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after-witch · 11 months

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Horrorfest: To Make me Fret or Make Me Frown [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: To Make Me Fret or Make Me Frown [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: You bought a life-size puppet in terrible condition and restored it. But now it doesn't want to let you go.

For Horrorfest request:

Might be cheesy, but Scaramouche haunted puppet for horrorfest? Maybe reader inherits an uncannily lifelike doll, or finds him as an antique?

Word count: 1156

notes: yandere, puppet shenanigans

“He’s creepy,” your friend says. Her nose crinkles and she puts a hand up as if she can ward away whatever haunting abominations she imagines must be inside the doll, waiting to slither through her nostrils. “And weird,” she continues. “And broken.”

The doll has colorful blue hair and most of his strings are missing; one of his eyes is missing its pupil and an arm is cracked, a jagged wound that goes all the way to the fingers. If the doll were to be lifted, the damaged pinky on that arm would probably come right off--maybe the forefinger, too. He’s dirty and wearing only some cast-off shirt, itself probably too damaged to be sold by the secondhand store.

Your friend moves on, eager to head to the second floor where all the nice, expensive secondhand goods are kept, often behind glass cases so they don’t get damaged by looky-loos.

But you stay where you are.

Because the moment you took one look at the damaged life-size puppet propped up at the back of the store, in the same pricetag-less limbo as piles of tupperware with no lid, ripped books and ugly dolls missing arms, and your heart swelled.

“He’s perfect.”

The pinky on the damaged arm did come off before you even left the store, but you were able to salvage the original forefinger. The pinky, sadly, couldn’t be repaired--but you made a new one using the original as a mold and unless you’re staring quite intensely (which to be fair, you often do, when working on the puppet) you wouldn't be able to tell that it’s not original to the hand.

“I’d like to keep all your original parts as much as I can,” you murmur in the direction of the puppet, currently propped up on a chair you’d dragged into your workroom for the sole purpose of letting him have somewhere to sit while you worked. “You really are exquisite, you know? I can’t believe someone let you get into such rough shape.”

You sigh, lamenting the treatment of such a unique piece of craftsmanship, and place the finishing touches on the puppet’s repaired eye. The pupil needed to be filled in with new material but you went ahead and refreshed the iris of both eyes to make them look newer.

“Good as new, see?” You hold up both repaired eyes to the puppet, but realize your mistake when you’re greeted with a prim looking puppet with two black holes where his eyes should be.

“Oops.” You carefully slide the eyes back into the socket, fiddling with your finger until they slot right into place. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking. There!” You grab the magnifying mirror from your desk and hold it up in front of the puppet. “Now, see? Much better.”

It took a few months of work, but the puppet was just about restored, in your view. You’d even bought a new outfit for him, a simple white blouse with ruffles and plain trousers. It wasn’t exactly what you imagined he might have worn originally, but that was fine.

“I’m glad I found you,” you say, to the puppet--and to yourself. “I’ve had a really nice time working on you!” You hum to yourself and start tidying up your work bench. “Now all that’s left is attaching your new strings, and I can have you picked up.” You smile, to yourself, to the puppet, to no one in particular. “I can’t believe that antique shop gave you away for free--they had no idea they were sitting on such a rare item!”

But you, who repaired dolls and the like for a living, immediately knew what the puppet was worth; and who to contact as soon as you were able to get it home, as you knew a friend with an antique shop that took special requests, and he had a particularly wealthy customer who was dying for one of these rare life-sized pieces.

The puppet with freshly painted eyes stares back at you and says nothing.

Something is sitting on your chest. Something heavy and cool to the touch.

Sleep paralysis? It wouldn’t be the first time. You did sleep on your back, after all, and your nights were sometimes restless.

But you open your eyes without trouble, and the sensation does not go away. It takes a few moments, blinking in the dark, to realize who (no--what) is sitting on you.

It’s the puppet.

Freshly painted eyes stare down at you, a face framed by the carefully sewn-in hair. In the dark, you can’t see the wood grains of his skin or the repair marks that you’d buffed until smooth. All you can see is his human shape, the gleam of glass eyes.

“What--” you say, before a wooden finger presses to your lips.

“You were going to sell me.” It’s the puppet--the puppet is speaking.

You nod, terrified, every nerve in your body inflamed.

This can’t be happening, and yet it is.

“Why?”

Your lips are dry and you stutter out an answer, hoping to wake up from this dream at any moment. But the more time goes on, the more you realize that you’re living in reality. An awful one, but reality all the same.

“I-I needed the money, you… you’re worth a lot.”

