#coroner!silva au

[simplegenius042]

Music Monday, Last Line/s & What's the Colour Palette of Your Name?

Tagged by @aceghosts @titiagls @imogenkol @raresvtm and @strafethesesinners

Tagging @inafieldofdaisies @icecutioner @derelictheretic @shallow-gravy @softtidesworld @socially-awkward-skeleton @josephseedismyfather @voidika @direwombat @strangefable @rhettsabbott @josephslittledeputy @cloudofbutterflies92 @skoll-sun-eater @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @adelaidedrubman @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @afarcryfrommymain @turbo-virgins @shellibisshe @deputy-morgan-malone @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @florbelles @sleepyconfusedpotato @minilev @yokobai @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink @thesingularityseries and @nightwingshero + anyone else who wants to join. Taglist here.

Late Music Monday for The UnTitledverse, specifically for the last three chapters of my A Blast In The Past WIP, and a Last Line for WIPs for The Silver Chronicles and Life, Despair & Monsters and a colour palette results for my username. Colour Palette can be found here. Anyway, you can find these below the cut:

Chapter 3 of my A Blast In The Past WIP, called "Absolutely Anything" continues with Calvin being denied his POV, and the Narrator continuing to slander his name, in spite of Calvin's actions. Also more introduction to allies and enemies, as well as Calvin being desperate to just... leave. Hence the chapter's title. Sure his actions are warped by the Narrator to seem more incompetent/selfish than he actually is, but yeah. Not only is Calvin's character twisted by the Narrator's words, it's also literally everyone else, but Calvin gets the Narrator's hate boner the most.

"I used to be so beautiful, now look at me My actions are undutiful, it's clear to see Come on and step out of that cage There's a new chapter, turn the page I'll take my place up on the stage All eyes on me!"

"I can hear you calling Calling up to me I'm falling down, I'm falling Won't you set me free?

I'll do anything, anything Anything that you need me to do Absolutely anything for you I will be aware of the ink, swim or sink Watching out for anything out of the blue But this nightmare's coming true What have I got myself into?"

"Have you ever wondered what heaven is like? I like to dream that it is quite beautiful A soft valley of green grass blanketed by a warm sun I don't think I'll ever get to see it Are you ready to ascend, my little errand boy? The heavens are waiting."

"You'll do anything, anything Anything that I ask you to do But you don't have a clue 'Cause I can guarantee, guarantee That demon's always after me and you But this nightmare is coming true Look what you've got yourself into."

Chapter 4's the darkest chapter, hence given the name "Art Of Darkness". Calvin's got his hands full with subtracting the number of foes he's got to deal with, meanwhile being psychologically tormented by the Narrator and the environment around that's sole purpose is to beat the shit out of him. Calvin gets closer to finding his exit... or at least, what the Narrator states is a lead.

"So sing along to the bouncing ball Wave your flag and renounce these halls You may have been sacked from this pantomime But a pal of mine wants you recalled

So march along to the count of four Astound at the scoundrel crowd you've drawn Left stranded and damned to this mangled form To abandon us here was an act of war."

"It's laughable to think you'll bring back the norm." "We've ink, but no malpractice forms." ""But Henry! You never gave a crap before?" 'Til we trapped you down 'neath the factory floor."

"Clap along to the rapturous score Three rounds down and back for more To find the keys in chapter four." "Remind me, where've you heard that before?"

"If you thought that demons were your problem right now Well, the angel's on the stage so pipe down If there are secrets that you want to find out Hop on the ink machine and ride those pipes down

So you're on the path of the starving artist But at the heart, well the art is heartless Ever seen a masterpiece get discarded? Start and depart for the art of darkness."

Chapter Five "Clearer" marks the finale of A Blast In The Past, the culmination of Calvin's journey and the mystery of his circumstances being revealed with the help of two intruders who the Narrator doesn't want anywhere near his playground. For Calvin, everything becomes... "clearer" in a way.

"Wake up in the wrong place at the wrong time Got to run away, no way out Thought I had new friends, new allies, but they won't let me escape

I pray that we make it out alive

I see the writing on the wall again Breaking out of here Everything's clearer We haven't even reached the end, but we make our own way And we are not gonna stay

Almost took all our blood, sweat, and tears to take down all our fears We're brave, but I pray that we make it out alive

I see the writing on the wall again Breaking out of here Everything's clearer We haven't even reached the end, but we make our own way

I have conquered demons of every kind But I wish that we could rewind all the years Power and justice, it was everything he wanted But despite it all, he could never find what he was looking for Now here we are at the end

I see the writing on the wall again Breaking out of here Everything's clearer We haven't even reached the end, but we make our own way And we are not gonna stay-ay-ay-ay

We'll never stay We will escape."

You can find the Last Line/s for The Silver Chronicles and Life, Despair & Monsters below.

Still got my Coroner!Silva AU WIP No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden from The Silver Chronicles. Anyway, have some Faith Seed POV as she falls for Coroner!Silva and falls hard (not that she already wasn't in an earlier scene where Silva charmed her with her strange hyper-fixations on the science behind corpses):

Faith wasn't sure if her words were making any sense to Silva. Botany was vastly different from forensic science. It'd help to prepare the coroner for when she eventually joined their family, especially as "the Mother" like Joseph had proclaimed. As she continued to speak, she took a chance to glance at her bench mate.

The first thing Faith noticed was Silva's eyes. Usually they were a dulled grey, without a light of life in them. There seemed to be a glow in the rings of her irises; a burning intensity, like molten silver. She held a dedicated gaze, absorbing and absorbed by every word that spilled from Faith's mouth, even as she began to slow and falter in her observation. The acute stare was different from Joseph's; his held a power that felt like he was judging a person's soul. Silva's though held no judgemental scrutiny; only a warm admiration that passed over her soul like an embrace. It almost felt like Silva was actually hearing every word Faith blurted out of her lips.

Faith swears she's seen this look before, or something close to it. Yes, right, Nadi. This expression was a similar kind she noticed on Nadi whenever John was around or even mentioned, which was often. Faith had often shaken her head at the Sinclair women's transitioned from a "dutiful bodyguard" to a "lovesick puppy" the moment John entered the frame; something Faith would combat with a teasing smile and an eye roll at the silly display, always finding herself satisfied that such antics would never happen with her, that level of attention unnecessary compared to the Father's approval.

And yet, Faith found herself breathless and unfairly unprepared in the face of the level of attention Silva's given her. Though she recognized just how contrasting the coroner's was from Nadi's own. The sharpshooter's was rooted in a kind of inexperienced love; a childish crush really, an envisioned idolized image Nadi built around the few virtues John displays, ignoring the glaring flaws John has. But Silva's gaze was more grounded, a reserved devotion almost saved for Faith; a maturity and experience Faith often laments not being given a chance to have herself. Just as she listened to Faith, it felt as if Silva was seeing Faith as well. Not as the Siren. Not as a herald. Not even as Rachel. Just... her. Just as she is now.

By now, Faith had ceased talking, just entrapped in the eyes of the woman next to her. Heart pounding, a red flushing on her face as she managed to ask Silva with a wavering smile, "Why are you staring at me like that?"

The Sheriff's coroner leaned against the support of her arm, gloved knuckles against under her cheek. Faith noticed her lips were slightly ajar, glistened with a natural shine as Silva seemed to think of an answer. She observed as Silva's expression shifted, displaying a coy smirk that was almost sly of amorous. The ridiculous thought caused her heart to flutter as anticipation coiled in her innards. Silva shuffled and leaned a shy bit closer to Faith, the recipient trying to swallow her nerves at the change of atmosphere, awaiting Silva's answer.

And here's a Last Line Tag for my Sonya's Push WIP from my Life, Despair & Monsters series. Enjoy the little snippet of one of the most toxic w|w couples I've made thus far:

A steam of hot air blew pass the clenched jaw of the mechanical Beastie, its optic shining a red hue onto her flesh. Jennifer sucked in a breath and shuddered as the heat stung her exposed shoulders. The Apex, Sonya, whatever name Malvolio's Beastie crowned itself with, hadn't immediately given her an answer. She tried to struggle against the tail's curled hold around her legs, waist, and arms.

Just like last time, she only succeeded in causing the tail to coil tighter, effectively pinning her hands to her tattered and dirty golden dress. The fear of her body's circulation being cut off suddenly occurred, so she ceased the struggle, hoping to gain the Apex's favour as it inspected her from the ground, circling as the panic and fear rumbled in her stomach. Jennifer was unsure what fate awaited her. She hoped her words made an effort in appealing to whatever human desire remained in the Beastie, but if she were to die, she'd wish it to be quicker than what Dicko received.

Anyway here's the results for the colour palette name game:

Nice to see I got some blues and purples and even a bit of greys. I can live with the reds and the darker/paler colours I guess but what's that lone random greenish-blue doing there, poor sod.

[myalchod]

Silrah, detective and assassin AU

we both know who would be the detective 😌😏

This ... didn't come out the way I expected. Saul-centric more than truly Silrah, no-powers AU.

1. If he didn't know better, he'd think this was a nightmare -- but he's wide awake, and though she looks far the worse for wear and it's been almost sixteen years since he last saw her, there's no mistaking the blonde woman laid out on the metal table before him. It's surreal, to see Rosalind Hale like this, but he just stares instead of saying anything, letting the coroner's words wash over him without truly hearing. (She looks small like this, fragile, human. He's not sure what to make of that.)

2. He should go to his DCI and recuse himself -- it's on a matter of time before their connection is exposed, no matter how deeply the records of the Light Battalion have been buried -- but he doesn't, and he's not exactly sure why. He owes Rosalind nothing; he would have been entirely content to never cross paths with her again. But something about her death teases at his instincts, and they've seldom led him wrong, and so he just accepts the case without comment.

3. She had directed them to go their separate ways the last time they had all met, alongside the insistence for silence. That's why it surprises him to find Andreas' name on one of the interview transcripts. He jots down the number, makes a note to call as soon as he can get a moment where he's sure he won't be overheard. Andreas had always been close to Rosalind; if that had remained true, he's Saul's best chance at an answer, or at the very least at some clue that might let him figure out Rosalind's death.

4. The call comes in the middle of the night, rousing him out of an exhausted slumber. Half an hour later, bleary-eyed and freezing cold, he finds himself standing over the motionless body of Andreas Eraklyon, looking at glassy eyes and red-sheened pavement and the bullet hole placed precisely between his brows. It's not the breeze that makes a shiver crawl up his spine.

