got serious?? I honestly don’t know what this fic is, but I’m chucking it at everyone anyway. 

Also, I changed the whole “Atlas and Mantle are immediately submerged in water” plot point because it’s my coping mechanism and I get to choose the canon we ignore. 

***

Once upon a time there were two villains having a Very Bad Day.

The first, Arthur Watts, had survived an explosion, being buried under rubble, and the threat of a ten-story drop only to find himself suffocating amidst a magically produced fire. A horrible way to go, all things considered. Painful, of course, but more importantly, no self-respecting man should die with soot on his clothes.

Or leave behind a charred corpse. 

In fact, Watts had just begun to acknowledge the full indignity of his death when the momentum he'd felt — just there on the periphery of his awareness — suddenly ceased, Atlas crashing into Mantle and throwing him with a squawk in the process. His head took a nasty hit against one of the desks, the smoky gray of the room growing darker, and by the time Watts had come to, the fire had been replaced by water.

Ice-cold water, lapping up to his knees.

"Well," he said, lifting a sodden boot. "I suppose this is an improvement."

***

Elsewhere, James Ironwood — former General of the now sinking Kingdom of Atlas — was lying facedown on the stone of the outer vault, contemplating his choices. Upon reflection, no, he didn't regret what he'd done, but it would have been nice if things had turned out...any way other than this.

"Fuck," he said to the empty hall, enjoying the reverberation. He deserved that much at least.

In time, Ironwood was able to pick himself up off the floor, supported as much by the fact that he'd been knocked out by his own blast as his shaky, barely-there aura. Up the elevator running on emergency dust reserves, through the corridors that groaned ominously under damaged supports. Ironwood headed towards the military headquarters purely out of habit and as he did the sound of water grew stronger, almost like waves, until there was an inch of it across the floor, more trickling in from the staircase. Ironwood had been watching his boots splash with each step, almost mesmerized, and didn't look up until another pair unexpectedly entered his view.

Watts froze in the act of wringing out his pantleg, eyes wide. His expression, the water, how the hallway tilted downward at a slight angle... it all felt like something out of a dream. Ironwood just watched as Watts watched him, until his eyes traveled to the gun clipped on his belt. Ironwood hadn't even realized he'd picked it up.

"Here to kill me, James?" Watts said.

"No." He knew it was true as soon as he'd said it. The mere thought of starting another fight right now was... exhausting. "Do you intend to kill me?"

"Oh really. Does it look as if I'm in a position to fight you? Do use your head for once. I have no weapon, no aura — damn fire ate it all up — I feel as if I've swallowed a hot coal, I am wet — "

Ironwood turned partway through the ramble, meandering back up the way he'd come. He'd passed through two checkpoints before realizing that Watts was not only still talking, but following him.

"What do you want?" he asked, more to shut the man up than out of real curiosity. If Watts was capable of reading the difference between the two, he didn't show it.

"Cinder."

"Cinder?"

"I don't make a habit of allowing people to try and murder me without consequence, James!"

"She's gone."

"Yes, thank you for that stunning bit of info! There's no possible way I could have realized that for myself. What's gotten into you? They left us, fool. Salem, Cinder, Neo, Emerald, even your so-called allies... they all deserve the worst that we can grant them. Though right now, I'd settle for wringing that idiot Pietro's neck. Ten years I gave to that research and he rendered it obsolete with a single report, all because he wanted to play father to some stupid hunk of metal. I never would have gone to Salem if — " Watts cut off, hands balled into fists.

Ironwood just blinked dazedly, coming to a halt. He searched his uniform, the scroll he'd stashed there miraculously whole. Dimly, he registered that he should be feeling some sort of emotion right now.

"I can do that," he murmured.

"What?"

But Ironwood was already keying in the code, the desire to complete a task, any task, taking hold. Watts looked on, mouth twisted in a deprecating sneer.

"I already took out communications, in case you failed to notice."

"But not the trackers I had installed in my top scientists." Ironwood held up the screen where a small, red dot was blinking. "Pietro's still here. Looks like he's out near the mine with a second aura signature. If you want to...?" He wasn't going to finish that sentence.

"I see," Watts said in a tone that heavily implied he didn't. "And you'd just give me this information out of the evilness of your heart?"

Ironwood considered that. "I killed a man yesterday, tried to kill two others, and was ready to bomb all of Mantle to keep the rest of my Kingdom safe. I don't care what you do with the man who betrayed me."

"...fair enough."

Except after five steps Ironwood realized that Watts wasn't following him. He was looking down at his arms, still as a hunted hare.

"You put trackers in all your scientists?" he asked.