There’s a sound that comes from the puppet’s wooden throat, but you can’t quite place it.

“You can’t sell me,” he says, simply. If you weren’t sure that you’d lost your mind, you might say that he sounds upset. Not just angry, but--hurt.

“I-I won’t.” You swallow. “Just um. Get off me and I can…”

“No.” The glass eyes bore down on you, and you wish your eyes weren’t becoming accustomed to the dark. It was better not to see the cool stillness in them, unmoving, unblinking.

It’s then that you notice the strings.

Not on the puppet--but on you.

The strings are wrapped around your wrists, tight, pinching into the skin. When you look up you see he’s attached them not to a marionette control bar, but to his own fingers. To himself.

He raises his repaired pinky and your wrist goes along with it--too fast and harsh, nearly flopping over your face.

”Ah.” He regards your flopped appendage with curiosity, before simply lifting it himself and placing it back on your chest. “Well. I’ll have plenty of time to figure that out.”

He leans forward, pressing his weight down on you, until his face was close enough that you could spot your own work; spot the little fine details in the paint, the grooves of his wooden flesh, the way his hair fell in a certain manner thanks to the placement of your carefully created knots.

Oh, you thought, as his face came closer to yours, as he kissed you with puppet eyes wide open and wooden lips stiff.

The paint on his lips needed to be touched up.

#yandere scaramouche #yandere genshin impact #yandere #afterwitch writes #aw horrorfest #scaramouche with abandonment issues but in puppet form! dun dun dun

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thegildedbee · 5 months

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Calm/Hobby: May 7 & 8 Prompts from @calaisreno

As his Air Baltic flight from Oslo begins its descent into Tallinn, Sherlock stares distractedly out the window at the thinning layer of clouds, and pushes back at the whisper of bleakness that it it is the Estonian coastline coming into view, not the South East shores of England. He girds himself with stoicism as he feels a tendril of melancholy begin to unfurl at the fact that Sherlock Holmes no longer exists, now that Herr Lukas Sigerson has taken his place.

He knows that this new identity will only be the first of many.

Sigerson has brown eyes, and wears dark brown tortoiseshell glasses; his dark hair is beginning to have a salt and pepper cast to it, his lower face is covered by stubble. His loose-limbed gait is relaxed, and there's a remnant of a tendency to stutter when he speaks. Hidden from view are the still-healing cracked ribs on the right side of his torso, the damaged ligaments of his right knee, and the fact that the ossicular chain within his right ear bears traces of having been successfully reconstructed, the surgical repair restoring the hearing he had lost after the trauma to his skull.

When Sherlock had been ready to leave the UK to begin to grapple with Moriarty’s extant remains -- the people and infrastructure and schemes dispersed across the globe -- it had been hard to determine what to do first and where and why. Of the three assassins in London on the day of his fall, the one assigned to Mrs. Hudson – a thuggish fellow more noteworthy for his brawn than any brains – had been rolled up by Mycroft’s people even before Sherlock had been delivered to the morgue. The one assigned to Lestrade had been somewhat harder to ferret out, but as Sherlock began piecing together what details he could collect during his recuperation, he had determined that he was a functionary who had infiltrated the Met – and the resolution of that criminal had also been left to Mycroftian minions.

But John’s sniper was of a different cast altogether, an experienced professional who had made no mistakes and vanished like vapor. Sherlock believed that individual had been more than a freelance hire -– Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had been brought into the mix of those in danger of losing their lives because every action of Moriarty’s was as theatrical and excessive as it was insane: ransoming John’s life had always been the true motive. John’s sniper would have been especially close to Moriarty, and likely a member of the upper echelon of his criminal syndicate. Sherlock suspected that acquiring the information that would allow him to destroy this person was going to be an exceedingly difficult proposition.

He needed information, and Sherlock had finally decided that the place to begin was with Estonia, the tiny nation that had regained its independence from Soviet occupation in 1991, and that had chosen to bypass the encumbering drag of the impoverished infrastructure bequeathed from the Soviets, by abandoning it. Estonia had instead risked its future by constructing an economy based on the latest digital technologies, leapfrogging more advanced nations as it became a cyber-powered incubator of innovation, and one of the most wired countries in the world. Sherlock had no doubt that Moriarty would have been intent on turning this transformation to his own advantage; he would have found the opportunity irresistible.