5. They'd been told to scatter, but a detective has resources even without dipping into skills from a past he'd rather forget, and he tracks down three names, three numbers, three email addresses. Be careful, he sends them all, one by one. Rosalind and Andreas are dead. He doesn't include anything more. If they've changed as little as he has, they'll read between the lines.

6. Three weeks later, on the steps of Parliament, MP Luna Solaria goes down to a single precisely-placed shot, and Saul Silva feels that same chill of foreboding. This time the air is warm and still, but the past feels only a whisper away.

7. There is an uproar in the wake of Luna's death. He's not surprised when he thinks about it: the scion of an old family, unexpected reformer, she'd been highly visible and more beloved than the woman in his memory could ever have been. Perhaps, he thinks, Aster Dell had changed them all more than he had realised. (He tries not to think about the possible implications of that against what he is beginning to suspect.)

8. "He didn't deserve this," he says, when the passing of another month finds him looking down at Ben's body. Rose and the children had been away; it is the only mercy he can find in the moment as he stands in the lush garden his old compatriot had cultivated, in the middle of a quiet village in the middle of nowhere. Only the wind and the sounds of birds, unruffled by the gunshot a neighbour had called in several hours before, answer him.

9. The message appears on his phone mere moments after he arrives home that evening, the text stark confirmation of all he has tried to ignore from the outset -- all that he cannot ignore any longer, when they are the only ones left standing. Who do you think poisoned Aster Dell? she has asked, and as he thinks back to his words earlier that day, the chill redoubles. At least do me the courtesy of talking face to face, he sends back, though he doesn't know what he'll do if he sees her. She replies with a place, and a time, and that night he can scarcely sleep.

10. "Farah." If he had thought to find her changed from when they had parted ways, he does not -- at least, no more than he would have expected with the years that have passed. When he thinks about it, however, it does not surprise him. She'd had blood on her hands long before the four lives whose case files sit on his desk, before he and she became all that remained of that secret task force. (They'd all had far more blood on their hands by the end than he'd imagined possible, once.) "Saul," she answers, and her voice and her eyes are like ice. "I don't understand." The events of Aster Dell and the cover-up that followed had left him with nightmares and guilt beyond measure, wondering what they could have done to change those events, but she's given him a glimpse of something larger, and he wonders now how much of what he knows has been a lie -- and who had crafted the untruths he'd believed. Her smile sits somewhere between sad and mocking, though her eyes remain opaque. "Of course not. You were always the good soldier." The wind whips around them, teases strands of blonde free from where she's pinned it up. He remembers the feel of it against his hands, desperate stolen nights in the field, whispered confessions in the dark, and wonders how much of that too might have been a lie. This is nothing like what he had imagined meeting her again after all those years might be. (He had loved her; now, looking at her face, he wonders if he'd ever really known Farah Dowling.) "Someone has to put the past to bed. You'll figure out the rest." She takes a step back, and with his heart and the past caught in his throat, he cannot find the breath to cry warning.

11. The cliffs plunge down to where the sea crashes below, fierce rip currents that sweep out when the tide is high. They search for days, but do not find a body.

[ ask me another ] [ all answers ]

[simplegenius042]

WIP Wednesday & Last Line/s

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @noodlecupcakes @voidika @imogenkol @josephseedismyfather @aceghosts and @inafieldofdaisies

Tagging @icecutioner @derelictheretic @shallow-gravy @shellibisshe @direwombat @strangefable @rhettsabbott @josephslittledeputy @cloudofbutterflies92 @skoll-sun-eater @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @adelaidedrubman @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @raresvtm @softtidesworld @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @florbelles @titiagls @minilev @yokobai @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink @thesingularityseries and @nightwingshero + anyone else who'd like to join.

Guess who finally got their documents working again! Anyway, WIPs and Last Lines for The UnTitledverse and The Silver Chronicles. Specifically; a WIP for Jurassic World: Before The Storm and The True Sinners, and a Last Line for two Classroom Of The Elite fics and Silva's Hope and No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden. Kind of a lot, but I've missed this so much. You can find these below the cut:

Here's a WIP for Chapter 2 of Jurassic World: Before The Storm:

Regret.

That is what overcame me when I followed Lisa off the ramp of the ferry.

Once I stood on sturdier ground, the unforgiving heat swept over me quickly.

Lisa had told me to put some summer clothes on; the sleeveless shirt and accompanying short skirt that she had paid for had been her initial suggestion. But I didn’t want to wear those. I didn’t want strangers to see how scrawny and soft I was. And the loose long-sleeve shirt, long baggy pants and my jumper were just too cozy, even if they were more for the colder months.

The uncomfortable temperature had me reconsider if this was a small lapse in judgement.

But no one was paying me much mind, so maybe the clothes helped. If that’s right, then maybe a little heat wouldn’t be so bad.

“Jackie,” Lisa gritted my nickname past her teeth, impatient towards my slow pace. I hadn’t realized that my baggage would be so heavy. I obliged her by picking up the pace.

Though I sped up in pace, Lisa was swifter, and the increasing amount of people clustering together made it more difficult to stay behind her lead.

Luckily the crowd started to dissipate.

I rushed to be by Lisa’s side, lugging my baggage with as much force as I could. The sun lifted an unwanted blanket of hot air over us, and I could not find it in my heart to appreciate the climate. In response to this uncomfortable pressure, I unzipped my jumper. I took a glance at Lisa and found her attention elsewhere.

Here's The True Sinners WIP, where Silva's planning murder while making coffee... but who can blame someone whose recently been kidnapped by the resident ginger soldier:

Jacob dragged Silva through the halls of the old veteran's center, his right hand gripped onto the hem of her dirty coat.

They reached what she assumed to be his office. Jacob opened the door and unceremoniously threw her forward inside. She caught herself from falling, twisting around to face her captor.

He shut the door behind him, the handle's lock clicked in a twist. Jacob crossed his arms as he regarded her, face thinned into a stoic mask.

Blue eyes raked over her disheveled body, specifically how she positioned herself; legs spread apart and slight bent, her left arm spread forward in preparation while her right arm remained closest to her hip, and her dull grey eyes glaring at him. Focused.

He sharply exhaled through his nose, almost like a whistling snort. He leaned against the wall next to the door, eyes on her. Silva didn't drop her guard, not even when he gestured over to a small table.

"Coffee," Jacob tells her. Silva remained in her stance, though confusion did etch across her face.

Jacob gestured once more to the small table. Silva hesitated, eyed Jacob's stature. She took a brief glance over to the table, not enough to lose Jacob in her peripheral though, and opted not to change her stance either, just in case.

She spotted a kettle and some paper cups, and what she assumed to be a jar of grounded coffee beans.

She swiftly placed her eyes back onto him, uncertainty and anticipation brewing within her. Jacob must have noticed, as he stated, "Get yourself a cup of coffee. And if you get one for me, I might be open to explaining your purpose here."

Her eyes narrowed, but refrained from speaking. Silva wasn't sure what his game was. She focused past him to the office door.

She silently exhaled, taking small steps toward the table, grey eyes always on Jacob in case he made any sudden moves.

Once she planted a gloved hand on the small tabletop, she gave one more glare towards him before reluctantly turning her back to him.

With an ear out for any inconspicuous movements Jacob could make, Silva quickly pressed a knuckle against the kettle. Finding it lukewarm, she flicked down the switch.

She dared another glance at Jacob while the kettle heated up, only to stiffen when their stares connected. A palish blue invading her dull grey. A contrast to the sharp grey of Father and the pale hazel of Paul.

He was a militar man. The green forest jacket with the Americana flag was enough to tip her off when they first met, but the ambush... the training grounds of the veteran center had all confirmed her suspicion.

She had been unprepared when she fought back during the raid, only managing to catch him off guard with an admittedly surprised hit, but nothing that could have incapacitated him with his support running at her.

But now they were alone... and once she heard the rising whistle, she twisted her fingers around the handle of her new weapon.

Here's four Last Lines, two each for The UnTitledverse and The Silver Chronicles.

The first Last Line is for a Classroom Of The Elite chapter in The UnTitled Stories (a collection of short fics). Ayanokoji and Horikita have lunch together:

"So," I had paused to swallow down the crumbed fish before I asked you, "The first step is to rehabilitate the failures?"

It hadn't been an unsound plan. In fact it was quite logical, which made sense, in hindsight.

"If you've grasped that, you can guess what I'm about to propose," you had told me, and you were correct. The implication was as easy to notice like a car speeding down a crossing.

My initial response was to decline. The word 'no' was on the tip of my mouth, but I refrained. I took a glance at you, and reconsidered my reply.

Knowing you thus far, you would never have allowed me to get as close as you'd already let me back then if I had rejected your proposal. You had made sound points and made your intentions clear. While I had no ambition to reach Class A, as it had not been my goal, you were a curious oddity that I wanted to learn more about. And helping you meant getting one step closer to the answer I sought.

So, I made the only acceptable answer.

"Okay, I'll help."

"I thought you'd say-," you had paused mid-sentence, my words being swiftly picked apart in your mind as you realized what I had said, "Wait, seriously?"

"Dead serious," I parroted your words back. I'd imagine the look of momentary shock should have been amusing, though I couldn't find much humor in the displace as my chopsticks picked up the rest of my crumbed fish.

The second Last Line/s is for a "What If?" Classroom Of The Elite scenario where Amasawa and Yagami went with Ayanokoji to the school. Anyway, have Class D's reaction to the trio:

As Ayanokoji began to depart from his desk, he paused. Horikita heard him let out a sigh, and much to her confusion, dropped his bag on top of his desk.

"What are you-?" Horikita wanted to question, but Ayanokoji soon interrupted her.

"Accepting my fate," he disclosed, not with much emotion, but certainly not his regular monotone.

Horikita blinked at him, shaking her head in confusion, "Huh?"

Ayanokoji only pointed toward Class 1-D's door in response. She turned her gaze toward it, the sliding door left ajar by the few students who left for break. She wasn't sure why...

She stopped her thoughts when she heard it; the rushing steps of someone fast approaching. It wasn't until a familiar magenta-haired fiend slid in front of the door way, cast her gradient dark-red eyes onto her target and propelled herself inside the classroom at such unnatural speed.

"Senpai~!" the twin-tailed girl cheered out as she threw herself at Ayanokoji, who (reluctantly) welcomed her with deflated open arms. The girl tackled Ayanokoji, the force causing both of them to crash to the floor. The ruckus caught the remainder of Class D's attention.

Before Horikita could process what she just witnessed, she heard another rush of footsteps towards the doorway, but this one slowed down to reveal the second of Ayanokoji's companions; a boy with brown hair and green eyes, softly panting and non-discreetly leaning against the frame to recover from the chase.