"A requirement I implemented after you went missing."

"Ah! Ingenious. Lead the way then."

***

The way led to the tundra, an environment that neither of them were prepared for. Watts was wet from the waist down and Ironwood had long ago learned that snow and metal didn't mix. Neither had the aura for the kind of storm that was raging either. Luckily, the panic of Salem's invasion had left plenty of vehicles to purloin and soon they were speeding East with the heat on, the faint beeping on Ironwood's scroll growing stronger.

He'd felt the impact of his city crashing down and the two of them had clamored out of Atlas' husk, dropping into rubble and cracking ice. Still, the true destruction wasn't evident until they were moving away from it. Through the rearview mirror, Ironwood could see pillars of smoke from fires that the water hadn't yet smothered, dark shadows that could only be grimm, and Atlas itself, plunged halfway into Mantle. It wasn't noticeable from this distance, but all of it was sinking.

"I was lucky," Ironwood said, his voice hollow. His eyes flicked back to the expanse of snow ahead of them. "If Atlas had tipped the other way, the vault would have flooded. I'd have drowned."

Watts snorted. "I'm lucky. That damned water put out Cinder's fire. I'd have burned."

Neither felt particularly lucky and for fifteen more minutes, neither was keen to discuss it.

***

Once upon a time, two heroes were having a Very Bad Day.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Maria paused in the act of bandaging Pietro's leg, mechanical eyes narrowing at the two figures that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Watts sucked in a breath at the duo. Ironwood gave a small, awkward wave.

Then he nodded his head at the scene: one old, exhausted woman and a paraplegic currently bleeding into his chair. "So... going to kill him?"

Watts ground his teeth. "Well now that just feels like a fool's errand. Look at him. He's pathetic!"

Pietro was slumped at an uncomfortable angle, sporting a gash in his leg and an impressive display of bruises across his face. Maria, in contrast, seemed to have only lost her hair tie.

"Pathetic?" she spat. "Your lackey did this!"

"Who?"

"Angry girl with the creepy arm."

"Ah, it all comes back to Cinder." Watts pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, thank you for recognizing that I was her superior, but no, I didn't send her to kill the likes of you. Must have done it on her own, the little idiot. Don't believe me? I was in jail at the time, if I recall correctly. Isn't that right, James?"

"You were helping me hack Penny."

Maria let out a skin-crawling cackle. "Why do you think the girl was here? She blew a hole in the bottom of Amity! Penny tried to hold us up, but..." she swallowed, still pressing against Pietro's leg, but turned warily towards them. "You hacked her? You did that? What precisely do you think happens when a man who never learned to apply aura as a shield crash-lands in this hunk of junk!"

"I expect most men in that position perish," Watts said smoothly. "The fool is lucky to be alive, but he won't be for much longer if you keep trying to staunch the wound with your soiled gloves. Move aside."

"Get away from me!"

"Oh, put your stick down, you old bat. I'm trying to help."

"Why?" Ironwood hadn't realized he'd spoken until Watts was glaring daggers his way.

"So I can kill him later myself!"

Still surreal. Still dream-like in its absurdity. Ironwood listened to the bickering between Watts and... Mary? Maria? He wasn't even sure. He wandered away, content to gaze out through one of the windows at his Kingdom. Or what was left of it. He idly massaged his left arm, trying to rid himself of a pain that wasn't there, and when the howl of a grimm reached them across the snow, he shivered.

His unlikely companions screamed at each other loud enough to reverberate through the whole building. There were the sounds of two bodies trading blows, but only for a moment. Pietro, voice groggy and high-pitched with terror, demanded to know where his daughter was. 

"She's dead," Ironwood said. He didn't turn to see their expressions, didn't need to. "Winter she... she defeated me as the Winter Maiden. That can only mean one thing."

"One thing to you, perhaps." Ironwood did turn then, watching stoically as Pietro tried to right himself in his chair, Watts cursing as the leg continued to bleed. "Where is she? I want to see my little girl. I can heal her, fix her — " he broke off, doubling over with a cough that splattered more blood into his hands.

"Maybe you could have," Watts said, a cruel satisfaction in his voice. "If her little friends hadn't made her human."

Some of the pieces fell into place then. His Lamp, long missing, had apparently wound up in Neo's hands, then Salem's, before it was finally used by Cinder. Watts described — with immense pleasure — the plan the group had concocted and the wish they'd asked of Ambrosius. He'd been a bit preoccupied with bomb duty to learn the details, but he knew that Cinder lived and Ironwood, it seemed, knew that Penny had perished. What a tragedy. Do you know how to bring back the non-mechanical, Doctor?