Moriarty’s claim to have a code that could take over any computer was false, but even so Sherlock suspected that this fabulation pointed at something all too real: investments by Moriarity in the dark web, and in the recruitment of cadres of hackers to be manipulated into hijacking computer networks. In April and May of 2007, Estonia had been besieged for three weeks by waves of cyberattacks that had crippled its digital public and private sectors, from government entities such as the foreign and defense ministries, to banks, corporate enterprises, and media outlets. Estonia had traced the attacks to actors within Moldova’s breakaway state of Transnistria, a long narrow geographic entity bordering Ukraine that displayed the Soviet Communist hammer-and-sickle on its flag and coat of arms. Sherlock suspected that these cyberterrorist actors were performing roles under Moriarty’s direction, and that he would find information from within Estonia that would point to the far-flung nodes of his enemy’s wretched empire.

With their impending arrival in Tallinn, the melancholy that had emerged begins to become more deeply rooted, and Sherlock’s mind's eye paints pictures of what lies in the deep of the sea passage below, and across the sea miles beyond Britain’s and Europe’s contours – fragments of exploded ordnance littering the ocean floor, where bodies entombed in submarines and battleships are testament to the destructive capabilities of bands of people bent on glory and riches and domination.

His meandering thoughts catch hold of a memory in the viewing room of his mind palace, the one that records the evenings when John had chosen a film to share as they sat propped up together on the sofa in the darkness. It focused on the US Army Air Force unit that flew missions from East Anglia in World War II, and the appointment of a new commanding officer tasked with reversing the underperformance of the bombing teams.

He had been riveted by the harsh speech the uncompromising commander delivers to the group of pilots, who simmer with resentment at his theory that part of their problems lie with their playing it safe. He tells them that while fear is to be expected, the only choice they have is to stop worrying about the fear, and about themselves. He can still feel the chill of premonition when he heard the figure on the screen bite out his message: “We’re in a war – a shooting war. We’ve got to fight. And some of us have got to die." But it was the follow-on command that is engraved in his mind beyond the memory palace, visible in the shadow of all else he is thinking about: "Stop making plans. Forget about going home. Consider yourselves already dead. After that, it won’t be so tough.” And so, too, was his bombing run a flight into the unknown, against unseen enemies, the actions of a self-created ghost who must reckon that he truly inhabits the underworld from this point on.

Sherlock closes his eyes and continues work on the new spaces that he has been constructing in his mind palace, an effort that never fails to bring him calm, even when other emotions are in play. These new rooms are cloisters and refectories based on the architecture of a thirteenth-century monastery, in deference to Tallinn’s remarkable preservation of the medieval city within its precincts, and he has reserved this adjacent building for whatever part Eastern Europe will play in his sojourns. It is complicated artistry, and he is the last one to rise and exit the airplane.

As Herr Sigerson makes his way toward the front of the compact airport, he adjusts the rucksack on his shoulder, and tugs the bottom of his jumper to straighten it. As a standard issue Norwegian, he is, of course, kitted out in knitted wool, although the garment he wears is only a single hue; the vividly colored patterns favored by so many of the inhabitants of his improvised homeland hurt both his eyesight and his sense of fashion. Sherlock smiles at the thought that John would be amused, were he to see his couture, and consider it revenge for Sherlock’s hobby of “inadvertently” wreaking havoc on the least attractive of John’s jumpers.

Sherlock's half-zip pullover is a dark navy blue with a beautiful sheen, and it is not completely devoid of decoration – it is just that the design is woven into the single color, slightly raised, subdued in its visibility. On the back is the Norse symbol of the vegvisir, which was said to allow its possessor to always find the right path, no matter how turbulent the environment might be. Next to the wayfinding icon is a letter from the ancient runic alphabet said to summon good luck. No doubt John would also be amused at the fact that his relentlessly rational friend is carrying these mystical totems on his body. Although, perhaps not, were he to know of the future toward which Sherlock has now committed himself. ........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper rest of the @s in the tags, which will work for communication purposes, I hope? just say the word if you want to be untagged or tagged xoxoxo

#mayprompts2024 #calaisreno #sherlock bits and bobs #may prompts 2024 #johnlock

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year

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A short yandere monster (Fasma, Rei, and the servants) is leaning against a wall. On the other side a Y/N on the phone with a friend. She is talking standard stuff until it veers to personal tastes. Proceeds to gush about how they find short guys/gals attractive and cute, hot, etc. The convo shifts to different things Y/N want to do to them/ them do to Y/N ending with: "I haven't had any luck… Well, the next person I see 5'0 or under I'm taking them out on a nice romantic date. Then I'm takin' em home and doing some bedroom olympics💕💋" What would their reaction be to hearing all this?

Fasma accidentally inhales his cigarette and stumbles around trying to cough or fish it out. He stumbles over to your side of the wall on accident and honestly hopes the ground will swallow him whole.