The third Last Line/s is for Silva's Hope, and Silva gets a short break and a new friend:

"Hey, Dep, so... you hungry?" Boshaw asked, fidgeting with the beer bottle in his hand. Silva glanced at him, raising a brow, "I was gonna heat up the leftover pizza I had in my fridge, and since you're crashing the place, I'm just wondering if you want some."

He seemed anxious, giving her a forced smile as he awaited her answer. At the mention of food, the rumbling pain in her gut demanded she attend to its needs. Silva blew out a relenting exhale.

"Honestly Boshaw... I'd love some pizza," she told him, and she saw how his brown eyes lightened up; like how Elsa was given permission to do a dangerous stunt or Hurk given the go-ahead to blow a Peggie chopper out of the sky. Or given the thumbs up to set something ablaze.

With that reminder, she quickly added, "As long as it's not reheated with your flamethrower. Understood Boshaw?"

Boshaw blew out a playful huff as he stood up on the trailer's roof, "Nah, I learnt my lesson last time I did that. Gets too charred. Don't worry, I've got a microwave laying about inside. And ya can call me Sharky, Dep."

Silva chewed the inside of her cheek, but after some thinking, couldn't see the harm of calling him by his preferred name, "Alright Sharky... as long as you call me Silva. I'm doing a lot more than what's in a deputy's paycheck. Deal?"

She opened out a gloved hand for him to shake on, and it lightened her mood to see the wide cheerful grin as he took her hand, and managed to pull her up onto her two feet, "You've got a deal there, Silva."

The final Last Line/s is for No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden, and have a crumb of Hudson and Pratt content... as they chat waiting for a passed-out Coroner!Silva to wake up:

Watching how quietly [Silva] slept on as Pratt had loudly chugged down his coffee, Joey couldn't disagree with Pratt's comment, regardless of how ill-mannered the jest was.

She's almost like a corpse, she conceded, frowning at the soft breathes she could barely see part their coroner's lips, the egg-shaped timer ticking beside the dark-haired woman's head, within arm-length.

"Hudson, you need to relax. She's a grown woman, remember? She's made the decision to deal with her personal issues herself," Pratt yapped on, and shared a thought, "Not the best way to deal with any issue, true, but it really isn't up to us to interfere if it hasn't affected her job thus far. Besides, you've got to admit she's a bit fun when she's tipsy. Night-outs are never short of entertaining when she's around. Cheeky and funny, too."

Joey gave Pratt a deadpan look, and sighed, "I don't know Pratt. You ever wonder why she drinks though? It worries me. We're pretty much the only ones here she goes out of her way to talk to, with exception to Earl. And she's just cooped up in here, surrounded by... death."

She gestured around the morgue, to the units housing whatever bodies were brought in this week. Once again, she settled her gaze on the deep bags under Silva's eyes, a combined result of the coroner's known insomnia and the amount of effort in she puts to stretch herself thin in overworking herself. Joey huffed, a somberness in her voice, "It's so... isolating. She never shares anything outside her personal life either, and we're the closest people to friends that she's got. It's not normal."

[simplegenius042]

LATE Music Monday, WIP Wednesday and OC Familiars Quiz

Tagged by @imogenkol @josephseedismyfather @direwombat @noodlecupcakes and @socially-awkward-skeleton

Tagging @adelaidedrubman @raresvtm @derelictheretic @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @cassietrn @aceghosts @icecutioner @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @cloudofbutterflies92 @carlosoliveiraa @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @alypink @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @florbelles @minilev @justasmolbard @softtidesworld @yokobai and @seedsplease + anyone else who want to join.

With Kinktober over I can catch up to all the Music Mondays, WIP Wednesdays and Quizzes I missed. Music for The UnTitledverse and Life, Despair & Monsters. WIPs will be for The Silver Chronicles, two focusing on the Bloodborne AU while one shows the Coroner!Silva AU. This Quiz will be for characters from my Wings And Horns WIP and A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore series. Hope you enjoy below the cut:

At the SCP Foundation, there is often hours or days worth of breaching at the sites, whether it be because of a restless anomaly breaking out once more or an experiment gone wrong. This is no different in SCP: Confining Spaces from The UnTitledverse. Sure, some things escape. And sure, personnel die. But eventually a task force is set in to re-contain the anomalies and save the surviving personnel, or any trace of the site is wiped off the face of this Earth depending on how bad things will be. But ultimately, everything is "Fine and Dandy" in the SCP Foundation:

"I was there to witness The victim of a sickness He wants the world to notice That he's not worth the focus He could make an entrance But could not make a friend Now he's got lots of different scratches From trying here and then

And I say liberate your sons and daughters The bush is high, but in the hole there's water You can keep it well and hidden No one's perfect, but it's a living

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy

Ring a ring of roses Whoever gets the closest He comes and he goes As the war of the roses Mother wouldn't kiss him 'Cause of his condition Now he's stuck in a prison For his strange disposition

Liberate your sons and daughters The bush is high, but in the hole there's water Do as you will, it's much less work to ignore But if it don't feel good What are you doing it for?

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy

Liberate your sons and daughters The bush is high, but in the hole there's water Do as you will, it's much less work to ignore But if it don't feel good What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for?

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy!"

The main crew of protagonists in Life, Despair & Monsters is made up of menagerie of original and canon characters, most of whom have been negatively affected (that's an understatement) by Sir Enigma Malvolio but I don't think I've discussed who exactly they're made up of? So here's (thus far) the cast out for Malvolio's head; Haoyu Anabuki, along with the DDLC crew Monika, Sayori, Yuri and Natsuki (all except Haoyu were targeted by Malvolio in my Doki Doki Literature Club WIP); Hatsukami Hinode, Icarus Galatos and Xavier Tulip, in addition to Hatter and their fellow heroic partners from France, Marinette/Ladybug, Adrien/Chat Noir, Kagami/Ryuko and Luka/Viperion (Marinette was personally targeted by Malvolio while the others were affected by association in my Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir WIP); Sonya and Jennifer (both victims of Malvolio in my Sonnie's Edge fic); Guenevere & O.R.I.O.N, as well as Morgana, King Arthur and Lancelot (Guenevere & O.R.I.O.N were victims of Malvolio while the latter three were affected by association in my Guenevere WIP); Lora (not personally affected nor targeted, just in it for the adventure, from my Arcane: League of Legends WIP); Rico (affected by association, from my Cyberpunk 2077 WIP); and lastly Sydney, Dina and Sydney (targeted by Malvolio in my I Am Not Okay With This WIP). Now this may be updated with future Love Death + Robots characters or others from other fandoms depending if I can figure out a way for them all to naturally come together. Malvolio actually stopped caring about all of them when he got the data he wanted from them and left, however, when they kill his prized specimen, Edith "Evie" Bloodleech, that's when they get his attention. Here's a song I believe describes both the protags and Malvolio's thought processes toward each other:

"The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor."

"Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Freaks at, freaks at, freaks at, freaks at-" "Tell me where the freaks at?!"

("Hey!")

"We get that bass thumpin', people jumpin' all over the world We got them speakers pumpin' Timmy Trumpet for the woman with curves Got that freak flow, freak show Welcome to the cicus Let the leaders lead, preachers preach Welcome to the circus!

Close the curtains on 'em if they're actin' like they never heard us See, we do this for a purpose just to keep that fire burnin' And we don't need no water, let that mother-mother burn Timmy, play your trumpet, let the people go berserk!"

("Hey!")

("Hey!")

"The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor."

"Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Freaks at, freaks at, freaks at, freaks at-" "Tell me where the freaks at?!"

First snippet of the FC5/Bloodborne AU features the surprise introduction of Tracey Lader as the Hunter of Hunters! For those who don't know, the purpose of the Hunter of Hunters in Bloodborne (in the game it was Eileen the Crow) was to give mercy killings to Hunters who went insane from their blood lust or kill hunters who probably defected/threaten the safety of everyone. They wear crow garb and plague doctor like clothes (and mask to likely avoid the risk of being infected by the werewolf/Scourge Beast Plague (including the Ashen Blood Plague) with two sickle-like daggers called the "Blade of Mercy". Anyway, this is like two-and-a-half or less hours before Joseph's arrest, and Tracey is (kind of) chilling out with her fellow hunters (who may or may not become her victims depending if they can control their blood lust), and while they're mucking about, she suspects somethings up. Enjoy below:

'The Hunter of Hunters is a watchmen who admonishes those who were once our fellow brothers and sisters but have succumbed to the drunk haze of their own blood lust,' she recalled Paul inform her as he initiated her into the role, 'By taking this Oath, Tracey Lader, you not only adorn yourself the weight of the Garb of Crows and the Blades of Mercy, but you alone burden yourself with the sworn duty of putting your comrades, be they man or beast, friend or foe, out of their maddening misery, should they lose themselves.'

Tracey remembered how Paul sliced across the palm of her left hand, to allow the deep flow of blood to emerge from the necessary cut and had her place her bloody hand on the engraving that all Hunters had sworn bloodlessly to. Like she had once done. However, at that time, with her bleeding palm smearing the Rune of Hunters, it had felt different.

'Do you, Tracey Lader, as the next Hunter of Hunters, pledge yourself to remain strong in the face of your blood addled adversaries... to prevail with resilience and resist against the seduction of your own blood lust... and above all else, show a gracious disposition when taking the life of those you will call your comrades?'

Tracey kept thinking back to the very moment she had pledged herself to this life with a hardened yet sincere "Yes". How heavy the decision felt, to hold herself to the standards her Oath demanded. How Paul alone had crowned her the Hunter of Hunters, with no one to witness her inauguration, but the shadows of those she must follow. She brushed a thumb at the intricately-patterned badge of the crow. The only one to have ever been made.

Bestowed upon another escape from the pain and rage of facing the one person who she could not face, lest her tough persona fall. The ghost who roamed the monastery in those white shawls and was dressed as if she was a bride, a constant reminder of her failure she'd fail to endure if she chose to stay.

Tracey breathed in the floral incense in her mask's beak to calm her nerves, before exhaling. It had been years since she had last visited either the Convent or the Monastery, and many more since she's even spoken with... her.

She spent most of her time in the refurbished Prosperity where the Hunter's Chapel resided, a small chapel-like structure no different from Jerome's in Fall's End or the Lamb of God Church, although it was a story taller than the other two, with the bell tower affectionately referred to as the "Crow's Nest" as her predecessors inhabited the space.

Tracey had been less than impressed by the inheritance, but it was... something for her.