Ironwood honestly thought the old woman was about to kill him, murderous intent put on hold only because Pietro collapsed then, curling in on himself as sobs wracked his frame. The only words that escaped the mess of tears were "Penny" and then "Maria," one hand reaching out blindly for comfort. Pietro found it, the two holding onto each other as Watts sat at their feet, grinning up at the display.

Ironwood thought only, So that is her name.

The other, crucial bit of info was that everyone was gone. Dead or evacuated, it didn't matter. As far as any of them knew, they were the last four in Atlas, with Salem on her way to destroy whatever kingdom next took her fancy. It was over. They'd lost. And despite the horror of it, the realization was oddly freeing too.

When Maria asked in a tone edging on hysteria what precisely they were going to do — because it seemed this was a "we" situation now — Ironwood suspected she meant in the short term. What were they going to do about their wounds? The grimm? Finding and reaching the others? But those were foolish concerns, the thinking of someone who'd never had a kingdom's life in their hands. Ironwood knew there was only one answer here, the same one he'd had from the start.

"You can do whatever you like," he said. The metal of Amity sparkled against the rising sun, leaving splotches of color behind his eyes. "I will defend Atlas."

Maria's mouth dropped open and Watts stared. Even Pietro ceased his crying long enough to suck in a breath.

"Defend it from what?" he asked.

Ironwood shrugged. "The grimm. Salem. I don't know. I don't care. To quote a former friend, I have never wavered in defending the Kingdom of Atlas against its enemies and I don't intend to start now. This is my city and I won't leave it."

"It's sinking!" Watts cried, overlapping with Maria's, "We need to help" and though so much softer, quieter, more innocent than the spittle Watts was scattering across the floor... that single word sank its teeth into Ironwood. The woman may as well have stabbed him.

"Help?" he said. "Help? I tried to help! Everything that I have done in the last two days — the last two years — my life! — has been to help not just Atlas, but everyone I feasible could. Don't talk to me about help when you and Ms. Rose did everything you could to stop me. I had planned to help the world and you all lied. You betrayed. You set your weapons against me and kept me from saving what parts of my Kingdom I could. Tell me again: what precisely did you do to help?"

He'd crossed the distance, one hand on his holstered gun and the other leaning against Pietro's chair, using it to leverage himself down into Maria's space. Ironwood didn't need to see her eyes to know the emotion they held.

"I," she spit, "didn't try to bomb a city."

And just like that the fight in him was gone. It had barely existed in the first place. Ironwood straightened, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet. "No. You didn't. So it's as I said, go help if you want. If you can." His gaze slid to Watts. "You were one of her men. That says it all." Pietro. "You helped them reveal Salem to the world. Will she have time to destroy the other kingdoms before the grimm do it first?" Maria. "And I don't know you, but you don't earn a prize like that without seeing combat." Ironwood lifted his metal finger, tapping it against Maria's goggles. She flinched away. "Can you honestly say you haven't made mistakes?"

"You and I are nothing alike!"

"I didn't say we were."

Ironwood turned and walked away, as steady as he could manage as the world grew a little darker, despite the sunrise. Behind him Watts' voice rang out like a shot.

"So that's it then? The captain goes down with his ship? You idiot!"

He paused. "Not quite. It turns out I'm not the only idiot around these parts. Ms. Rose left the vault open." One last turn to savor their shocked expressions. "That's where I'm going. There are still plenty of airships if you'd like to leave, but just remember: they abandoned you too."

Perhaps he should have been surprised that by the time his boots hit the snow, three more footsteps were sounding behind him. Frankly, in fourteen hours time Ironwood would barely remember their conversation, let alone everything that came after it. One of them drove back to the sinking city. Someone tested the ice before they cautiously crossed it. Someone else dispatched the stray grimm foolish enough to get in their way. Ironwood saw and heard none of it. He walked with the determination of a wind-up toy, wobbling now that he'd reached the end of his string. Cool blues, a shining gold, and then beautiful, miraculous grass. Ironwood ignored the murmurs of amazement behind him, dropping directly to his knees.

When his palms hit the ground, only one was capable of feeling how soft it was.

I need to update my arm, he thought, even as he curled into a ball and passed out.

***

When he woke they were already running out of time.

For the first two days Ironwood barely spoke to the others and thus he never quite figured out why they'd stayed. Had it been hopelessness? Spite? The all consuming thought that there was nowhere else to go? That Atlas, for all its rubble and slowly rising water, wasn't any different from what the rest of Remnant would look like soon?

Why not here then?

