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evereverest2 · 8 months ago

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Fire — Terzomega

~part seven of the Little Monster series~

~1.2k words

Omega receives advice from a friend.

[parts]: one | prev | next

an: i would like to apologize for a number of things on main here. one, sorry it’s so short this week. it’s not short bc i struggled to write it or anything, that’s just how i happened to plan it hehe. two, sorry it’s a few days late! i’ve been a tad distracted as of late, and perhaps a tad too happy to write such a filthy angsty story~ most of the distraction is work and school tho lol. i do a LOT of writing and rarely do i have time for personal projects. but anyway, thanks for sticking with me! rest assured little monster will continue to have semi regular weekly updates~ enjoy !!

—

“We believe it is time for the next in the chain of command.”

Applause erupted throughout the hall, drowning the space with a cavernous roar that rumbled in Omega’s ears. He stood at the back of the chamber, to the left of the entrance, ensuring there were no interruptions during the coronation,

He looked to his left, sensing a pair of eyes on him. Alpha squinted at him from beneath the mask, leaning towards him.

“Does she think she sounds good?” Alpha snickered.

“I’m sure Secondo appreciates her poignance,” Omega murmured back wryly.

Imperator, raising her arms from the rostrum at the head of the hall, continued, “Papa Emeritus the second has graciously stepped down from his position as head of the church to allow for fresh blood to influence our mission.”

“Stepped down?” Alpha jabbed. “That bastard went down clawing.”

“Rather ungraciously.”

Imperator droned on about leadership, new directions, quibbling about the Ghost project needing a fresh face. Alpha continued to nitpick her speech, much to Omega’s amusement.

But his mind wandered to Terzo, who he knew was waiting for his cue somewhere in the wings. Terzo, who he had reinforced their agreement with and had been regularly sleeping with for over a month, both in the literal and innuendo. As new Papa, he would not be so ignored as to be able to have a ghoul sneaking in every night. He would be surrounded by the Ministry, making any rendezvous between them more difficult to conceal. Omega enjoyed the secret they shared, those nights he could vent his frustrations through the physically carnal, and he wondered whether they could keep it up with this shift in responsibility. He certainly wanted to.

“—Papa Emeritus the Third!”

Omega was distracted by the huge swell of applause. At the head of the chamber was Terzo, holding his hands shiny with gloved claws up to the congregation. His face was painted as a skull, just as his brothers before him, but it was far different. A geometric inference of a skull, rather than a literal one. Omega tilted his head, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. Did Imperator allow this? He glanced at Alpha, who he sensed had the same thought.

“Looks like your boy toy stood up to Imperator.”

Omega was taken aback by the sudden jab. Of course, there was no way Alpha could have known. He must have been joking. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Omega glanced towards the congregation, listening aptly as Terzo began to speak. He whispered, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and the slutty pope up there,” Alpha replied, staring ahead.

Omega clenched his fists. With another glance around he swiftly and quietly dragged Alpha through the doors into the empty hallway behind them. The door shut with a gentle sigh of air, the hallway filling with a deafening silence.

“What’s your problem?” Omega growled.

“What’s my fucking problem? What’s yours?” Alpha growled back, ripping off his mask.

“I don’t know what—“

“Cut the shit, Omega. I know.”

Omega gritted his teeth. “How,” he asked flatly.

“I found you after practice— the last time you bothered to show up. You were in the garden with that slut.”

He took a deep breath. “And?”

“And you were dicking him down, asshole.”

Omega tore away his mask, dropping it on the ground somewhere near Alpha’s. He surged forward, snapping his teeth at Alpha. “Shut the fuck up.”

But Alpha did not back down, only bearing his own fangs in defense. “You shouldn’t be fucking with a human.”

“It’s none of your damn business.”

“It’s my business if you get sent back to the Pit!” Alpha snarled.

“If you shut your fucking mouth, I wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

“I’m not the one sticking my dick in an Emeritus.”

“Keep your voice down,” Omega rumbled.

“Megs, I just wanna know what happened to you. You used to be my closest friend.”

Omega glared at him unflinchingly. “Things change.”

“What changed?”

Omega growled again, his eyes pulsing with a violet rage. “I did.”

Alpha crossed his arms. “That’s it? You changed?”

“Are you going to keep your mouth shut or not?”

Alpha rolled his eyes. “You don’t even sleep in your bedroom anymore, let alone hang around us. You’re already too careless about this shit, if you get caught, it won’t be because of me.”

Omega narrowed his eyes, waiting. Alpha sighed.

“Yeah, I’ll keep your stupid secret. Who would I tell? My best friend doesn’t even talk to me anymore.”

“What do you want from me, Alpha?”

“I want you to tell me what the fuck is wrong!”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s about those quintessence ghouls, isn’t it?”

Electricity sparked around Omega’s fingertips as he attempted to keep his anger at a simmer. “Back off.”

Alpha’s hair began to smoke, ready to fight back at a moment’s notice. “It’s not your fault, Megs.”

“I’m warning you.”

“You don’t have to be the one to carry that burden.”

Omega roared, grabbing Alpha by the throat and slamming him against the wall, lifting him to be eye level, sharp teeth inches from tearing into him like the wild beast he was.

“Yes I do.” His voice reverberated out of his throat like a bow running along a bass string, dark and low and threatening. “Their lives are mine to mourn.”

Alpha clawed at his grip a few times, giving up to look him in the eyes.

“Well— fucking a human won’t make you feel better.”

Omega snarled, lifting him away from the wall and high into the air with only his hand. “Keep testing your luck.”

Alpha gasped, his legs and tail kicking against the air. His skin suddenly became as hot as fire, but Omega refused to let go. Even when magma red claws scratched at his wrist, his grip was firm.

“Megs— Please—“

Omega’s brow furrowed. He threw him to the ground, leaving him a crumbled up mess on ornate tile.

“Fine—“ Alpha gasped, holding his neck, “Fine— I don’t care about Terzo…”

Omega watched him with indifference.

Alpha caught his breath, looking up at him. “But I care about you.”

Omega scoffed. He shook his head. “I’m different now.”

Alpha rose to his feet, putting his hands on Omega’s shoulders. “I still love you, Megs.”

Omega glowered at him, saying nothing. For a moment, there was only the faint sound of applause within the chambers.

Then, they kissed.

Alpha reached up to touch his lips. Omega was surprised, so much so he did not react at first, Alpha was familiar, warm, almost too warm, an old flame that had comforted him plenty of times before.

Yet who came to the front of his mind was the very Papa they argued over.

Omega let the kiss die naturally. Alpha pulled away and stared up at him desperately.

“You have changed,” he said quietly.

Omega took a step back, his mind a storm of thoughts. He stooped down to pick up his mask, quickly adjusting it over his face, pulling up his hood again.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said before carefully creeping back inside the chambers, unable to face him any longer. Terzo was just wrapping up his speech. Omega hardly heard it. Alpha never came back inside.

—

[parts]: one | prev | next

buy me a kofi <3

#terzomega #ghost bc #the band ghost #terzo x omega #ghost terzo #omega ghost #omega ghoul #cardinal terzo #papa emeritus iii #the band ghost fic #ghost fanfiction #alpha ghoul #alpha ghost #little monster terzomega #worship the eversnake

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kaytheday · 6 months ago

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The Weight of the Eldest Brother

Hello! This is my submission for Day 4 of @outsidersweek

This submission is pretty long. I know that today has been a difficult day for everyone (which is probably why this fic is so long 😭), if anyone needs someone to talk to or vent to, just PM me! I am here for anyone who needs it. More under the cut!

On the rare occasions that Darry Curtis Jr. got nervous, he would feel irritable. Sweating incessantly as his fuse was cut short. He knew that a nervous Ponyboy would start shaking, going pale and sometimes even throwing up. Ponyboy had confessed that the few track meets that college scouts had stopped by to watch, he’d been so nervous he’d thrown up. Soda would turn into a firecracker, unpredictable and unable to concentrate, sleep, or even sit still for more than a few seconds. His restlessness would only grow as the nerves ate at him.

Now, Darry sat completely still on that hospital bench. He was sweating and staring at the floor and feeling like he might throw up. He was nervous. That’s what he assumed this feeling was anyway.