Even if it was in the Henbane, she thought with disgust. The region had undergone... some changes throughout the years, and not just from the Hunter's and Peggies use of it.

Weird shit was just happening here, and she wasn't just referring to the Bliss. No, strange sightings were being reported; some range from dancing women whose laughs echoed in the night sky, plus claims of dark shadow-like figures lurking from the mist or hiding in the corners of their eyes, and the smoke bellowing from makeshift chimneys coming from the abandoned Misery.

Those, however, Tracey personally believed were either Bliss hallucinations or just the cult being fucking shifty, and was also explained as such.

However the other reports were... less explainable. There had been some sort of reports of cloaked and hooded masked figures walking to or from the Peggies Pilgrimage, ringing bells and carrying stretches of wrapped up bodies either collected or disposed of. Not to mention the reports of unfamiliar beasts lurking in the foliage, bio-luminescent fluids sprayed on the few buildings that were here, the disappearances that neither matched what they've come to expect from both beasts and Peggies alike.

Hell, Miss Mable complained about the fucking moon, all because Peaches "didn't act like her usual self", even though she made the claim after a hunt had been completed, so Tracey dismissed that as just Peaches hating the hunt.

She sighed and leaned back against the wood, observing how the sun descended lower, reflecting off the lens of her mask. It would only be another two hours or so before the Sheriff's Department would come arrest Joseph... or so Paul had informed her.

It was... shocking when he said those words over the radio. After years of establishing a good connection with Joseph and his cult in spite of their shady operations, years of listening to her and many other's concerns but dismissing them in an assuring voice, and years of standing up for the Seeds in the face of backlash and gifting them two out of the three bunkers that were dens to the beasts... he finally does something about that wretched man.

At least, it's what Tracey assumes to be his doing. Likely couldn't ignore the warning signs with the recent spur between the county's residents and the Peggies decade-long growth of suspicion and resentment. Maybe trying to save face.

Regardless, if it leads to the downfall of Joseph and his cult, and the Sheriff's Department to get off their asses, Tracey can't not be satisfied by the outcome, right?

Though there was a lingering feeling, just at the back of her mind. A doubtful, bad feeling. And a few questions.

What does Paul get out of this?

It's not like Paul to just let his main ally who supplies him with numbers and resources against the scourge beasts to just be arrested. Hell, even with the beasts numbers almost depleted, they were still an issue. She hated to admit it, but Joseph and his family had been a fundamental reason to why they were succeeding thus far.

She pondered if Paul is doing this to gain all of Eden's Gate' resources and property. Some of which would present an advantage against the remaining beasts, especially if Joseph really had been proven as an obstacle to their goals.

Not only that, but it also would mean Paul would no longer have all of them bound to the restrictions of the Seeds' deal.

While impressive if Paul had truly planned that out, it brought up the problem of how Paul could stake claim on those resources if Paul and the Hunter's weren't collectively affected by the Peggies actions, personal bias and experience notwithstanding. Thinking more on it, Tracey noted how hush-hush Paul had sounded about Joseph's coming arrest.

She's made her objective assumptions on the reasons why Joseph would be getting cuffed, but she never got a clear confirmation from Paul himself before he cut off communication.

The sun blared while the sky grew more orange, and Tracey looked away from it. A reminder of her next question.

Why has Paul allowed this to happen now?

The timing itself didn't sit right with her... not the fact he's allowed this to happen nine years late, but instead with the growing darkness from every second that goes by, the sun gaining closer to the horizon.

She'd thought if Joseph was going to be arrested, Paul would have it occur during the day, or at the very least, at a time dawn would arrive.

Not late evening when the sun was setting. Not at dusk. Not at a time where by the time the Sheriff's Department arrived to Joseph's Compound, they'd all be violating curfew. Not at a moment where the Hunters would need to prep for a potential hunt.

Which lead to her final question...

Why was she and the rest of the Hunters all on stand by?

By now, the Hunters would have gathered their preferred weapons, mapped out the roads and areas where the beasts would most likely linger, set up the traps for the Sanctuary Hunters fortifying and guarding populated areas like Fall's End, the Monastery, the Convent, as well as Eden's Gate property and bunkers.

Plus here, she grimly noted, seeing no signs of the heavily garbed protectors. Nor of Alexander and his squire, Hannah.

Usually, Tracey would be the first to leave... after all, the Hunter of Hunters must take to the shadows during a hunt, and keep tabs on her comrades at all instances, and be swift and effective at the signs of their consumption to darker impulses.

But not this time. Paul had specifically ordered to stand by and await further orders. Not just for her, but some of her fellow hunters as well.

She glanced over to what was once the mayor's office; now a glorified lounge set up by Boshaw and Drubman Jr, with cushioned office chairs dragged out and set about a small bonfire with desks that had bottles of beer and pizza boxes.

The two were fooling about; Sharky blabbering on about some nonsense while fucking around with the parts of his flamethrower, and although Jess didn't seem too annoyed with Sharky's topic of conversation, as she pretended to inspect her arrow, Tracey noticed how she tensed whenever the device branched its aim almost towards her.

Hurk was throwing knives at the empty beer bottles he set up for target practice... to a surprising amount of success, to his delight.

The only one she couldn't find amongst the menagerie was Grace.

"Aren't you hot in that thing?"

Tracey turned to look beside her. Speak of the devil and he may appear, she thought to herself, though replace "devil" with "ally" and "he" with "she" and Tracey found Grace Armstrong in her dark green leather attire. It was reminiscent of her military uniform, but much suited for a hunting beasts rather than dispelling enemies.

"It's the middle of winter," Tracey pointed out gruffly, though Grace didn't seem too phased by her tone, instead she just snorted at her reply.

"Don't you want to at least get some fresh air before you use up all your incense?" Grace inquired, tone neutral. Though Tracey wasn't bothered by it, she understood the other woman's just looking out for her.

However, that didn't mean she wanted to be unprepared in case Paul's orders had some solidity behind it.

"Technically, I'm on the clock," she refuted with an excuse, eyeing the sun's descent closely, "We're all on the clock, and I want to be ready once the Chief Hunter clarifies further commands. And orders are orders."

Grace gave an understanding nod and appeared to take the hint to not push further, but she did say, "I understand. Though hadn't the Chief also ordered for us to stick close together?"

Tracey, with a tilting head, did in fact recall that, "Yeah...?"

"Then you wouldn't mind joining the rest of us by the fire then?" Grace responded with a raised brow. Tracey stared at her with wide eyes, though Grace couldn't likely tell from the beaked mask. Failing to come up with an immediate reply, Grace takes notice and simply states, "You don't have to. I know Boshaw and Drubman are... extreme company."

Tracey snorted at her words, Extreme is an understatement for any member of the Powder Kegs. How Paul approved of the coven was beyond her.

Last snippet of the FC5/Bloodborne AU (before we switch over to the Coroner AU) takes place many, many, many hours and I imagine chapters (probably somewhere in the midway point) after Tracey's last few hours of rest before she is fighting for her damn life. Here is a flashback of Tracey's reaction to Faith becoming their new Vicar after a year or so of being a regular Hunter and never seeing her face after the split, as well as Paul promoting her to Hunter of Hunters. Enjoy below: [TW: Descriptions of decomposing desecrated corpses, maybe borders on gore(?), weird plants and Character Death]

Tracey looked across the treeline through the dark purple shade of the clocktower's window, curled up against the window sill's wall, her hand gripping at the knee of her pants.

Rage, sorrow and confusion were mixing at the forefront of her mind. Wondering... why? Why, why, why, why? Why her? Of all people, why her?!

Tracey didn't think she'd find an answer, until she heard him climbing his way up the ladder to the head of the clocktower, ascending with a creak from each step he put his weight on.

Not far long, she glanced to see the black fingerless leather gloves grip at the last step of the ladder, and the familiar sight of blonde dyed hair was first to ascend as Paul pulled himself up.

He was out of breathe by the time her crawled onto the wooden floor, though she didn't blame him; after all, the clocktower had a lot of ladders required to climb up until one is to reach the top. She only did it because it's the most isolated room in the Monastery.

Which is why Paul must have found her so quickly. She kept her eyes to the window as he looked her way, but through the reflection she could see his hazel eyes perk up just as his lips curved into his signature jovial and excited smile.

"Ah, I knew you'd be here," Paul commented, not noticing the cold glare she sent his way through the glass pane, "Kamski reckoned you ran off, but I begged to differ. Now he owes me ten snails."

He let out a little laugh as he stood up, though when he noticed how she kept her gaze to the view, it faltered to a flat end.

Still keeping on his smile, he adjusted the brace around his left leg (at this point, the monastery had given up on trying to stop him from exerting that leg in spite of very valid medical concerns that he ignores, though on the plus side, Kamski still gives him shit) before he took a step closer as he chose not to beat around the bush, "I had noticed you weren't present for Vicar Faith's inauguration ceremony, which got me worried. Uh, you missed out quite the spectacle."

Tracey cocked her head as she tried to put her emotions into words towards Paul. Though this action seemed to have prompted Paul to tell her what she had intentionally missed out on, "Oh, yes. Once Faith was established the title of Vicar, Silva had taken the initiative in swearing the Old Hunter's to oath her. Took her hand, bowed down as she made her vows, and ended it with a kiss to the new Vicar's knuckles. A tad dramatic, even for her? Sure, but a passionate display of fealty I never expected from her."

Paul trailed off, mumbling some words Tracey didn't care to hear as her fist dug into her leg.

"Why her?" she finally asked the man, though her quiet tone made the words sound rougher when they left her lips.

Paul hummed in question, and approached closer. He placed a hand onto her shoulder, but she whacked it aside, to both of their surprise. She recovered quickly though, looking straight into his surprised hazel eyes as she inquired, louder, "Why Rachel?"

Paul blinked at her, clueless and ignorant, trying to make sense of her question, "Rachel? Your best friend?"

"Former best friend," she hissed out in correction, and grew hotter from the frustration of him not figuring it out, "The one who stayed with that cult to become daddy's little flower girl. THAT Rachel."

Paul sputtered at her words, shocked and confused as he tried to wrap his head around it.

"But Faith can't be Rachel? She's the Seed brothers sister... unless you're insinuating that Joseph adopted Rachel and had her become...," Paul trailed off as he paused and really thought about it, thinking back on things he's heard at some point and corroborating it with this recent information before reaching a realization, "...Huh."

Tracey waited for him to come to the rational conclusion of an apology or even go and rectify the mistake of bringing an untrustworthy ally into his inner circle, but instead he puts a gloved hand to his chin, lost in thought, "That's... actually very useful information. Grazie for letting me know."