Especially when the vault, filled with wildflowers and an endless sun, made for such an enticing retreat.

"Soil's farmable," Maria said, running some of it through her fingers. It was a statement of fact, nothing more, and the three of them stubbornly ignored the implications of it.

"There's — " Pietro coughed, self-consciously clearing his throat. "There's plenty to salvage. Machinery to pull water from the humidity in here. First aid supplies. We could section off an area for our wa — "

Watts seethed. "If you finish that thought I will — "

"What?" Maria arched a brow. "Kill him? Like you've been saying for the last day?"

Day? Ironwood blinked. How long had he been out?

"I will!"

"Like you'd be able to. Just try it, beanpole."

They argued, and they threatened, but none raised their hands to one another again, and when they finally dispersed across the kingdom to collect what they could, none of the acknowledged what it was for.

Ironwood waded through the remnants of his home and didn't think about building another. Because the idea alone was absurd.

"Don't let the door slam shut," he'd said when they’d first left, nodding to the stone slab that had appeared after Penny had first arrived. Ironwood watched the three exchange glances, unsure if he was joking.

Fuck if he knew.

***

Those four days — or five, if Ironwood counted the one he'd lost — were conducted in a strange state of frenzy. None of them were in a position to be working on such a project, but when had the world ever cared for their needs? Pietro stayed behind in the vault, cataloguing what they'd found and making lists for what was still needed. His chair, while dynamic, wasn't meant for the sort of terrain Atlas had become and his wound was still healing.

He also seemed to appreciate the privacy, frequently mourning his daughter with an honesty that made them all uncomfortable. 

Maria went off to do the Gods only knew what, disappearing for hours at a time, then coming back wet, cold, and carrying little. Though she always had information. Which parts of the city were too grimm invested to traverse, which were now completely underwater, which were too unstable as Atlas tilted like a ship, disappearing beneath the waves. It gave them all focus and, surprisingly, something like hope. Whatever else she carried was usually small, such as the seeds filched from the bio laboratories.

"Couldn't take them all," she said, critically surveying the land, "what with so many of the labels getting lost in the crash. Don't want to eat something your lot has experimented on."

"You should. If we're lucky you'll mutate into someone bearable." Watts, taking stock of the clothing they'd gathered, didn't seem to realize that Maria was flipping him off.

He went on a deep dives (sometimes literally) for salvageable tech, most of it of a practical nature, but other pieces... not. Nothing had shifted Ironwood's world view quiet like day two, walking in on Watts looming over Pietro, assuming there was another fight brewing... only to overhear them exchanging theories, the conversation filled with as many insults as legitimate claims. Still, the seeds of camaraderie were there, and were perhaps easier to grow than originally thought. After all, Watts had once been one of them and Pietro, for all his heroics, had once entered Ironwood's office with a manic gleam in his eye, rambling about giving an aura to a machine. Defense technology at its finest!

 What was it Glynda had said? Ah yes, agreeing with young Ms. Nikos about how "wrong" it all was. But desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

They'd had that discussion, of course. Soon after Ironwood awoke, talk of Amity began again, this time about whether it was possible to send another message. With enough time and effort, not to mention luck... a short one, perhaps, and only sent to an individual scroll.  But what was the point? Who would they call? When no one could — or would — answer that question, the idea was dropped.

In the days since, Ironwood had fantasized about messaging Glynda. One of the few who'd ever been a true friend, perhaps the only one left alive who might care that he was still among the living... if Ms. Rose's message hadn't killed that too. Not that it mattered. Even if Amity wasn't a hunk of metal gathering ice, Ironwood hadn't a clue what he might say to her.

Dear Glynda,

Thank you. Sorry. Good luck.

Sincerely,

General James Ironwood

P.S. If things had ended differently, I would have asked for a second dance.

How ridiculous.

So he walked the broken streets of Mantle and climbed the streets of Atlas, more and more of it disappearing every day. Their hoard grew though, born of not just military property, but personal belongings as well. It wasn't as if anyone was coming to claim them. Unless more magic was at work, both cities would be miles beneath the ice before anyone crossed the border again. Still, Ironwood would always pause before packing away what he found in the hastily abandoned houses. Bedding. Utensils. The literal shirt off someone's back. He'd changed into jeans and a thick sweater the second day, taken from a collection of civilian clothes he'd placed into a locker years ago and promptly forgot about. The uniform felt... obsolete now, no matter that his goals remained the same.

He'd encountered Maria on one of those trips, admiring a basket of yarn in some nameless Atlesian's living room. Her shoulders had tensed at his approach, but she just snorted at the sight of him.