This felt worse than the time with his parents. Somehow, this was ten thousand times worse. He didn’t know what he would do if-

“Mr. Curtis?” He turned to find the coroner looking at him expectantly. “Are you ready to go down?”

Soda had been missing for upwards of three days. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for small stretches of time, it wasn’t like he lived at home anyway. But he usually found Ponyboy or Steve and went to hunt down some action. Neither of them had seen him since the fight.

Darry and him had gotten into a terrible fight. The kind of fight that no longer becomes about what you were first fighting about, instead becoming a contest of who can say the nastiest thing.

So Soda had stormed out.

And Darry doesn’t even remember what it is that he said. He said a lot of terrible things that night, any one of them could have been the reason Soda stormed out. But he doesn’t remember. And now it might be the last thing he ever said to his brother. And he doesn’t even remember it. What an asshole.

There in the hospital's ground floor, Darry just gulps and gives the Coroner a nod. Standing on shaky legs and following him to the hospital morgue… the same one where his brother might be lying.

“Are you feeling alright Mr. Curtis?” Darry jumps a little, of course he’s not feeling alright. The last time he was here it was to identify two different members of the Curtis family.

It seemed like a lifetime ago but he still remembers it like it was yesterday. Their bodies were still fresh from the crash. Mottled and bloody but despite the disfiguration, Darry knew it was them. It just reminded him of something that his Momma used to say to him when he was little and wanted to help hold Ponyboy.

“How come he only stops crying when you hold him?”

“Ponyboy loves you very much but sometimes babies just want their momma. A baby will always know his momma.”

His mothers words certainly rang true on that terrible night. Even in death his mother was very beautiful. She would have been glad that her baby boy always knew his momma… even in death.

He’d hoped that would be the last time he would ever receive a call from the coroner's office.

Luckily, it was his day off and even more luckily, he was the only one home.

“Hello Mr. Curtis, this is Jeff Alberts. I am a chief coroner with St. Francis hospital, I may have some very bad news regarding your brother…” That was all Darry heard before his world shattered into a million pieces.

Somehow this was worse. He thought the universe would have cut them a break by now, but this was worse. This was worse than his parents, worse than Johnny and Dally, worse than that damned draft letter that started this whole mess in the first place.

“I feel fine.” Darry told the coroner. “Just a little lightheaded.” He doesn't know what it was in him that told the coroner that. Probably the fact that this coroner seemed like a real adult and Darry felt like the same scared little kid that had to identify their parents' disfigured bodies with his little brothers at home. Darry was still that same scared kid that stepped up to raise his two little brothers all while simultaneously messing things up even more.

He didn’t have time to think about Ponyboy right now. He couldn’t imagine what Ponyboy would do if the body he found in the morgue was-

“I know these situations are very difficult, do you need to sit down for a minute? I can grab you some water if you’d like.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Okay.” They went down a few more stairs. “The man we received in the morgue came in with a stab wound among other lacerations…” With each word Darry felt himself getting sicker. He needed to throw up or punch something or maybe both. “...also found various evidence that he may have been on drugs or with someone who was using.” Then the coroner launched into an explanation of the man’s physical description, a lot of which matched Soda exactly.

Stay standing. Darry told himself. You can’t stop now. It was the same stuff he had told himself the first time he had come here. It was awful when his parents were killed. Darry had felt worse than he’d ever felt before. Beyond terrible, Ponyboy had been throwing up because of how hard he was crying and Sodapop looked about ready to combust at the way he was moving. But Darry was the one that couldn’t stop, the one that had to pull them together, take charge, and make sure everything was okay. Nobody else was going to do it.

“Are you ready to go in Mr. Curtis?” Darry took a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst. He could say no, he could tell the coroner that he needed a minute. But it was better that he just do it now. It was better that he just went in immediately. Afterwards he would need to call Ponyboy and tell him that it was Sod-

“Do you need another minute son?” Darry couldn’t breathe. Just breathe. Just calm down. He tried to take another deep breath. “Son?”

“Okay. Let’s go in.”

The room smelled the same way that it had when he’d been there the first time. The body was underneath a sheet on a metal table. The table had some flecks of blood on its shiny exterior. Darry went and stood next to the body on one side.

“I’m going to pull the sheet down now. Is it alright if I do that Mr. Curtis?” Darry bit his lip and nodded. He didn’t really have a choice, he had to know. He had to know so he could figure out a way to pull their family back together again. How would Ponyboy take this? Darry hadn’t even told him about this, Pony was at work anyway. Home from school for the summer but more importantly to see Soda after his tour in Vietnam. Darry didn’t know what Ponyboy would do if he found out his favorite brother had been killed. Ponyboy had already lost so much. He couldn’t take losing one more. How could Darry take it?

The sheet came down.

The relief that flooded through him was instant. It had him nearly swaying on his feet, his eyes growing hot and wet as he stared at the body that wasn’t Sodapop.

He could understand how the coroner thought it was Sodapop, especially considering it was Soda’s wallet they found in his pocket. This guy looked nearly the same, but there were a couple clear differences. This guy's nose had been broken more than once and his hair was longer. Soda had barely had time to grow out his hair since the four months he’d been out of the army. This guy was also missing the scar that Soda had on his neck from Two-Bit throwing a bottle at him three years ago.

“Is this your brother, son?”

It’s not him. It’s not Sodapop.

“No, it's not him.” The doctor looked skeptical.

“Are you sure? Sometimes in death our loved ones can-.”

“I’m sure. It’s not him.” Darry interrupted. This wasn’t like the first time, with his parents. He had known immediately as soon as he’d seen their mangled faces that it was them. This was completely different.

“Okay.” The doctor said softly, pulling the sheet back over the man's face. “You are free to go Mr. Curtis. Thank you for coming in.” Darry still had Soda’s wallet in his back pocket. He was relieved but still worried. If he wasn’t here, where was he?

Before he knew it Darry was putting a dime in the slot of the hospital payphone.

“Hello?” Ponyboy.

“Hey kiddo.”

“Hey Darry, what’s going on?” He sounded genuinely confused and maybe a little worried. He had a right to be. Darry didn’t usually leave the house during his days off and then mysteriously call home and not say anything.

Darry thought about telling him. He thought about telling him everything. The coroner's office, the guy who looked like Sodapop, the pit in his stomach. But he couldn’t tell Ponyboy. He shouldn’t even have to be worrying about Darry in the first place.

“Just makin’ sure you made it home from work okay.”

“Sure.” Pony said slowly, still confused. “You okay? Where are you calling from?” Of course the kid would pick up that something was wrong.

“Just the gas station. I’m headed home in a minute.”

“Okay, I’ll see you when I get home then.”

“Okay, bye Pone.”

“Bye Darry.” And just like that the call dropped. At least he had one brother accounted for.

Darry didn’t even really remember the drive home. He did that sometimes. His head filled with so much worry and stress that he simply went on autopilot, somehow managing to find the way home without crashing the car. Today was no different.

He could hear the racket before he even stepped through the front door. Ponyboy and Steve were on the floor, a hand of poker set out before them and Soda… Soda?

Soda was home. The same Soda that had come back from Vietnam so different. The same Soda he had fought with and driven out of the house. The same Soda that he had driven to the hospital to identify. The same Soda that was sitting on the couch in front of him, unharmed and not dead in a hospital morgue.

“...arry?” Ponyboy was looking at him, something like concern written in his eyes.

“Sodapop?” He asked, completely ignoring Ponyboy for a moment. “Where you been?”

“Around. Didn’t know if you’d want me back for a while after… that night.” He trailed off, obviously uncomfortable with everyone's eyes on him.

“You’re always welcome here, no matter what.” Darry said in that no nonsense tone. Darry wiped his hands on his jeans. “You guys start dinner?” He asked, itching to change the subject.

“I preheated the oven.”

“Thanks Pone, I’ll finish it.” He felt their eyes on him as he went to the kitchen. Get a grip. He told himself. Of course Soda is fine. He began to slather the thawing chicken in sauce. He went to get some butter out of the fridge when he nearly ran into Soda.

“What’s this about?” He asked, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“What’s what about?” Darry asks, taking some frozen vegetables out of the freezer.

“You were lookin’ at me like you saw a ghost. That’s gotta be something.”

“I’m fine, I’m just really glad you’re okay Sodapop.” Soda’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion.