Tracey stared at Paul, exasperation only fueling the growing embers of anger as she stood up, "That's it? THAT'S FUCKING IT?! That's all you have to say? Why is it good to know? Why did you put her in a position of power close enough to your own? Why have the Hunters allied with Eden's Gate, despite what I told you about them? WHY, Paul?!"

Chest heaving and breathless, Tracey tried to hold on to her ire, to direct it at someone she thought knew better. Because that'd be easier than confronting HER, wouldn't it?

In spite of her outburst, Paul regarded her with nothing but a concerned gentleness. His gaze was reminiscent of when he first met her; the same balance of pity and empathy he showed when he spoke to a teen with no home and no place in the world, given to her once more while she was barely entering her twenties now.

It was the same, it had to be; there was no condescension, no manner of coddling, just... understanding and patience.

She wondered if this is something he learned as a father while raising Silva. A brief thought came after that too, 'Does he see himself as a father to me?'

She dismissed it though. Paul was like this with every one of his Hunters. She supposed he attain some of his more fatherly qualities into his leadership, but she could understand that the authority of both roles could intersect.

She didn't need a father. Never had. But she respected Paul. He ran a tight ship based on comradery and loyalty, and wasn't afraid to get dirty with them if the situation called for it, something she can't say the same about Joseph and his brothers during her time in the Project, even with his whole bullshit spiel of "I am your father and you are my children".

She supposed, thinking back on it, she had assumed Rachel to be the same as her.

Maybe she should have brought Rachel here instead of listening to that old coot.

Paul slowly moved closer to her, a slight limp to his braced left leg. He was tall, at least a head taller than her, but he wasn't intimidating, not to her at least. Silva was intimidating, but only because it was like she knew things that Tracey didn't, and the latter was fine with that.

Even then, fear wasn't something used to lead here. Fear was a reminder that they were still human.

'Fear is one step away from courage, if you're willing to confront it,' she remembered Elsa once say. The woman was a box of mysteries, and not one Tracey had the patience to unwrap.

"I know you're worried," Paul acknowledged, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, "I understand your concerns. If I had my way, I'd want nothing to do with the Seeds. But we need help against the beasts, and as luck would have it, the Project has the people and the resources we can utilize, in exchange for giving them the beasts' dens after we eradicate them."

Tracey shook her head as she tried walk past him, but he place another hand on her shoulder. Although it was gentle and held little strength, she decided not to push past him, and let him say his piece.

"I'm not being foolish here, Tracey," he assures her, giving a small pat, "I know their not trustworthy. I know bringing Faith in as our Vicar is a risk. I wouldn't do this unless I was confident I could counter anything they could try."

Tracey felt her outrage begin to dissipate, although it didn't leave completely. She was confused on why he'd still do this in spite of the risks, "Then... why?"

Paul looked away as he pondered an answer; or perhaps, whether or not he should disclose the information to her. Looking back to her though, he cracked and gave in, "Because game recognizes game. They're planners. Schemers. I am aware of the threat they pose, and I want to be able to keep a close eye on them, or at least have leverage."

Tracey narrowed her eyes at Paul; while she was glad he wasn't being ignorant to the threat and acknowledged the danger Eden's Gate can pose, she was alarmed by his last sentence, "Is Ra- Faith leverage?"

Paul cringed. Another contrast from what she's seen between Joseph and Paul; one kept a serene and almost otherworldly act up, as if he was close but still a messiah to be idiolized from afar... like the moon, in a weird sense. Beautiful and appealing from afar, but ugly and desolate up close.

Meanwhile, time after time, she's consistently seen just how... honest Paul was in his expressions. Joy and sadness, amusement and annoyance, patience and anger, pride and disappointment. And sometimes embarrassment. He was so... human, that it almost made her forget how she knew he and his daughter hide things from many people.

But that mostly related to whatever was in their past, some inner workings of the Hunters, and however the fuck 'Enlightenment' works. And frankly, two of those were none of her business, and all three didn't affect the public as far as she was concerned.

Paul spoke once more, though more hesitant she noticed, and less explanatory, "...I don't intend her to be. I really can't say much else than that, Tracey."

Tracey however wanted to confirmation, "But if it came down to it... would you?"

Paul frowned, looking almost apologetic, "I can't get things to go the direction I hope it will go... then sì. I don't like it, and I can guess how you feel, but it'll be the only advantage we have to keep Joseph on a leash. Or at dealt with."

Paul saw how conflict riddled Tracey's face, and he added, "I'm not going to hurt her. That had never been the intention when bringing her in, and you know, that's not what we do here. I need you to trust me, cara puma. Trust that... I can help her see something better than him."

Tracey looked to Paul, how his hazel eyes implored for her to believe in him. Such sincerity that she'd never see through Joseph's serenity. She gave a sigh, "I... guess I can trust you."

Paul looked relieved. Tracey though thought of those white shawls around the dress of the Vicar's garb, crowned by flowers and three blood gems forged by their rune masters Isiah and Gemini. A hauntingly beautiful visage that would roam these halls, and a reminder of how she wasn't enough for her in the end.

And she couldn't face her. Not now. So, she had to tell him, "But... Paul I can't be in the same building as her. I don't want to leave the Hunter's Coven... I really don't but if there's no other option...."

She left the rest unsaid, though seeing how Paul noticed her distress, she realized she didn't have to say it. He understood.

She expected him to accept her words as a resignation, but was surprised by his next words, "There is one..."

Tracey's attention was captured, and Paul continued, "I had wanted to talk to you about this for some time now. You see... in light of Hunter Elsa's death, there had been no successors, whether chosen by her will or volunteering themselves, to take up her mantle of the Hunter of Hunters."

"Silva and I had a discussion about it... trying to figure out who could be a worthy successor to her sorella," Paul explained, and Tracey felt her heat beat pace up as Paul regained eye contact with her, "And we agreed that maybe... if you're willing... it could be you."

Tracey, to put it simply, was at a loss of words. Paul, however, was not, so he continued, "Again, you can refuse. It's less an offer and more of a burden to ask of you. But it might help you get what you want... you can keep to yourself, you're not required to be with groups, only fight when you need to, and you don't have to set foot on the Monastery again. You'll be stationed at Prosperity in the Henbane, where most of the other Hunters reside. You won't ever have to cross paths with Faith, as we're mostly keeping her here and likely visits elsewhere, but not Prosperity."

"It's not ideal, but it's yours if you- woah!" Paul had to balance himself from the weight of the young woman hugging into him. Tracey couldn't fathom how a clusterfuck of a misunderstanding in the form of an accidental kidnapping lead to her finding like-minded people who were ready to fight for the county's freedom against the scourge. Nor the fact they show respect to her as a person.

"Thank you," she softly whispered, the gratitude carrying more weight than just this offer.

Paul slowly returned the embrace, lightly and clearly trying to avoid being too clingy, but he was at least relaxed.

He gave a small calming pat to her back, the rays of sunlight breaking through the window, shining a purple hue through the clocktower's tinted glass , "Anything for my Hunters."

--------

In the darkness that expanded in the maze of the catacombs, the decaying plant growth crunched under the weight of Tracey's boots, despite her cautious steps.

Through her mask's lens, she could see vines and moss cling dead to the walls, the ceiling and the ground. Mold spread along the walls and ceilings, sewage dripping from old rusted pipes and dust circulated in the air. But that wasn't all; there were two other unidentifiable flora growths in this labyrinth.

The first was a fat, pulsing bio-luminescent fungus growing from the cracks of the floor, spewing out what was clearly spores and leaking... something out of its cavity hole. Tracey was thankful to her beaked mask, breathing in the floral incense instead... whatever is in the air.

The second was less flora and more of a mini structure; a packed group of hexagonal prismatic columns stuck to corners of the expanse including the pillars, similar to that of a wasp nest or a beehive. Difference was, Tracey didn't believe these to be made of bee wax or dead leaves. It looked more like yellowed cartilage.

Tracey spotted buzzing yellowjackets writhing inside the hives. She swallowed on nothing, fear keeping her heart pounding, alive and on edge.

She could never picture the monastery having a basement level... especially one so deep. Pots of cremated ash laid at the bottom of the walls, the walls aligned with skulls, the age of which she couldn't tell.

She didn't want to waste time inspecting the architecture of a level she only felt unease in. She called out once more, "Lindsey! Are you here?!"

She saw on the other side of this room another set of doorways wide open, a possible indication that Dr. Lindsey went through there. She shook her head in frustration; this would be the fourth set of doors she'd go through in the Monastery, the first being the base level and the next ones descending further into the basement.

She decided to run through it until she saw the veterinarian or bumped into him.

She sped in a burst, dashing past the doorways, expecting to run down a curve of steps. Instead she stumbled and fell over two steps, managing to at least roll to avoid landing on her face.

She grunted, displeased. Tracey began to stand, pushing one hand down for support, but froze when she hear repulsing squish.

She down to where her gloved hand was, and saw it was pressed inside the decomposing corpse of a man; a Peggie, she noted, seeing the slashed marking of their cross. She retracted her hand away from it, keeping her hand close to the hilt of one blade.

She slowly stood up as she inspected the new room; similar to the architecture of the catacombs, the only difference she found were the four dead trees, the broken gravestones circling close the walls and corners of the room (with exception to the entrance and whatever opening was on the other side of the spore mist) and lastly the abundance of decomposing corpses, human and beast alike, male and female, big and small, strewn across the floor, the ground covered in their collective dried blood.

They all shared the same fatal wounds; one slash across the chests, stomachs and backs, or perhaps missing chunks of their bodies, or skulls busted open, and all having some form of their limbs and heads all separated from the body in a fest of gore. She wasn't even sure if the appendages she can see belong to any of the bodies or if some had been taken to... elsewhere.

Thoughts of the Misery invaded Tracey's mind, but she shook it away. Although what she witnessed there was... horrific, what she can see now was above it, if not equal to-

-elch!

Tracey froze at the distant sound. Heart hammering, she tilted her head, listening closely for small sound. She tensed when she heard it reverberate around the room again.

Squelch!

Breathing heavily, she gripped tightly around both her blades' handles, ready to draw them at the slightest hint of trouble as she maneuvered her steps around the corpses. Gaining closer, she heard it louder.

SQUELCH!

From a small distance, she could see a figure's silhouette through the mist. They lifted their arms, clearly holding a long, sharp-ended or perhaps spiked weapon that requires two hands, before bringing it down again, result in the disturbing squelch, this time with the addition of a crunch.