"You knit?" he asked, unsure of what else to say.

"No."

"Crochet?"

"No."

Ironwood didn't know any other crafts that involved yarn. "Then why are you taking it?"

Maria hummed. "Just a thought. That I might, someday, try to learn." She shook a book she’d pulled from the basket: Knitting For Beginners.

A stray thought indeed. The thing they still didn't talk about. The closest they got was on the fifth night when an explosion sounded outside, massive enough to unsteady them even deep within the vault. By the time all four of them had made it out and onto one of the roofs, the sky had turned a sickly yellow, followed by black tendrils that raced, turning, back and around on each other until everything went dark. The only light came from what little electricity they had running on generators and a red aura, pulsing from the West.

From Vacuo.

Realistically, it might have meant that they'd won. It wasn't as if Ironwood had any idea what the death of an immortal witch looked like. But the night wore on and they had no idea because that unnatural, starless black never receded. In time, Pietro wandered off and returned with two bottles he'd pilfered from somewhere, cracking the tops off on the side of his chair and passing them around.

They still didn't say it aloud, though the sky and the alcohol said enough already. Ironwood kept his eyes on the watch his mother gave him, hours ticking by until sunrise was long overdue. Atlas felt even colder now and that red, seeming to inch closer, sent a different kind of chill down his spine. The grimm that still prowled below had taken off hours ago, summoned by some unheard call.

Ironwood downed the dregs of his bottle and threw it into the city.

"Come on," he said. Ordered maybe, or asked. He wasn't sure he knew the difference anymore.

Blankets. Glasses. As many non-perishables as they could find. Generators. Tool kits. The building blocks of renewable energy. Clothing. Decorations. Wood to build small, individual dwellings.

Watts hoarded laptops and a small mountain of batteries, never showing them what he was working on, intensely protective.

Maria grew obsessed with entertainment, snagging every book, game, and video until there was a veritable library piled on the grass. She kept muttering about deserving a real retirement.

Pietro built a shrine to Penny, a simple stone monument to the left of the doorway. He tended to organize their supplies there, occasionally reaching out a hand to brush the code he'd inscribed with a laser. Whatever meaning it held, Ironwood couldn't read it within the ones and zeros.

And he... he found a cat. His last day, picking his way across dwindling islands until his eyes found the small, electrical fire just out of the water's reach. The cat had wedged herself into the rubble above it, trying desperately to keep warm.

She was as black as the sky above them and Ironwood was sure, when he reached out, that she'd run, terrified of his prosthetic hands. They certainly weren't any warmer, but she weakly crawled into them nonetheless. Ironwood held her securely against his left side, where his heart and flesh were, and thought with an absurd, internal laugh that he'd at least saved one.

There was so much left to do still, but their time was gone. That evening, eating what little they had the stomach for, water began to pour from the vault's elevator. First a trickle, then a deluge, until there was a sizable waterfall to admire. Ironwood sat on the steps with his unnamed cat on his shoulder, watching inevitability creep towards him.

He could still lie though.

"There's still time," he said, addressing the three behind him. "If you head up the elevator shaft and down the west hall, you can still break the surface. Find one of the remaining airships. Fly away."

Watts scowled, avoiding his gaze. He remained leaning against the doorway though. 

Maria and Pietro exchanged glances.

"I'd carry you," Ironwood offered to Pietro. They both knew it would be a death sentence with their combined deadweight, but he'd do it anyway.

"No," he said softly. "I did all I could already."

Maria. She was harder to read with those goggles, but it wasn't peace on her face. Guilt, more likely, but that had never stopped any of them before.

"It's damn cold out here," she muttered and marched back to the grass. Pietro followed her, Watts trailing not far behind. He turned back though.

"You coming?"

Ironwood didn't answer and eventually Watts left, heading into the meadow that stretched until you lost sight of where you'd been — and then reappeared there. A tiny pocket dimension, born of a magic now lost to this world. Ironwood figured that a bit of water and ice couldn't break it.

Probably.

He watched the flood cover the floor of the vault, then lap upwards, one stair at a time. There was a part of him, a part unimaginably tired, that thought he might just sit there. Keep rooted until the water was so high it was too late to do anything. That would be easy. Fitting, even. Shouldn't he go with his kingdom?

But then the cat — his cat — dug nails into his shoulder and Watts said something that made Maria screech. Ironwood sighed.

There were still things to protect, simple as that had become.

He turned his back on Remnant, now encased in an eternal night, and walked to the three who remained, cowering in an eternal day.

Ironwood allowed them one last choice and when they all nodded, he kicked the vault door shut.