“Sure, I was only gone a few days. Are you still mad about our fight?” Soda asked.

Darry thought about telling him. He really did. About telling him everything. He thought about telling him that he thought Soda was dead and he was the one to blame. He thought about telling him about the smell and even mom and dad. He thought about yelling his head off that Soda should have called, should have told Darry where he was, that he could have been killed and it would be all Darrys fault.

After all, Darry hadn’t had anybody to tell for so long.

But he didn’t.

Over the years he had a lot of practice of knowing which things his little brothers needed to know. His little visit to the coroner's office and hospital morgue was not something either of his little brothers needed to know about.

“No, I’m not mad about that. Not anymore little buddy. Now how about you help me with dinner, huh?”

“Sure Dar.” Soda says easily, knocking his shoulder against Darrys. “Though we might be having blue chicken.” Darry laughs, thinking about how close he was to thinking Sodapop was dead. How he had felt like this might never happen again. Everything would be fine. Soda was alive and Darry would keep it that way if it killed him.

#the outsiders #the outsiders musical #darry curtis #dallas winston #sodapop curtis #ponyboy curtis #two bit mathews #steve randle #the outsiders broadway #johnny cade #curtis parents #outsiders week 2024 #outsiders week #darry curtis the big older brother #brent comer #patrick swayze #the outsiders fic #the outsiders fanfiction

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katedrakeohd · 5 months ago

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Heartstopper (part2)

@kingliamappreciationweek

@tessa-liam @lizzybeth1986 @sazanes

@kingliam2019

King Liam Appreciation Week 2024

Read other chapters

Rating: Mature themes (angst, swearing, alcohol use, car accident, bodily harm, character death, betrayal, all the drama)

Cast: TRR - King Nicholas, Drake Walker, Kate Darling (MC), other characters.

-_-_-👑-_-_-

King Nicholas sat at the desk in his bedroom. It had been an hour since he'd seen Kate get slapped by one of his security guards and then get shoved into one of his own royal SUVs. He had sent Drake after her. But he hadn't heard anything from either of them since. He had called Drake several times and gotten no response. A bottle of whiskey sat open on the desk and the glass in his hand had already been refilled many times.

It was his Coronation night, and it should have been a joyous and monumental occasion. So far it hadn't been much of a celebration at all. He was forced by his own family to choose Madeleine Amaranth of Fydelia as his Queen. It was Kate Darling who had won his heart, and her unfortunate violent kidnapping had him feeling totally crushed and betrayed.

The phone on the desk started ringing and he coughed into his fist to clear his throat before picking up the receiver. He licked his lips and then answered, "Hello?"

"Your Majesty, Bastien here. The SUV carrying Kate Darling didn't reach the airport. Conner and Jax were supposed to meet Mark and Derek at the airport to ensure her deportation was successful. The flight to New York already left."

To Nicholas the only name he was familiar with in that explanation was Kate. And it infuriated him that the words 'deportation' and 'Kate' should ever be linked together.

"I see." Was the only response he could put together.

"Drake hasn't returned with the Ambassador's car yet either."

"Please extend my sincerest apologies to the Moroccan Ambassador and his driver. I authorized Drake to engage in risky behavior and I shouldn't have given him so much liberty to do so. If the vehicle comes back damaged in any way I promise to replace it."

"I'll inform you immediately of any new developments as they come to my attention."

"Thank-you, Bastien."

Nicholas hung up the phone and swallowed the remains of his drink in one gulp. It hit his gut with a scorching fire and the resulting cough burned his nostrils. He welcomed the pain of it, because the deep worry over Kate's disappearance had shifted toward one of dread. Where was she? And where was Drake?

The large puddles of water on the highway became spraying fountains as the silver Audi slashed through them. Drake was dangerously pushing the limits of its tires to keep traction. The other drivers had slowed down for safety and Drake hastily wove his silver dart around them. Come on people it's just a little rain.

But of all the vehicles he had passed, none seemed to be the black SUV that he was looking for. With a frustrated sigh he was forced to slow down as the vehicles became more erratically placed in his way. Are the other drivers moving at all?

When he took the car in the first place he had left the window open. He enjoyed the reckless freedom of hearing the engine growl as it accelerated. But once the rain began he had to close the window to spare the leather interior. Unfortunately ever since the window had closed he'd been struggling to modulate the car's internal temperature to keep his windows clear. He rarely drove anything other than the fleet vehicles, and driving in the rain at night wasn't helping either. The unfamiliar atmospheric controls and placement of the vents had him turning the fan up higher to compensate for the humidity.

The staccato rhythm of a random car horn forced him to look up at the road. Were they warning him of something? It was then that he smelled the smoke. It was the unmistakable oily smell of a car fire. Sweet Jesus, No.

The flashing hazard lights of the parked cars ahead were the next clue. He crept past them and then looked to his right. In the darkness, the flames and smoke boiling out from under the hood of the crumpled SUV didn't seem real. But the model of it couldn't have been more real to Drake. He quickly swerved to park his vehicle on the shoulder. The tires had barely imbedded themselves in the gravel before he threw his door open to exit the car. He ducked back in to jab at the trunk release. Hopefully there was something in there he could use.

Other drivers were standing by their cars and shouting at him to wait for the emergency crews. Help was on its way.

But Drake couldn't afford to wait. There was someone he cared about in that burning vehicle. As he threw the trunk lid open he felt a measure of relief at the bag of golf clubs that he saw. There was also an emergency tool kit and a first-aid kit. He dumped out the golf clubs and chose a nine iron. He bashed up his knuckles rifling through the emergency kit and found the tiny jack handle/pry bar. These would have to do.

In the garish flash of the hazard lights and the blinding headlamps of the other cars, he saw the path of destruction that the tumbling SUV had torn in the grassy hillside. He cursed the slick soles of his dress shoes as he slid and skidded his way down through the fresh mud. Having miss-matched metal tools in each hand added to the clumsiness of his endeavor; but who ever said playing the hero was pretty. It was still raining and that made everything that much worse. He quickly became soaked to the skin.

As he approached the wreckage he threw down his tools and tried to open the back door of the car first. The rollover had crushed the door frame and the hinges were jammed. Fuck.

The smoke burned at his eyes and nostrils and he covered his nose with his elbow as he assessed the condition of the window glass next. The fleet vehicles had tinted, reinforced window glass, but he hoped it wasn't shatterproof. The windows in the front were not tinted as darkly and he saw the crumpled bloodied remains of the driver and his seat belted passenger. In the dark backseat he couldn't see if Kate was moving.

"Hold on Darling, I'm coming for ya." He shouted as he bent down to get the golf club. He swung the club like a baseball bat and it harmlessly bounced off the glass. No damage to the glass, but it bent the shaft of the club and loosened the head. He swung it against the fender to break it off. Changing his grip on the slippery club he stabbed at the glass like an ice pick. Finally the surface began to chip. He jabbed at the edge of the window by the frame and punched a hole. Working the shaft around in the hole he tried to make it bigger. Smoke leaked out through the hole, but he still wasn't any closer to seeing the inside of the car. Fuck!

He dropped the club and picked up the crowbar. The wet dirty metal slid around greasily in his hands and his skin burned from trying to get a grip. He jammed the crowbar into the crack of the doorframe where the latch would be. He kicked at it as hard as he could, cursing his stupid shoes as the pain shot up into his ankle. He needed boots, heavy boots.

He could hear sirens approaching.

Come ..on! .He kicked harder in desperation and the latch popped. Smoke billowed out from the crack and he could hear coughing. She's still alive. Grabbing the bar in both hands he wrenched at the door and worked enough gap to get his fingers around the top edge of the door frame. He pulled with all his might and yelled out. "Kate?! Kate! Can you hear me?"

He heard her cough again, "Drake?"

"Are you injured? Help is coming. But damn it if I'm not going to try to get you out of there myself." He growled in desperation through clenched teeth as his hands slipped and slid along the edge of the door. His fingers were bleeding, but his pumping adrenaline masked any pain.

He jammed the bar into the top of the doorframe and levered with as much force as his tiring arms could manage. He coughed against the hot smoke that filled his lungs.

A loud voice boomed at him from behind. "Sir! Step away from the vehicle!"

He squinted over his shoulder at the bright flashlights of the approaching firefighters, " 'Bout time you guys showed up. Help me get her out!"