She unsheathed her blades just a bit, as she gained closer behind her distracted enemy. That's at least what she assumed they were. From the looks of it, human. Sharply dressed in what seemed to be yellow and black hunter's garb. A blood-drunk serial-killing Hunter? Now I've seen everything tonight, she thought to herself.

She found herself eating her words too early as she halted in her approach when she noticed three distinct details.

First, this hunter's figure and small raspy ragged breath indicated that he was male.

Second, he held a curved, hooked staff, the head taking on the familiar appearance of a curled wasp with with spikes along the back for a painful blunt attack.

And third, his left leg was adorned with a brace around it.

Tracey's eyes widened as she recognized who this Hunter was.

The nausea set in when he stopped cutting down the limb of the corpse. A recently bloodied dark-haired corpse that had a red slash across the teal shirt, crimson splotches staining the black vest and dusty grey pants.

The shattered rectangular glasses and dropped busted open med kit, the contents spilled from the fall, were only a confirmation of both the victim's identity and who the culprit was for the other corpses.

He released a deep exhale, while her breaths only increased. He calmly removed one hand from his weapon and leaving his other on it, all the while her hands trembled on the hilt of her blades.

She could only watch as his turned, not all the way, not revealing all of his features, for she didn't need to discern who he was even if he did, but to acknowledge her presence.

"Ah... Lader," Paul drawled out her surname with such serenity that it just sounded wrong. Tracey shuddered as he said, "I knew you'd come here."

[A/n] Psych! It was a flashback and the present moment! Also sorry Charles, but you're canonically friends with Tracey and happiness more-or-less doesn't exist in this AU.

Now let's cut to an AU that's more... not lighthearted but certainly not Bloodborne. A scene of my Coroner!Silva AU that's not actually part of the main Coroner AU fic No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden since in that fic the Reaping doesn't occur. Pretty much it's less "story with themes and messages and character development stuff" and more "crack treated seriously". I find this version of the AU funny because there is NO badass deputy the Resistance can rely on. Instead they've got Coroner!Silva whose functioning below 4 hours of sleep, drinks when stressed or sad, and she's in no state to fight (at least with guns... she can give a good stab with her dagger but that's as violent as she gets). Like the Resistance here are handling with whatever scraps they can gather (while Eden's Gate has all the good shit) and Silva's utilized just as Lindsey is; aka the closest people they've got to medical professionals (except one usually deals with animals and the other usually deals with dead people). However, thing is, this Silva still knows shit and often gives advice and training, and though she's not fighting on the field, she is doing reconnaissance, marking property for the Resistance and plays messenger between the regions' Resistance. She still upholds Deputy!Silva's tradition of refusing to join the Seed's cult and finding all the ways to inconvenience/piss them off (except for Faith, because Coroner!Silva had the bright idea to attempt seduction and is somehow surprised she ended up in a situationship with the Seed sister). That's the gist of it. Enjoy the few seconds of Nancy's appearance:

Nancy spoke into the headset's microphone once more, desperate to receive any contact back after Earl's panicked voice rang in, "Come in... is everything OK? Over."

Silence responded back, no sound of the Sheriff nor the deputies. Not even the Marshal. Could have something gone wrong? came the worried thought, Had the arrest gone awry? Or had God decided upon their fates?

Feeling a pang of sadness if that was the case, she tried again once more, "Please, are you there? Are you there? Are you there, Sheriff?"

Receiving no response from Earl, she tried the next names that came to mind.

"Deputy Hudson, if you're there please pick up," She repeated, glancing around the room to see if anyone else was there. Specifically the department's coroner, Silva.

She assumed her to still be in her morgue, which brought Nancy a sense of relief.

It wouldn't do that poor woman any good to listen to this, she thought to herself, focusing back to her screen, Dear Lord, if it's within your plan, please spare them. They're important to more people than myself.

"Deputy Pratt? Are you there? Are you there?" she asked frantically, "Earl, com in. Over."

"Please, is anyone there?" Nancy spoke, voice quivering as the silence grew louder, "Please, pick up. I need to know what's going on-"

"Dispatch," came a voice, all too familiar to her, all too gentle, that it put her at ease.

"Oh my god," she breathed out in revered relief, knowing the Father was alright.

"Everything is just fine here," he spoke, his words carrying an assuring weight, a wordless message that told Nancy, They're alive. They're safe. They're with us now. At least that's what Nancy chose to believe as the Father instructed, "No need to call anyone."

Nancy gave a small smile, understanding the meaning of his words. The Reaping has begun. Ensure it remains uninterrupted.

"Yes, Father," she replied through the microphone, knowing her new purpose now, "Praise be to you."

She switched off the call, removing the headset to prepare for her next task.

Though she paused when she heard the clinking sound of metal being dragged off the counter and fast pace of shoes running against the floor.

The last thing Nancy saw as she turned around was the glimpse of a white coat and the end of the coffee maker before pain and then darkness.

---

Silva had not believed herself capable of committing any sort of violence in the present day. She though the days of pain and returning pain onto others was far behind her in this new life of hers.

Although, staring at Nancy's unconscious form that flopped from her seat and onto the floor with a purple-ish bruise already forming on her forehead, had the coroner rethink that belief.

Discarding the now inoperable coffee maker, Silva flicked the communications back on. Grabbing the headset and bringing the microphone muff to one ear, she called out, "Sheriff? Hudson? Pratt? Can you hear me? Over."

She received only static. So she tried once more.

"It's Silva! It's a trap. I repeat, it's a trap. Nancy's one of them," she tried to warn through the call, "Please. Someone respond."

Soon enough, the screen flickered with an error, the call cancelled or some form if interference, she'd assume. Silva slammed the headset down, distressed.

She cursed under her native tongue, dragging a gloved hand through her long dark hair. She looked down to the groaning form of Nancy, a sensation of confused ire at being deceived by someone she thought to at least be a close co-worker.

However, she couldn't focus on Nancy now; the other's were being lead to a trap, or perhaps had been, she couldn't tell. All she overheard was Nancy's affirmative yes to who she could only assume to be the Project's cult leader, and giving her praise to him.

Looking at the coffee maker, she cringed at the thought that perhaps she went a tad far in her reaction, but she digressed; Nancy was a traitor and the few people she could call the closest things to friends were now in danger or worse.

She had to do something. But what?

And finally, the quiz results for two OCs each from Wings And Horns and A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore:

CADET AZRIEL (WINGS AND HORNS [ORIGINAL WORKS])

JEZEBEL BA'AL (WINGS AND HORNS [ORIGINAL WORK])

NATE GUST SARID (A SYMBOL FOR A BETTER WORLD [FALLOUT 4])

These are all surprisingly more-or-less correct for these three characters.

[the-silver-chronicles]

WIP Wednesday and Last Line

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @g0dspeeed @nightbloodbix @cassietrn (for WIP Wednesday) and @deputyash (for last line)

Tagging @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @strangefable @strafethesesinners @carlosoliveiraa @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @chazz-anova @bitchofedensgate @trashcatsnark @minilev @onehornedbeast @voidika @afarcryfrommymain @corvosattano @derelictheretic @deputy-morgan-malone @dephellseed @skoll-sun-eater @florbelles @fourlittleseedlings @henbased @titiagls @vampireninjabunnies-blog @wrathfulrook @inafieldofdaisies @la-grosse-patate @ladyoriza @shallow-gravy @snake-in-the-garden @softtidesworld @starsandskies @thewanderer-000 and @megraen

FC5 WIPs for No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden, a new fic Let The Skyfall (When It Crumbles) and last line for You’re Almost Like Family. Also the first official introduction for Silva's (disowned) adopted father, Paul Yellowjack!

TW: First WIP involves mentions of bullying and abuse. Second WIP involves... IDK body mutilation? Self-body multilation? Screw it, a wasp comes out of a character's hand, then it takes off its hard shells, and proceeds to enter a different character's mouth in semi-disturbing detail. Probably inaccurate anatomy on both humans and supernatural yellowjackets too. Last line involves a main character getting shot dead (not for long though) so there's that too. There! Enjoy.

Here's the moment in No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden that the Voice realizes its Muse is in the wrong occupation and Joseph unfortunately suffers from its temper tantrum. I hope I was able to do Joseph and the Voice justice here. Snippet below:

The distrustful gazes of the deputies nearby did not go unnoticed by Joseph, their eyes held onto barely hidden wrath towards him and his brother. It felt like an additional weight of the burden he carried, even after John successfully bailed three of his formerly detained flock.

The Sheriff and his department saw him as crazy. They looked at him like a madman. Their fear of the unknown, it prevented them from seeing the signs of the Collapse.

The sins that blinded them from this truth were the same sins that the government pushed them to indulge in, indoctrinating the consumerist lifestyle upon them, turning them away from God's warm embrace.

Joseph mumbled a silent prayer, a blessing for these misguided souls, holding onto faith that his Lord will guide the deputies, the supposed protectors of the county, to his flock, where he and his siblings would guide them on the right path.

Perhaps Jacob could train them to be true protectors...

But only time will tell if the deputies would accept his truth, if the Sheriff would. For the meantime, Joseph would focus on his children, those who have accepted him as their Father.

Turning his attention back to the conversing John and Sheriff Whitehorse, he felt warmth on the back of his head, and recognized a soft humming above him.

He was more alert, closely listened as the words exchanged between John and the Sheriff became mute, the persistent hum above him canceling out the hum of the building's air conditioner. The warmth of His glow consumed the cool air, and Joseph felt expectant eyes upon him, from beyond his own perception.

The Voice. His Lord, his God. Have you a message for me, Lord?

No, the Voice spoke, its tone even and still, lacking emotion yet always familiar, always reassuring to Joseph, I have need of your eyes, Joseph. The Hell that will follow the Whitehorse is here... nearby.

Joseph's blue eye widened in shock. The pace of his beating heart quickened. The very reminder of this... figure, quickened the steady pace of his heart. This figure whom the Voice had said embodied "Hell" itself, was one that haunted him. This lost soul was one he never truly got a glimpse of in his visions, both the good and the terrifying. Always obscured by the environment, whether it be the sun that shined between him and them, in the Garden that will become their New Eden, or the shadows and flames that consumed him and the corpses of his family, their back turned to the destruction they made, the paradise he tried to preserve.

The Voice had told him that it was up to him, His prophet, to bring this Great Sinner to the correct path, for they were his family's salvation, or face the destruction they will wrought. He had asked once, at the pews of his chapel, "How will I know to help them if I don't even know who this Sinner is? What do they look like?"

The Voice hadn't answered him right away, but when it did, he was unable to stop the dreadful weight sink on his soul, "You will know on the day the locusts come for you. You will know when Hell stands in front of you in this house of Mine. You will know on the morning the First Seal breaks and the Reaping finally begins."

He wondered, briefly, if it was time. If the day of reckoning that he had been tasked with preparing for had finally come upon him, at a moment where he wasn't with the rest of his flock, and in the heart of the locusts' nest.

Though Joseph put the thought to rest with the knowledge the Voice had passed to him. The day the First Seal broke would be in the morning, on compound grounds where his Flock and Family resided, and the locusts' attitude was more that of frustration than being on the offensive.

As if sensing his confusion, Joseph heard his Lord's voice once more, Calm yourself, my child. It is not time yet. This is merely an observation. An introduction if you will. You had asked me, "Who is the Sinner whom heralds Hell?" I had not thought you ready, but now, I deem it so. You will see the shape this harbinger of destruction takes form in.

Joseph's eyes shifted from the locusts, the green deputy uniforms coiling the uneasy nausea that settles on his dread. And what form is that, Lord?

The anticipation of finally seeing the one constant figure in his visions, his flock's savior or destroyer, all depending on the choice he makes, how far he can go to reach their soul and bring them into the light.

He felt God's presence above him, a constant reassurance to the Father, waiting with him as they scoured the moving bodies for the one person that will change the fate of his family at a moments notice.

That of a deputy, my prophet, the Voice revealed, Focus your eyes down the left hall.

Joseph did as instructed, his gaze locked on the corridor, catching the sight of two large double sided doors.

Can you feel their presence yet? Overwhelming, isn't it? He chuckled as Joseph's breathe hitched at a presence he swore he could just touch with his fingertips, despite no movement from his own hand and the lack of physical presence, Not something the majority of humanity is skilled enough to do. Unless you have the privilege of being my chosen prophet, of course.

Is... is this how you touch us? How you see us? Joseph questioned, gaze locked on the doors as the presence that was not there yet continued its pace towards the doors.

The Voice only chuckled, like a parent amused by a child's question. God did not answer him, again, and Joseph realized he had already answered his own question, again. Through this new sense the Lord had blessed him with, Joseph tried to close the gap between him and the approaching presence of the deputy that will doom his garden, or be another addition to it. With just his hand at his leg, he closed his palm.

But it did not last long, and swiftly opened his hand, hissing as if he had been bitten, only silently as to not alert his younger brother nor draw attention to himself. The sense the Lord gave him ceased, and Joseph could not feel the presence that had stung him, no, burned him upon touch.

He could, however, hear the echo of bellowing laughter of his Lord, his God. It was familiar, in a way, reminding him of how Old Man Seed had once bellowed at his expense, rather than roar with wrath, once word of Joseph getting battered and beaten by a group of older teens who he had come across while walking home from school. Jacob hadn't been there at the time, forced to stay at the house to do chores for their father after another suspension.

Joseph shook his head. He would not compare God to that wretched monster of a man, over a bellow of laughter no less. He should feel honored to have heard such a rare moment of laughter from God himself.

Careful now, Joseph, the Voice silenced further thought, Touching affinity that high will damage you. Thankfully your soul knew exactly what to do.

Joseph could still feel the sting on his palm, even though he was uncertain on how exactly that happened, I don't understand...?

It's not important. Humans weren't meant to have such senses. We have more pressing matters. Keep your eyes on those doors Joseph. I want to see.

Joseph kept watch on the doors, and though he could not feel their presence like before, but he could feel the Lord's grow warmer and warmer as the moment continued on.

Finally, it was at last that he saw the handle jiggle, and the door begin to creak open.

Finally, the Voice spoke once more, the humming drowning all other noises as its warm protected Joseph from the cold embrace of the building, everything except for the corridor and the opening doors darkening as God and his prophet watched a figure emerge from the end of the hall.

She reveals herself-

The Voice didn't finish, hushing itself as Joseph stared at the woman from down the hall.

Files tucked under her arm, the woman who emerged from the doors made her down the hall, her path leading towards Joseph.

The Father remained still as he observed the approaching woman, who seemed none the wiser of Joseph's presence, nor that interested in John's debate with the Sheriff. Hair dark hair flowed smoothly behind her, not tied up, not braided, simply free. Slim, rimless blue rectangular cat eye glasses rested on her slender nose.

As her figure became more discernible the closer she came, Joseph noticed the slivers of silver running down her hair, likely dyed. He was almost shocked to see the small faded scars that littered across her face. The scarring was notably darker than that of her tawny brown skin.

Now merely a meter or two apart, almost face-to-face, he noticed more details. Thick eyebrows, high cheek bones, the indifferent frown she wore on her pouty lips, and more concerning to the Father, the dark bags under her eyes.

Her eyes.

As she crossed paths with him, Joseph caught a glimpse of her grey eyes, dull but determined, focused on some deputy or another further behind him, her attention neither on him nor his brother. They appeared to be irrelevant to her apparent mission of delivering the files.

His brows scrunched as he squinted from behind his yellow-tinted aviators, mouthing the words plastered on the file. Office of the Sheriff-Coroner?

Then his eyes widened, as he took in the clothes she wore.

Instead of the telltale green jackets and the deputy's badge, she wore a white coat over a dark blue button-up and a black turtleneck shirt, with an ID badge that he couldn't get a steady look on as it shifted and turned as she walked.

She also had dark grey jeans, black combat boots and gloves. Joseph had to wonder why so much of her skin was covered, aside from her face. What was she hiding from everyone else?

She passed him, no indication nor acknowledgement of his presence. He watched her move from desk to desk until she found the right deputies, Hudson and Pratt he recalled, catching their full attention as she spoke, for what he could only assume was about the contents in the files.

He observed in silence, the humming above him growing louder, the Lord's presence no longer warm and welcoming as it always has been, but uncomfortably hot and erratic.

Lord?

This... this can't be right- No, it's impossible! She can't have- Why? How?!

Joseph froze, confused and lost on the tone of the Voice. He'd never heard such strength of emotion from Him. When God chose to speak with him, it was with a monotone neutrality, well-spoken and well-versed with an air of seriousness. Rarely He showed amusement. Even rarer to show disappointment.

But he'd never heard God's voice hold frustration before. It even bordered on rage.

He felt a sharp pain pound in his head, the heat becoming unbearable, his shirt itching against his skin.

Lord, I don't understand... is this not part of your Plan?

He looked to the woman who was supposed to represent Hell, the woman who conversed with the two deputies out of ear-shot. The Voice spoke once more, almost hissing, Does she look like a deputy, Joseph?

Joseph swallowed emptily, swiping at his damp forehead, the heat almost unbearable. He took another glance at her once more, the woman unaware of what she had done, however baffling it is for Joseph to believe that this supposed Sinner had managed to spit in God's plan.

Joseph tensed when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he swiftly turn to face John.

"We're all done here brother. No trouble will be coming from the Sheriff's Department for a while," John informed him, grin wide as he looked into Joseph's eyes, searching for any pride.

Joseph could only nod, the heat dying down as the sensation of the cold air rested against his skin once more, the aches pounding in his head still present though.

John furrowed his brow in worry, his concern overpowering his need for his older brother's approval, "Joseph, are you alright?"

Reconvene your heralds back at the Compound, Joseph, the Voice spoke, His warmth and light retracting away from Joseph's head, There is much to discuss about this new course of events.

As you wish, Lord, Joseph almost mumbled, but the light and warmth God shined on him left, already knowing Joseph's answer.

Turning to John, he was weary of the audience around them, though giving one last glance to Hell's enigmatic vessel, he saw her eyes were not amongst the deputies and Sheriff who watched their every move.

Gesturing to the door where their released flock members were waiting outside, John understood immediately and walked alongside Joseph towards the department's entrance.

"We must gather brother and sister," Joseph whispered to his faithful brother, "The Voice has spoken once more. New developments have occurred. Some I fear have threatened all that we have worked for."

He had faith in the Lord's ability, but the shock that even the Voice could not have predicted the Great Sinner's change in occupation had deeply shook him, making him ponder what else this sinner was capable of.

"What do you mean brother?" John asked, his confusion evident. Once out of the building, Joseph decided that he will not answer his younger brother just yet. Better to have the whole family together.

"I will explain when we gather Jacob and Faith at the Compound, but for now, we should return our missing flock back to the rest of the family," Joseph gestured to the three men who piqued up at the sight of both the Father and the Baptist, in awe of the brothers as they were lead into the car.

Here's a WIP for a new FC5 fic, Let The Skyfall (When It Crumbles), a scenario where I pondered the question of what would have happened if Paul Yellowjack, in all his wasp-y glory, had been at the events of the Reaping (or FC5 in general) where Silva was busting her ass to fight the Seeds... the answer? He would win. He... would have won. I mean... there's really not much you can do with someone who, in their current supernatural incarnation, can pull off a Kenjaku move (Jujutsu Kaisen reference... and spoilers for the manga and season 2) amongst other things and is an experienced, cunning strategist to boot. Case-in-point... Paul's first victim; the Father himself, Joseph Seed. The post giving a summary of this scenario idea + a summary of who Paul is and his relationship with Silva can be found here and the WIP snippet I have is below:

When lamplight disappeared from the window, Paul rasped a whisper to himself, "Go time."

He looked down to his glove-less hand, opening his palm far and wide. The vespe that watched from his shoulders flapped their wings, snapping at the air, chattering encouragement as the runt of the alveare crawled its way into the body's right palm.

Paul could only describe the sensation of a vespa maneuvering under the skin, especially in a fresh body, as a numb tickle at best and the numbed pain of popping a pimple at worst. The bump the runt made under his skin finally made it to the palm, and without further instruction, broke through the flesh.

The runt, unlike its kin that were irregularly bigger for the kind of wasp they were, was as small as the average vespa should be, and perfect for the task he needed it for.

It used its forelegs to clean itself off, while devouring as much of the nutritious meat and blood as it could before it begun its journey to the cabin. Two of its bigger kin flew down to the gaping hole in the hand, mandibles snapping before widening, a yellowish pale substance slowly spewing out, their forelegs pulling a stream of it out, and then working together to cover the breach in the sticky spew, swiftly hardening as they worked.

He brought the hand up to his clean-shaven face, the runt looking back up at him with beady red eyes. It knew what it needed to do. He knew what he needed to do. So without further prompting, the runt flapped its wings and made its way towards the sleeping cabin, the lights at the Profeta's compound glowing brightly in the distance.

Though if things went to plan, Paul smiled to himself as he hummed out an old tune he heard, walking back towards the cover of the trees, They won't be much of an eye sore for much longer.