Strong hands pulled him out of the way, and he watched another firefighter jam a large pry bar into the edge of the door and wrench it open wider.

"Wish I'd had one of those.."

He looked down at the tiny bar he held in his hand and then dropped it.

Someone dropped a warm blanket around his shoulders and he held it closed like a robe. They tried to lead him away, but he resisted.

"No, not yet. I need to see if she's ok."

He watched them spray some sort of foamy stuff on the engine compartment and the fire went out. The hot metal sizzled and hissed as the rain pattered down. Two men pulled the backdoor open and then one climbed inside to check on Kate. He could hear the quiet assurances from the firefighter and Kate's sobs of relief and gratitude. Then she was lifted out in his arms.

Drake's heart sank when he saw the state that she was in. Her skin and dress were blackened from smoke. Kate's beautiful face was bloodied and bruised, and her delicate hands and fingers were scraped raw and bleeding. She was missing a shoe, and her shins and ankles were scraped up badly as well. They laid her down carefully on a stretcher and covered her with a blanket. She turned her head and looked at Drake as they carried her past him, and her terrified expression made him want to throw up.

Drake was led back to his car and sat down on the passenger front seat. A paramedic treated the scrapes on his hands while another one offered him an oxygen mask from a portable tank. He accepted the mask and took the deepest breath his sore lungs would allow. He coughed and then brushed the mask aside, shaking his head. His voice was hoarse, "I'll be fine. I was a smoker for years, this is nothing. Go look after her."

A police officer came over to ask him questions.

"Your name, Sir?"

He coughed, "Drake Walker."

"Did you witness the accident?" The officer scribbled on his notepad.

Drake shook his head, "No."

"What prompted you to attempt such a rescue? To risk your own safety instead of calling for help?"

Drake coughed into his fist, "I was ordered to follow them. Her safety is my job."

The officer frowned, "But you didn't see how the accident happened."

Drake shook his head again, turning in his seat to watch Kate being put into the back of an ambulance.

"I was several kilometers behind. I'm her bodyguard, and was giving chase to catch up."

The officer narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down, suspiciously. "You were chasing them? Did they know they were being followed? If you're her bodyguard then why weren't you in the vehicle in the first place?"

Drake pointed at the crumpled SUV angrily, "Because the bastards separated us and then forced her into it. They took her against her will. And if you're implying that I chased them off the road and caused the accident... That's fucking insane."

The officer scribbled details down on his notepad, and then repeated his question, "Why didn't you call for help when you came upon the crash?"

Drake's angry outburst had scraped his throat raw. He coughed painfully and then leaned over to spit black soot on the ground. He wiped his mouth on the blanket. "I am the help. Now if you don't mind I need to follow her to the hospital."

He got out of the car and gave the blanket back to the paramedic, "Thanks for helping me warm up and dry out."

He pushed past the officer, "And Fuck You very much and get the hell out of my way."

He sprinted back around the front of the car to get back in the driver's seat. He reached over and retrieved his phone from the floor and saw all of the missed calls from Nicholas. Untangling his suit jacket, he put it back on and then jabbed at his phone screen to call him back.

He switched the call to speaker and then restarted the car, honking his horn to scatter the people standing in the way. Nicholas's voice was frantic as he picked up the call.

"Drake?! .. what's all the honking for...Drake?"

He pulled out onto the road to follow the ambulance that had already left.

"Sorry, I had to clear the people out of my way."

"Where are you? What's going on?" Nicholas asked.

Drake took a moment to cough, his throat was still raw as he choked out a response. "There's been an accident, and I'm on the way to the hospital."

"You sound terrible, don't tell me you crashed the Ambassador's car."

Drake looked at his raw knuckles as they gripped the steering wheel. "Don't worry about me. No, the SUV was in an accident. Kate's in rough shape."

There was a long pause on the other end and Drake wondered if Nicholas was ok.

"Are you still th-.."

"Did you run them off the road?" Nicholas interrupted.

"Jesus Christ, No! You're the second person in the last five minutes to ask me that. And it's really starting to piss me off."

Drake coughed again, the painful force of it causing him to swerve and then correct his steering. He smacked the steering wheel in frustration, his heart racing. He'd never catch up at this rate. A sense of panic twisted his gut at the thought of Kate slipping further and further away. He suddenly felt overwhelmingly nauseous.

He opened his window and gulped at the fresh air, his skin felt clammy as he wiped the sweat from his face.

"Drake? Are you sure you're ok?"

Forcing the bile back down his throat burned his chest like acid. His eyes watered. No, he was definitely not ok.

"I'm ok," he lied. Sucking in more of the cool night air.

Nicholas' voice wavered with concern, "Can you tell me more about the accident?"

"I don't know how it happened... Just that the driver is going to be leaving the scene in a body bag, and the other guy with him didn't look much better. Dear God, Nicholas..." Drake's voice broke, and he coughed to cover it up. He couldn't stop the tears as they trickled down his face. "I tried so hard to get her out of there, the car was on fire and there was so much smoke. I..I don't know how she survived."

"Drake, maybe you should pull over."

Drake sniffed and then coughed again, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He made a black smear on the grey material. "No, I can't stop. I don't know where they're taking her."

"Probably Capital General. Thank goodness she survived..was she conscious? How bad did she look?"

Drake scrubbed his hand through his wet hair, "From what I saw, her outside injuries seemed to be superficial. But being trapped in the car with all that smoke and heat must have done a number on her lungs. I was outside the car and it fucked me up pretty bad."

"But She.. she's alive..." Nicholas's voice trailed off.

"I didn't really get the chance to talk to her before she was loaded in the ambulance, but yes she was conscious. And very alive."

"Thank-you Drake. If she pulls through you'll definitely be rewarded for your bravery. ..And if she doesn't, well..I.."

Drake shook his head, wiping the tears from his face this time. "I don't want to think about that scenario either."

There was a pause and then Nicholas continued, "Get yourself checked out at the hospital, and try to keep tabs on her the best you can. Don't leave her side if you can help it."

"I won't."

Drake heard Nicholas sigh on the other end of the phone call, he could tell their call was coming to an end. It was as if his sorrow had totally depleted him.

"I'll be in touch to discuss our next steps. Wait for me to contact you. Other than you, I don't know who else I can trust right now."

Drake could hear the nervousness in his voice, and he didn't like it.

"Understood," he replied and hung up.

#kingliam #drake walker #choices #klaw #theroyalromance

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malewife-overlord · 16 days ago

Text

SCL:C

Part VI: P1U70

Chapter summary: Welcome to P1U70. The master will make himself present now.

trigger warnings: violence, some gore, abuse, WOUND TRAUMA, needles, mentions of cannibalism, suicide mention

prior chapter here. next chapter is here.

word count: 5239

chapter under cut!

Channel’s optics flickered on and off as she attempted to restore her systems. The crackling wound in her side sparked brighter with each attempt, sending a pink glow over the dark steel beneath her. She could just barely feel Oracelle holding her pede, dragging her along like she was no more than a corpse for disposal.

“Skyrend,” he said aloud, tapping the coms on his helm, “there are two mechs for retrieval in the coronation room. No, not the one where Starscream offlined. The other one, at the south of the catacombs? You know, with the broken statue.” A pause. “I’ll send you the coordinates. Be quick, the stasis won’t last as long on the Insecticon.”

He took his servo away from his helm and continued forth. Channel wasn’t quite sure where they were going–her vision was locked above and just before her. She could see the unchanging ceiling overhead, and at the bottom of her vision, Oracelle’s upper helm.

“Where…where are you…taking me…” she muttered, struggling to form the words. Her dermas were as heavy as the rest of her body, and slurred the speech she manifested.

He glanced back. “You’re still awake? Hm. Hardier than anticipated. Alright then.” He dropped her and turned, looming over her. “This should fix that.”

And before she could protest, he raised his pede and stomped on her head.

—---

A roaring helmache awoke Channel from her forced stasis. She came back online with a jolt of electricity and gasped from the system shock. All the feeling returned at once, providing an experience so overwhelming she seized up and collapsed.

Or, would have collapsed, if she wasn’t currently strapped down into a chair. As her frame went limp, seizing and sputtering from the force of the shock, she just barely began to make out the details of her surroundings. The room she found herself in was clearly made for interrogation, with a table longer than she was tall laid out before her. Cuffs linked her to the chair she sat in and overhead lights blared so brightly that they hurt.

“Good, you’re up.” She recognized Oracelle’s damnable voice and glanced around for him, only spotting him when he emerged from behind with a medical taser staff. “As I predicted. Though, there were one or two futures where you simply never awakened.” He shrugged. “I tried to keep from crushing your helm too much. How’s your brain holding up?”

“What’dya want,” she snapped, giving him a wicked glare. “Information? I ain’t got none of that.”

He grinned deviously. “Oh I think we both know that’s a lie, Channel. You’re one of the Autobot’s most prolific hackers. If anyone would know something, it’d be you.” His smile faded. “But for the record, there is nothing you can tell me that would be worth anything. Remember what I told you before?” He leaned in close, gazing deep into her optics with the pits of his own. “I see the future. Anything I could torture out of you, I already know.”

She snarled at him and he backed off, venting casually. “No, Channel, I want you to give me something. Something only you can.”

She scoffed. “What, you can’t see the future and take it yourself? If ya know everythin’ ya say ya do.”

He shook his helm. “No, I can’t. I can, however, see the world that would be made if you gave it to me…and if you didn’t.” He sat across from her and steepled his servos. “Lord Shockwave has declared he wants the world where you help us to be the one brought about, and I am bequeathed to bring it about.”

She frowned. “‘Bequeathed’? Real fancy. Ya think you’re hot slag, don’t ya?”

His wing twitched. Taking a page out of Puncture’s book, she considered that a victory.

“Alright, I imagine you are in no mood for negotiations after the beating I gave you both.” His gaze fell to her ugly wound for a smug second. “How’s it feeling, by the way? Harvest mode is designed not to kill. I think you’ll find that it’s closed nicely.”

She didn’t take her eyes off him. “It’s fine.”

“Hm. Alright. But you’ve lost quite a bit of Energon from it, haven’t you?” Reaching into his subspace, he produced two filled energon cubes and placed them on the table. “Here. Why don’t you refuel a bit?”

“What’ve you done with Tickers?” She demanded, ignoring the offer. “I’m not takin’ a drop till you tell me.”

“You’ll see him soon enough again.” He pushed the cube closer to her and popped off the lid. “Ah, I forgot about your hands. Clumsy me, right?”

Standing, he moved back to her chair and added a bit more chain to one of the cuffs, watching her the entire time as he did so, waiting for her to move. She didn’t.

“And if you’re worried about poison, relax.” He dipped a servo into her cube and licked the bead off. “If that’s poison, I’m as dead as you would be now.”

Five seconds passed, then twenty, then a full klik. He shrugged. “Enjoy it. Your fuel reserves are at…oh I do believe….forty-three percent right now? You’ll need more to repair the damages to your system.”

She checked her fuel reserves and found he was spot on. A damage report indicated that her side wound had, indeed, been cauterized, but she’s lost plenty of Energon in the process. Her frame was weakened from exiting stasis, and there was no way she could hope to break free and escape on the reserves she had at the moment. Either she focused all her systems on self-repair, or she focused on escape. Each was laden with risks.

Oracelle slid her cube a bit closer to her and raised his own, popping the lid off and sipping it calmly. “Tastes like a lack of charge. Go on, try it.”

She hated the situation she was in. It reeked of wrong. The cube before her almost seemed to taunt her, just daring her to try it.

“What’s in it,” she said. “Where’d you even get it? You Sparkeaters don’t drink this stuff.”

“Do I look like a Sparkeater to you?” Oracelle drained his cube and subspaced it. “I work with them, I don’t align with them. As for where it came from, I am sure you are familiar with Shockwave’s work, yes? Before the Unicron attack, he’d created a machine that was capable of distilling Energon from alternate fuel sources. That’s how we power ourselves.”

“What kind of alternate fuel sources?”

“The usual. Stone. Aquifers. Natural resources. Nothing unusual. Come, try some. It’s as pure as you can get.”

She regarded the cube before her cautiously, looking between him and it, waiting for either to leap and attack her. When neither did, she finally took it and sipped just a bit, preparing to purge at any moment.

It tasted like Energon. Nothing unusual. No special poison from what she could tell. The only abnormality was that it lacked charge. Running a quick scan over the fuel, she found nothing off about it otherwise. Just as Oracelle had said, it was Energon, and nothing more.

He grinned like a cheshire and sat back down across from her. Channel scrunched her nasal ridge in disgust, but drank it down to half, seeing her fuel reserves tick from 43 to 57 percent.

“Right, I’ll say it again. What’dya want from me. What’re you playin’ at, Oracelle?”

“I’ve already told you. It’s my job to ensure Lord Shockwave’s ideal world comes into being, and to do that, he would like your aid. That’s–”

The light above suddenly flickered. Oracelle grimaced, looking from it to Channel.

“Finish your cube. Please. Quickly.”

She arched an optical ridge. “What? Why?”

“Please. Trust me. I know you have no reason to, but trust me. And take deep swallows.”

“You’re outta your damn mind,” she snapped, shoving the cube away. It swished and spilled over the edges. For just a moment, she caught the flash of something dark at the bottom.

The lights flickered more, and Oracelle cringed. “Yes, of course, Lord Shockwave. Just a moment.” He stood, giving her a pleading look. “Just drink. It will make sense later, I promise. Don’t let him see it. Whatever you do, he can’t know.”

Before she could ask him what “it” was, one of the tentacles descended from the ceiling, moving towards Oracelle’s head. He stood stock still as it did so, hovering just inches from his face as it produced a long needle.

“Yes, as you command. Please, grant me just a moment to remove it, and I’ll let you in.”

The tentacle pulsed slightly, the light flickering with each. She watched as Oracelle reached around to the back of his helm, servos clasping around what looked like a cord. It connected to the choker around his neck–now that she looked closer, it seemed more like a collar. It had been a detail she hadn’t noticed before, since the color matched so perfectly with his plating.

He tugged on the cord, wincing in pain at the action. Then, taking a deep in-vent, Oracelle ripped it out.

A needle longer than her servos splurted free, covered in Energon. Pain twisted his features as more of the stuff poured from the open wound, which he promptly presented to the tentacle above by bowing his head. Channel winced as the tentacle poised itself just over the wound.

It stabbed straight in, sealing the flow of Energon. Oracelle gasped in agony, expression momentarily frozen in that state, solvent tearing up at the corners of his optics. Then his entire expression became neutral and he stood straight up.

The overhead light had stopped flickering. The collar around his neck had lit up, a yellow optic manifesting in the middle of it. And when he spoke, it was not with Oracelle’s voice.

“Channel of Polyhex. How convenient that I find you now at my mercy.”

Her optics widened in horror. She recognized that voice.

“Shockwave.”

“The one and only.”

“You’re alive. Oh, Primus.”

“That I am.” He walked around her, the tentacle stretching with the movements of its host. “Try as you might, you Autobots could never quite eliminate me.”

“We–the autopsy report–” She wracked her systems for data. “We found you dead. Unicron crushed ya. Yer spark extinguished–”

“A minor set-back.” He raised a servo and looked it over, frowning. “One that will bother me no more in due time. Now, enough games. You have an ability that would be beneficial to my experiment. I intend to use it, whether you want to or not.” He slammed a servo down on the table, causing the energon cube to shake even more. “Will you work with me, or must I convince you to cooperate?”

The Energon cube. Don’t let him see what’s in it. He can’t know. Her optics flickered to it, recalling the dark thing she’d seen in it.

Fear pulsed in her systems as she looked back to Shockwave. There was something so awful about staring into Oracelle’s black optics and seeing nothing in them now. Previously, there’d been light. Now, it was like the optics of the dead.

Still, she held her ground. “I…I ain’t given’ you nothin’. Already told yer lackey. Ain’t changed now.”

Shockwave loomed over her like Unicron himself. Her spark spun faster in her chassis. Don’t let him see it. But what was it? What was Oracelle hiding? She tried to keep her optics from flicking to the Energon cube.

“Must I convince every last one of you Autobots not to test me?” Shockwave growled, producing a switch from Oracelle’s subspace. “Very well. Channel of Polyhex. I have known of you since four million years ago, when this war began to intensify in its cruelty. I am sure you are familiar with the conditions of Cybertron after the departure of the Ark and Nemesis.”