Though he rarely allowed his hive to separate, he was confident that the runt would ensure that Profeta's body was under his thumb. Seeing through its vision now, he was already impressed how far it made it without being eaten by a bat.

The runt flew towards the small wooden cabin, landing at the window sill. Looking inside, the darkness held no disadvantage over his vision, and he could see clearly that the Profeta was laying down on his bed, sleep having finally caught up to him.

The runt clamped its mandibles together, its body convulsing and buzzing erratically. He had quite enjoyed keeping the Profeta awake over the course of the month.

Crawling through the cracked and broken glass he made during a another nighttime visit, the runt had successfully entered the cabin.

It looked to its target, growling out softly at the sight of the shirtless man.

The Profeta was a man in his early forties, reaching his mid, facial hair grown into a small beard, the hair on his head usually tied in a bun, but locks left to flow naturally as he laid asleep on his back.

The man was shirtless, a proof of arrogance and ignorance towards the vulnerability that can be exploited. Not to mention his doors and windows were all unlocked as Paul had discovered.

The visible tattoos that strewn across the younger man's chest held little meaning to the runt nor Paul, though the self-inflicted scars littered across, some with the labels of the seven deadly sins, did gain attention. How mocking it was to Paul, seeing the Profeta display such scars in public, when he had done nothing to earn them.

They weren't reminders of what he survived. They weren't lessons that shaped his core being, nor were they stories that told a tale of hurt and despair, of someone in pain, and yet through persistence alone, they continue on, to breathe, to live. No, the scars of this profeta held no merit, no truth, no reason to exist beyond glamorization.

A point of glorification to impress the gullible sheep he had entrapped with his charm, to show that suffering is a choice, giving them no chance to naturally experience what it means to fight and crawl and survive. Telling a lie to keep them subservient, slaves who never question the question of what is right and what is wrong, only what the Profeta wants. Individuality and potential talent squandered and crushed over trusting the wrong words.

The truth, the universal truth Paul knew, was that suffering was apart of life. Pain is unavoidable, and the only choice one can have in it is either enduring it or die trying.

To endure pain is to prove you're alive. To endure suffering is to prove your strength. To endure and overcome both, though, is to show your worthiness as a survivor.

The Profeta has only proven how low he will bend to the whims of his cruel master. While Paul's own existence was less than satisfactory, yet he at least had enough freedom to choose how to serve his own Master.

The runt looked to the black pants the man wore, a potential landing spot. But Paul opted against the idea, directing its gaze to the Profeta's jugular. The runt's faint red eyes locked on to its target, wings spread out for flight.

This chance was now or never. There wouldn't be another opportunity, not with the sceriffo's department so restless. The fate of Paul's precious Boa hanged in the balance.

Without further hesitation, the runt leaped in the air, its wings propelling it faster as it brought out its stinger. In mere seconds, the stinger stabbed through the neck, injecting the venom into his bloodstream.

The runt swiftly dropped off his neck, avoiding hand that slapped against the stung area on instinct, the pain rousing the Profeta from his slumber.

The runt's wings saved it from hitting the floor, allowing it to hover up to see the Profeta try to lift himself up, the drowsiness of interrupted sleep becoming heavier than usual.

His hand rubbed his neck, sucking a breath in at the sting, though his arm numbly slouched over the bed. He attempted to lift it, only to find he couldn't. The Profeta tried to sit up, but found himself barely being able to lift his head.

The runt watched the Profeta's face twitch, then it listened as he groaned, moaned and grunted nonsensically, no words forming. His voice failing him.

Through the runt's eyes, Paul couldn't help but smile at the sight of the broken down instrument of a God. One of many tools used to keep the cogs of the wheel going.

Paul urged the runt to go for a closer look.

The runt complied, buzzing and chattering excitedly as it landed on the man's nose, right in his view.

It stared into the Profeta's blue eyes, allowing Paul to see the still gaze of a man helpless and trapped, but more deserving of it.

Paul wondered what this man saw when he slept. What he hears?

The laughter of those long gong, whom he'll never see again except in the depths of buried memories, to bring himself a moment of joy to the grim purpose he existed for now? Did he fantasize of a life he'll never get, one where everything went right?

The runt turned to glance at the arm that had the woman's face etched on his skin.

Does he wish as I do? That he could have made a different choice than the one he did?

The runt faced the Profeta's gaze once more, taking notice of the tears that matched his watery eyes, the body reflexively trying to wet the dry eyes, the venom keeping him from doing something as simple as blink.

Or does he believe he has done no wrong?

The runt turned its back to the Profeta's frozen eyes, looking over the tip of his nose to the half-open entrance that awaited it.

Has the lies he's been told and never doubted become truth, despite how ludicrous they are?

The runt gently hopped down to the man's upper lip, gentleness no longer a necessity as the vespa's legs dug into the soft flesh.

Does he sleep soundlessly despite the terror he's wrought? The lives he's ruined?

The runt's middle legs steadied on the man's upper teeth, its hind legs pushing the upper lip back, while its forelegs pushed the forward the Profeta's bottom teeth, the venom's sluggish effects combined with the vespa's unnatural strength widening his mouth open. With the entrance now large enough to fit it inside, the runt flew over to the chin, its head looking down the interior of the mouth.

Does he hear their damning screams?

Slowly, the runt turned its middle legs to latch onto the slim outline of the shell Paul had attached to it, hooking underneath casing before loosening the thorax and abdomen shells, letting both fall to the sides.

The writhing small tendrils pulsed out, dripping small yellow-ish pale spew, like what most of the alveare produced. The liquid substance hardened as it dripped further down. The Profeta's breath quickened, panicked and confused, unaware of the plans Paul had in store for him. The runt shuddered as the heated air washed over it, before beginning its descent.

Though I'm not overly upset of never knowing the answer.

The runt crawled through the heated wetness of the Profeta's mouth, passing the tongue until it reached his throat. Beady red eyes looked down the path that descended into the esophagus. Unless it wanted to trigger the Profeta's gag reflex, it would avoid the path. Growling, it looked up, and found the breach point.

Crawling to the roof of the mouth, it ascended upwards, the writhing tendrils on its back lubricating in preparation, as its mandible jaws opened wide for the breach.

And last line paragraph(s) for You're Almost Like Family, the time loop fic where the Seeds realize just how easy it is for Silva to just wound up dead, and much they miss the luck she had in the first three months she fought against them. Anyway, paragraphs below:

A shift in movement from one of the Chosen stepping out of his peripheral momentarily caught John's attention, and he almost glanced to see where the Chosen was moving to, but noticed that Alexander raised a brow at the movement from the other end of the circle they surrounded the Deputy in, giving Jacob a signal with his head.

John heard his big brother huff out an annoyed sigh, glancing a quick glare over to the Chosen's new spot. Seeing nothing to worry about, John returned his attention to Joseph's pleas to the wayward sinner who had caused everyone trouble.

"Child, this wrath... this violence that you have escalated for the sinners who only use you as a weapon is no longer necessary," Joseph spoke with a soft, even voice filled with paternal gentleness, "This unnecessary rebellion needs to end. The Collapse closes in on us ever closer, just as I showed you in the Henbane, and the only salvation... are the Gates my family has prepared for. I see you, the person you are. And that is not as the tool of destruction your so called friends view you as. We see your compassion. Your bravery. The virtues you only think you don't have. And we welcome it, in our Garden. You seek someplace to belong... God has shown me you belong with us."

John watched as Joseph outstretched his hand to the Deputy, the Baptist sucking in a breath as she, of all people, eyed it, even as Joseph continued, "Please, child. Put aside the wrath. Put to peace the suffering. This doesn't have to end in blood. We can help each other. With your help, we can save more souls, more lives... and together we can bask in the new world God promised us."

John watched in bated breath as the Deputy glanced down, putting together her options.

When the Deputy finally found an answer, John saw Alexander's eyes widen at something ahead of him, and was shocked to see the Chosen Leader reach for his sidearm.

"Tch, you li-"

A loud crack shot through the air as it did the Deputy, her lips glistened with blood instead of the rest of her words. John watched, frozen on the spot, as the Deputy's body slowly fell back, following after the cartilage and blood that the bullet blast clean through. The bullet of which glinted at his eyes.

And the bullet continued to glint at him, just as the Deputy's corpse stopped in its descent, not even touching the ground. From what John could see, Joseph midway from stepping back, and hadn't planted his foot down, just as Alexander hadn't even been able to fully aim his sidearm at the culprit.

He tried to glance to Jacob and Faith, but found his eyes refused, locked on Joseph and the fresh corpse of his family's most determined rebel, who defied gravity just as she defied them.

What is going on?! Though he couldn't move, John was relieved he could still think to himself.

[simplegenius042]

oooh i know i'm late, but if you haven't already talked about it (or have more to share on it), can I please hear more about No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden (FC5)? (--direwombat)

You know funny thing! I had completely forgotten I had this WIP up until last week.

So, from what I could guess from my earliest notes and what I wrote so far then, No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden was a FC5 fic that focused on Silva, Joseph, Faith, the Sheriffs Department, Eden's Gate, Adam Omar and his Congregation in Silva's past, an in-depth look at/possible deconstruction and reconstruction of the religious Adam and Eve themes (your original sin, shame, curiosity, ignorance and knowledge, (unfair) punishment, the acknowledgement of pain and death, mistrust and disobedience towards God and other deities or figures of worship, etc) and possibly set in a time pre-Reaping or where the Collapse just doesn't (or rather can't) occur at all. It would flashback more between Silva's past and present, focused on her relationship with her father Adam, her first love Irene and her adoptive father Paul and the Tumultite community. The focus of the past would be less Persephone and the Apostles and more her time spent on the Archipelagoes from what I could gather.

I had no idea where to even continue on from this, so I decided since past me wasn't going to travel forward in time and tell me what she was thinking, I decided to add on this story with another divergence from the canon of Silva's Hope and Far Cry The Silver Chronicles... and made Silva a coroner instead of a deputy (with a unique interest and perspective on corpses), because I like to make the Voice cry in a cosmic corner.

The Voice attempts to retaliate by telling Joseph that Silva is perfect to be "the Mother of Eden's Gate" but fortunately Faith's already got her hands on this strange cryptic coroner version of Silva and she isn't willing to share. John & Jacob, Alexander & Nadi, the Sheriff's Department, the GFH/FFH, Hope County residents, the rest of Eden's Gate, Kamski and Azriel just try and live regular-ish lives while this all goes on. This is the closest thing to a "no Collapse" AU that I have so... enjoy?

That's what I've got so far and what I've recently added (because I forgot to write notes last time, silly me).