Her dermas tightened into a deep frown. “‘Course…everyone left behind hurt all the more fer it. What’re you on?”

“Desperate times fell upon us all,” Shockwave continued, flipping the switch he held. “Energon production decreased to critical levels. Spare parts broke faster than they could be attached. Our mineral sources ran dry. Sentio metallico production ceased almost entirely. And what was done to prevent our complete extinction?”

“We…” she felt shame opening up a pit within her, threatening to pull her in. “We raided everythin’ we could. From the sea t’ the moons.”

A monitor rose within the center of the table, displaying a screen on it. Old security footage began to play–footage she recognized. Her optics widened at the sight of herself and her old team breaking through the walls of the Decepticon base.

“It was incredibly inefficient,” Shockwave continued. “Wasting our resources squeezing out every drop of fuel we could find here. Stomping out organic planets and lubricating the gears of our war machine with their blood. All the while the resources to fund our campaigns lay just beneath us.”

“What’dya mean–” She began, but cut off when the footage suddenly showed her squad being crushed. “Yer…yer sick, Shockwave,” she spat. “What is this, a ploy to get me t’ cooperate? I already told ya–”

“This is no ploy. This is a threat.” He grabbed her head and forced her to look at the screen. “Watch.”

The footage shown to her displayed the Rainmaker’s carrying the crushed remains of her old squad to the main elevator, which they boarded. The camera angle changed to within it, showing them descending deeper, deeper, until she’d counted at least one-hundred and thirty four floors. Then the doors opened, and they stepped out onto some catwalks to deposit the remains.

The angle changed again. Now it was in a room, before a machine that looked almost like a shredder. Shockwave as himself stood before it, holding the remains.

He tossed them in like they were nothing. Her face fell more and more as the footage went on, showing her the desecration of what had once been her best friends.

“Do you see, Channel?” He said beside her. “I have no mercy for you Autobots. But I do have use.”

She couldn’t find words. Her trembling servos searched for the cube Oracelle had left, found it, and grabbed it so tight the glass cracked. Whatever was in it had better be worth the risk they were both taking.

Shockwave watched her bring the thing to her dermas, shaking the entire time. Take deep swallows, Oracelle had said. She spilled half of the stuff as she did so, chugging it in one agonizing, painful gulp.

And in a terrifying development, he smiled.

“Hoping to offline yourself, Channel, knowing what your fate would be otherwise?” So he thought it was poison, then. When she didn’t answer, his grin widened. “Fool. You truly think I would offer you the mercy of death?”

The footage continued in the background. As much as she didn’t want to, she made out what it depicted:

Tubes upon tubes, breaking down, melting, separating, distilling. Three chambers began to slowly fill. One, with opalescent fluid. One, with dripping, living metal. One, with Energon.

“You all have use.” Shockwave said, even as she felt the stuff she’d consumed coming back up. “Whether you cooperate with me or not. Allow me to tell you exactly what will happen if you deny me, Channel: I will remove your brain and your sparkchamber from your body, and throw the rest into the machine you have seen. I will let you watch as you are broken down into your most basic compartments. Then I will pick your mind until I can access it, just as I have Oracelle’s. You will give me what I want regardless of your desire to. And when I am done, I will let my pets finish off what’s left of you.”

“You’re…you’re mad.”

“I am efficient.” He leaned in only inches from her face, optics narrowing dangerously. “So tell me, Channel. Will you behave and play your part, or do I have to give you the same treatment as all your friends?”

—--------------------

She hated the way he was staring at her. Puncture bristled in her tiny cage, unable to pace, unable to turn away, unable to even cloak herself thanks to the energy it emitted. Locked in insect mode and barely able to move, all she could do was bare her claws and rostrum in defiance.

Skyrend watched her like an observer at a club, waiting for her to act. Perhaps he wanted a show. Perhaps her threat display was enough of one.

She’d regained her range of movement before he’d managed to drag her back to hell knows where, but with the sluggishness of forced stasis still clogging up her tubes, she’d been unable to fight him off. In one of her worse humiliations, she’d been unable to land even a proper blow as she was grappled and pinned. And just to salt the wound, she was sure, they’d forced her to transform and tossed her in a cage barely bigger than her current body.

She hated this body. She hated her new alt mode. It was smaller, it was weaker, it felt wrong, it was ugly, and she was so much more vulnerable in it. The venom, the camouflage, and the scythes she could keep, but the rest of this Insecticon business could go to hell.

She slashed her scythes against the bars of her cage, shrieking from how they electrocuted her, and bristled even more.

“What do you want?!” She demanded, glaring at Skyrend. “Do you think this is funny!?”

He watched her a moment more and shook his helm, optical rudges furrowing. “No, not for a moment. I’m sorry we had to throw you in a cage. You know how protocol is. Space efficiency and all that.”

“Frag you,” she hissed in response. “Let me out!”

From one cage to another. From one cage to another. She’d been trapped in the Pit, she’d been trapped in that pod, she’d been trapped in a jail cell, she’d been trapped in the Autobot base, and now she was trapped here. Puncture had had enough cages to last a lifetime.

Skyrend ignored her question. “Have we met?” He asked, leaning in closer. “I keep getting this feeling–”

“NO WE FRAGGING HAVEN’T!” She snapped, trying to slash at him through the bars and receiving another shock. “FRAG! Grr…I’d remember seeing a big, ugly fragger like you. And if we’d met before, you’d be dead.”

He backed off slightly, but didn’t give in. “Are you sure? How old are you? When were you forged?”

“4.6 million years ago in the Pit,” she answered. “And I lived there till I was sold to the cause. Your cause.”

“Four point six…” He said the words over and over, as if tasting them, trying to determine the truth of their statement. “That’s…it makes sense, but…were you apart of any battles on Cybertron, after the Ark and Nemesis left?”

“No.” She scoffed. “I was on the Insecticon ship. Yknow, the one alongside the Nemesis?”

“So…there’s no way we could have met, then.” Skyrend frowned deeply. “But then…I just can’t shake this feeling we have! Did you go by any prior names?”

“What do those matter?” She growled. “I’ve never seen you in my life. I was in partial stasis for the past four million years on Earth. We. Never. Met. Get that through your thick helm.”

He backed off, finally looking away from her. “I…then why do I feel this way? You just…you’re Puncture, we’re enemies, but I…” He vented harshly. “I really, really don’t want to hurt you. We’ve met before, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re delusional,” she said dismissively. “Can I get the sparkeater as my warden instead? What’s his name, Lustrous?”

“Luster,” he corrected. “And no, he’s busy with Spark Storm right now.”

“Oh, that the little freak?”

“She is not a freak.”

The door suddenly opened. The brig was made of a single room, one which appeared to be a repurposed lab. The cells on the walls were barely more than stasis chambers, able to fit an average sized mech and no more. A single door with a touchpad was all that led into and out of the cramped space, which saw Skyrend having to bend and kneel to exist in.

Oracelle stood in the threshold of the door. A wirey tentacle from the ceiling had plunged itself into the back of his head. Under one arm, he was carrying Channel, who was squirming wildly to no avail.

“Lord Shockwave!” Skyrend immediately dipped his head and kneeled. “At your command, sir.”

Shockwave ignored his gesture. “Bring the prisoner to the Distiller. Now.” Then he turned and left.

Skyrend remained still for a moment before he looked at her. Something sad and terrified had crept into his optics, reminding her of a cornered sparkling.

“What?” She asked. “What’s a Distiller?”

—----

Stasis cuffs were slapped on her. Still stuck in her bug mode, Puncture was carried from the brig onto the catwalks, where they descended three floors. As the levels decreased so did the number of doors on them. The first level had at least ten, the second seven, and the third only two. One, however, was a hangar door so massive it could easily accommodate two of Skyrend.

They did not enter that door. Instead, they headed for the smaller door opposite of it. It slid open, and Skyrend ducked inside, still carrying her.

The room before them was less of a room and more of a platform. The far wall was a window that peered over an enormous open space, presumably encircling the elevator shaft. It was pitch black.

The open space was not her concern, however. That was saved for the strange machine that made up almost everything on the platform. It ran over the walls and the ceiling, took up most of the floorspace, and had tubing branching in almost every direction. Many of said tubes disappeared into the walls and ceiling, taking their precious cargo elsewhere for use.

Just what said cargo was, she couldn’t say. But there was one thing that gave her a sickening clue: an opening like that for a shredder rested beside the left wall. And it was more than big enough to fit a larger than average mech.

Shockwave, tentacle still connected to Oracelle’s helm, stood by a computer screen with Channel, who was handcuffed on the floor beside him. She continuously tried to move away, only for him to jerk the chain connected to her cuffs back.

“Skyrend.” Shockwave looked back. “Prepare the prisoner for distilling.”

Skyrend tensed up. Puncture cast him a look and tried her best to join Channel in fighting, though the stasis cuffs quickly took effect, slowing her movements to utterly useless wriggling.

Sparkripper and Strutsnapper were nowhere to be seen. Something about their absence made her feel…uneasy. But before her was Shockwave (or at least, some strange form of him?).

Perhaps they weren’t here because they weren’t ready to witness their revenge.

“I…sir, are you sure we can’t use her for something else?” Skyrend asked, earning himself a cold, yellow look.

“Prepare the prisoner for distilling. I will not ask again.”

Skyrend vented and placed Puncture on the floor, where she immediately made a useless attempt to rush for Shockwave. Her insect legs gave out. She cursed her weakened body for its failure–the target of her hatred was right there, and she couldn’t rip his head off.

As carefully as if he was tying up a glass vase, Skyrend worked chains around her, pinning her scythes to her chassis and her legs to her sides. Even her rostrum was tied down.

“She’s bound,” he said at last, lifting her back up. She tried to hiss, then decided against it–no, there was a way out of this. Maybe she couldn’t move, but she still had something they hadn’t bound–or rather, drained.

Instead of another threat display, she began to build up venom in her intake.

Shockwave nodded.

“Good. Hold her for a moment. You.” He jerked Channel’s chain, pulling her back to his side. “Your role will be down here. For millennia, I have been preparing this army. Only one problem has presented itself to me–that of control. An army is only useful as long as it remains loyal. And this cause…it has seen enough disloyal soldiers.” He tapped a few buttons on the display before him. “This machine is as efficient at producing new soldiers as it is reducing old ones to raw material. But it cannot control the mind. That is where you come in.”

He selected something on the screen, and suddenly the machine around them began to power on. Lights flickered in the window beyond it. Puncture thought she saw the vague outlines of other mechs.

“You’re no mnemosurgeon, but you’ll do. You will access their infant minds and program a loyalty into them to me and only me. And if you don’t?”

He gestured to Skyrend.

“Throw it into the Distiller.”

Skyrend swallowed, hard, and carried her towards the opening of the shredder.

Oh. She understood now. Adrenergon shot through her at the sight of the blades within it, whirring and slicing in perfect harmony, designed to reduce a mech to shreds in seconds.

Her plating wouldn’t survive that. Chained up, she couldn’t pull herself free.

Shockwave was going to shred her alive.

She jerked and struggled against her bindings. They held. The venom she’d been building up dribbled out all at once, singing her plating and steaming as its droplets flew wildly. Skyrend cringed, a few drips leaving tiny scorches on him.

She was held over the blades by one leg. The walls surrounded her like the mouth of hell, welcoming her into its depths. Her spark spun rapidly, vision blurring from how sharply she was venting.

Was this what it felt like? Fear?

She hung there for a second, then two, then thirty. Skyrend’s grip on her leg was shaky, but it held, refusing to release. Shockwave glared at him.

“What are you waiting for?” He said. “Drop it.”

Skyrend’s grip became painful for how tight it was. Then he lifted her out and dropped her beside him.

“I can’t,” he spat. “I can’t. Something in me won’t–”

A tentacle from the ceiling suddenly pulled itself free and socked him across the face. Skyrend staggered back, raising a servo to the afflicted area.

“I said that you are to throw it into the Distiller.” Shockwave turned on him, single yellow optic glowing like a spotlight. “You will obey me, or join it in there.”

Skyrend backed away, keeping Puncture behind him. “And I’m telling you, I–Lord Shockwave, I can’t! Something in me won’t let me! I…I know her from somewhere, I can’t hurt her!”

The tentacle lashed again, hitting him so hard he staggered back. Shockwave began to step towards him, and with each, Skyrend backed away, shrinking down as much as he could.

“I’m sorry, my lord, I can’t–”

Another lash. Energon flew and splattered against the wall.

She had to act now. Puncture spat her venom, letting it drip onto the bindings of her scythes. They broke free almost instantly, the stasis cuffs crackling as they lost their power. Then she quickly snapped the chains on her legs and body.

Freed, she prepared to transform and face off against Shockwave, until…

Channel was staring at her pleadingly. Channel, who’d promised to murder her the moment they’d met again, who’d fragged up her brain and humiliated her on Earth, making her too weak to finish off that glitch Invert. Channel, who…who’d told her to look out. Who’d told her to be careful in the catacombs. Who’d had every opportunity to shoot her in the back and never taken it.

Oh, frag this.

Still in bug mode, she crossed the room and, with a single swipe of her scythe, broke Channel’s cuffs. She stood immediately, optics wide with surprise at the mercy.

“Puncture…”

Puncture stood, transforming back into her preferred root mode.

“Don’t,” she growled, baring her claws as Shockwave turned on them both. “We have a bastard to kill.”

His single optic narrowed. Skyrend cowered behind him, looking surprisingly small.

“How inconvenient,” he said, dermas curling down slightly. “But nothing more than that.”

The entire ceiling animated. Hundreds of tentacles suddenly freed themselves, each with a wickedly sharp needle that pointed at them both.

Channel cringed and pressed against her, both of her servos balled into fists. Puncture glanced between the tentacles and Shockwave, who reached into his subspace and brought forth a small staff. With a click of a button, it unfolded itself into a familiar pink scythe.

If they fought, they were fragged. If they ran, they were fragged. If they surrendered, they were fragged.

Skyrend was looking at her with desperate optics. She met his and then looked to the door.

“For this insolence, Channel, I will remove your head from your shoulders,” Shockwave warned. “Fool that you are, throwing away the one chance I offered you–”

Two things happened at once. One, Skyrend slammed a fist against the touchpad that controlled the door, opening it. Two, Puncture grabbed Channel, cupped her against her body, and charged. But not at Shockwave.

She charged for the now open door.

The tentacles lunged, piercing into her plating in hundreds of different locations. Her system pulled up a hundred warnings indicating damage.

Pink flashed, and her back opened like it was made of paper. Her systems glitched, vision blurring and spotting with black.

But she kept going. Puncture spilled out onto the catwalks, legs threatening to give out from beneath her. Channel was yelling something. Everything sounded garbled. As she looked back Puncture saw the tentacles returning to the ceiling, only for the ones in the elevator shaft to animate. Shockwave was walking towards them, wielding Oracelle’s scythe.

Her legs were shaking. She stepped back, looking for anywhere to go. She wouldn’t make it to the nearest staircase. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t stay here.

Puncture looked down. It was pitch black. No one knew how deep the elevator shaft ran.

She looked up, and saw Mortilus with his blade approaching her.

And she leaped.

—-

Channel’s desperate screams disappeared almost as quickly as Puncture’s dark form did. Shockwave glared down at the void they’d fallen into and clenched his jaw. Slowly, he turned back to Skyrend, who now lingered in the doorway, Energon streaking his face alongside his new wounds.

He raised his scythe and pointed the blade at him. “After them. They jumped. Get down there and bring them both back. Or else.”

Skyrend nodded weakly and headed for the edge of the catwalk, leaping off and transforming at the same time. Shockwave watched him vanish into the darkness.

“And you, Oracelle.” He reverted the scythe to its smaller staff form and subspaced it. “Look into their futures and report them to me. Now.”

The tentacle tore itself free from the back of his head and Oracelle collapsed, gasping and shivering on the floor. Energon pooled from the fresh wound, enough so that it, too, dripped off the platform and into the abyss.

Then, slowly, he stood, returning the needle from his collar to its original position with only a tiny whimper of pain.

“Yes, Lord Shockwave. As you will.”

#my ocs #six cycles later #six cycles later: cybertron #my writing #maccadam #tf ocs #oc: puncture #hi shockwave is here #hi shockwave

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notmoreflippingelves · 2 months ago

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Hi 😊💞 I've been thinking about EoA lately and after re-reading some of your posts, I've noticed that you said "Mateo as the next Fiero would make more sense, the arc writes itself" and I'd really like to read your version then! 👀 How would you have handled the brat's arc? 😀 (nope, not me being a bit salty and needing some carthasis, why are you asking? 😗🫣)

Oh okay, this is actually gonna take a bit of thoughts as I hadn't really definitively thought through any ideas (I was just flirting with the potential) but this could be really fun brainstorming exercise.)

Before I get into my specific plot -related ideas, there are few general notes that I want to get out there(that apply to multiple approaches one would hypothetically take).

I don't anticipate "Dark Mateo" as being a particularly long arc but it would be one that would require more than a single regular-length episode. The sweet spot would be one of the "special episodes" (45-90 minutes as opposed to 20 minutes) or 2-4 "regular" length episodes.

2. There are essentially two "time-windows" that seem best suited to a Dark Mateo arc: The back half of S2-early S3 (post Shuriki's defeat but pre-crystal well times) OR post-"Coronation Day" (if they ever decide to do a sequel series/movie).

I don't want "dark Mateo" to intersect in any way with the "Shuriki Returns" arc as-is--both because it would make Mateo more important to the wider arc than I feel like he should be AND because it would be much harder for Elena to reconcile with Mateo if Shuriki is involved in any way. (There's a reason that we never see her forgive Cristobal and why Esteban has to essentially "die" to be forgiven.) On a similar note, I don't want to pull focus away from Esteban's own "villain(?)" era and redemption.

I also think that these timeframes are uniquely suited to tie a shorter "Dark Mateo" arc to broader arcs in a thematically appropriate and interesting way by either foreshadowing (in a late S2-early S3 setting) or by referencing Estedemption directly (in a post-canon setting) by including Esteban in the situation/resolution.

3. Ideally, a "Dark Mateo" arc should include callbacks to at least one of the moments I had originally indicated in my "Mateo-lack-of-accountability" vent. (Specifically, 1. him blabbing highly confidential information to Carla-as-Rita despite barely knowing her, 2. his abandoning direct orders (twice!) in "The Scepter of Night" and nearly losing Team Avalor the scepter piece, and 3. him using his magic to attack and then silence Gabe while arguing that he should take over the Royal Guard in "Captain Mateo"). I would either have proper callouts for Mateo immediately follow the incidents in question (which could cause Mateo to feel resentful/ashamed and therefore more susceptible to a slide to the dark side) OR have these incidents brought up in the present as examples of missed opportunities to have "teachable" moments for Mateo that might have prevented this current direction.

And now for some specific plot ideas! There are a few different directions that one could hypothetically take a brief "villain era" for Mateo, so I will go through my thoughts regarding each of them. (Of course, there is the possibility for elements of these to be combined).

Option 1-- The Resenter

So, this is probably the most common/standard villain arc option, but personally, I find it the most boring so I am not going to dwell too much upon it. (There's also the potential for a lot of overlap with eithe/both of the other two).

As Mateo grows more powerful in magic, he also grows more arrogant. He also becomes frustrated that he is not being given more power/is still expected to follow orders/ does not receive enough respect, because he clearly "deserves" it. As a result of being "mistreated" or "disrespected" one too many times, he suddenly snaps and turns against one or more of his former friends. (Personally, if a specific personal grudge/jealousy against a regular character is what sets him off, I think it would make the most sense to have it be against Gabe--since they've already established them as being rather competitive--or Olivia--if she seems to be making "quicker" progress in her magic studies than him).

Eventually, things escalate and Mateo realizes that he's made a terrible mistake. He owns up to his actions, works to make amends, and rejoins Team Avalor after having eaten a big wopping serving of humble pie.

Option 2-- The Insecure

So this option has a lot of overlap potential with the other two. Yet again, this would involve Mateo (falsely) believing that he is underappreciated/undervalued by other characters. But what differentiates this from the above is that Mateo's response is rooted primarily in sadness & insecurity rather than anger & entitlement.

While this approach would theoretically still work under other circumstances, I think that it would be more effective in a "post-Coronation Day" timeframe, ideally after Mateo has spent a reasonable amount of time away from Avalor. Perhaps he is offered a guest lecturer position on Avaloran magic at Hexley Hall (the sorcery school from Sofia the First) and/or decides to enroll in a course there to learn about other types/styles of magic-making. Or perhaps, there is a "royal wizard" symposium for a few weeks/months that he attends.

He returns to Avalor and learns that quite a few magical problems popped up in his absence, but that these were quickly and efficiently resolved without him. (Presumably, Olivia, Elena, the Delgados, Esteban, or some combination thereof handle the necessary 'magical' tasks, while Gabe, Isa, Naomi, Paloma, or some combination thereof come up with action plans/strategies that don't require magic).

Perhaps, in his absence, Rafa has also moved on with her life. Perhaps she's started dating again (Rafa/Victor is a not uncommon beta ship from what I've seen) or has embraced a new hobby or career.

As a result, Mateo starts to question whether he is really "needed" or "wanted" after all--if people are so easily able to adapt to an Avalor City without him in it. He starts to wonder if maybe there is somewhere out there where he would be more valued and where he could make more of a difference. And his search for a new "purpose" and meaning makes him vulnerable to manipulation and false flattery. He ends up crossing paths with someone who seems to value his potential and to need his help and is so eager to be "wanted and useful" again that he disregards a lot of "red flags" that his new friend is bad news. As a result, he ends up being used as a pawn against his family and friends and does not realize until it's (almost) too late and a lot of damage has been done.

(Considering how well Carla was able to play him like a fiddle, I think another 'pretty girl/beautiful woman' villain would be the most successful at this. But given his lack of a father figure, an older man--ideally one with a magical background and/or who is an authority figure--might work just as well. You could even tie things back into Sofia the First by having this character be Prisma, Vor, or Mamanu (for the first variant) or Grimtrix or Baron von Rocha (for the second). Or given a good disguise and some rewrites to existing EoA canon, Orizaba, Zopilote, or Chatana might work as well).

(As I am sure you have noticed, this is the "dark" Mateo variation that has the most obvious parallels to Esteban's arc--which could be an advantage or a disadvantage.)

Option 3--The Seeker of Forbidden Power

Saved this for one last, both because it's my personal favorite and because in my opinion, it seems the most plausible. (As mentioned above, there is still potential to overlap with one or more of the above ideas, but that is not necessary for this to work).

In this scenario, Mateo encounters some sort of dangerous magical McGuffin. (Ex: a "forbidden" spell in the Codex Maru, a super secret evil spellbook, a cursed magical artifact, etc. ) Alternatively, Mateo could instead experiment (with or without permission of its owner) with one of the established magical artifacts (ex: Elena's scepter, Esteban's staff, the crystal tamborita, the remnants of Shuriki's scepter or wand, Fire Opals, etc) but without the full knowledge/training/power required to use them.

Despite the very many and very clear warnings that using/interacting with said artifact poses a danger to himself and/or others, Mateo makes the executive decision to do so --justifying his decision by the fact that he is "clever" or "powerful" enough to control the artifact and/or that using the artifact is "necessary"/"worth the risk" to fight off another more-imminent threat to the kingdom.

Using this artifact could be a "one-off" incident (in which Mateo immediately realizes the error of his ways) or a recurring event (where the dangers are gradually revealed), but in any case, BAD THINGS happen as a result. Maybe Mateo is possessed/controlled by an evil spirit, manipulated into raising/releasing an evil cosmic entity, losing more and more of his sanity/free will/lifeforce/power the longer/more often he uses it. Maybe someone else is hurt instead/in the process of Mateo using it.

Things go very very wrong--so wrong in fact that it is difficult to simply write off Mateo's actions as a mere "careless mistake" that anyone might make. People are ANGRY at Mateo, and even Mateo has to admit that they are justifiably so. As such, Mateo has to work twice as hard to make up for the terror that he unleashed and even once he has, people may be slow to forgive/trust him again.

#elena of avalor #mateo de alva #eoa meta #meta #sorry this took so long saemi #i had too many thoughts and had trouble figuring out how to make them coherent #still pretty rambly tho #hope you like

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