Rei just fucking intrudes on your conversation. "EY, I heard you're thirsty for shortstacks. Today's yer lucky day!" He expects you to take his phone number if you're not going to immediately fuck him in the next most convenient location.

Lacai likewise doesn't directly intrude, but he'll make it a point to show up beside you a little bit after the call you just had. He can't curb the smartass smile when you cast him several nervous glances. He'll start conversation smoothly but always keep himself a bit too close to let you relax.

Nena's little heart almost combusts right then and there. She's so excited, her tail is swatting hard enough to ride her work dress up. Now that she knows you could be into the height difference, she flees home to pick her most delicious outfit and will follow you the next time you're out and about.

Jayde is a bit normal about this. He tries not to let a small smirk crack on his face as he gets rid of his watch and makes it seem as if he's a little lost, rounding the corner to ask you for the time, making small talk when you give him directions to a location he asked about. He hopes he can get you engaged enough to at least consider keeping his phone number or letting him buy you something for the kindness.

Roch actually has to pinch himself a couple times to make sure he's not having a lucid dream. He's the most awake he's been in a while when he shows up and quietly asks if you saw one of his personal belongings he totally lost around the area. The search is pointless, but he thanks you for the consideration anyway while he introduces himself and says he hopes he can see you again.

Eleri is suddenly obsessively checking their outfit and doing their best to guess what else you might like in a person besides height. They can't fuck this up, they already have a good start!! Ironically, you'll hear them start chatting with someone else nearby as Eleri very not-subtly waxes poetic about ""tall"" humans that look suspiciously like you.

Flints rakes his claws on that wall in a fit of rabid excitement. In a bit of a dick move, he pretends to be passing by and knocks you off balance "accidentally", excusing himself quietly as he picks your phone up for you and asks if it's damaged so he can pay for any possible repairs. Well, if you see anything off with it later, here's his number.

Rieba nearly vibrates her way over to you and pretends she's never been in the surface before, asking you a bunch of stupid questions before locating the nearest snack machine and getting two of the same item, handing you the spare as a thank you for your time. Come on, she's short and she's feeding you, that's gotta get you to pay her attention.

#Fasma oc #Rei oc #Eleri oc #Lacai oc #Nena oc #Rieba oc #Roch oc #Jayde oc #Flints oc

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morsartis · 1 year

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Nightwing x Civilian!Reader

Warnings: None. Its fairly gen. No actual romance I just had this thought that made me laugh.

The sound of your living room window being forced open was what woke you. Heart hammering in your chest as your hand went to the baseball bat you kept tucked away by your bed. Years of living in Gotham had made you hypervigilant of what sounds your apartment made and where. You knew for a fact that your living room window had been locked and that the sound of snapping wood had to have been the frame being forced open. The window lock itself was flimsy and you had brought it up multiple times with the landlord only to be shrugged off. Now you weren’t sure whether to feel petrified or triumphant that your concerns had been justified. Throwing back the blankets you stood slowly and raised the bat as you began creeping towards the open bedroom door. Out in the hall everything was still pitch black and you cursed yourself for not at least checking the time on the alarm by your bed. Your late night intruder hadn’t bothered to close the window behind them and the pale light of the moon and soft glow of the streetlights below gave you just enough light to see. A figure had collapsed on your couch, a hand dangling from where it awkwardly cushioned a head. As you cautiously shuffled closer you could make out the reflective glow of blue along the fingers. Your poor heart nearly collapsed in relief when you realized it was Nightwing, the resident vigilante of Bludhaven.

When you had moved to Bludhaven a year ago you had assumed it would involve a lot less vigilante sightings than Gotham. Looking down at the battered and bruised figure of Nightwing sprawled across your couch you had to admit, this officially made Bludhaven weirder than Gotham. If only because in your years of living in Gotham you had never had a run in with the resident gaggle of vigilantes. Taking in his sweat soaked and disheveled curls, the half curl of his body that suggested a good amount of pain, and the way he was actually too big to fit on your admittedly small futon with how his legs dangled off the other end you sighed.

A bird was a bird you supposed, Gotham looked after its own and while you had abandoned your home for Bludhaven the Gothamite still inside of you insisted you had a duty to look after the local vigilante. Setting the bat against the back of the couch you walked gingerly towards the window to assess the damage. Like you feared the lock had been snapped in two and the sizable crack that ran along the wooden frame was enough to tell you it was busted. You’d be living with a busted open window for the next few weeks while you scrounged around for enough money to cover repairs. Not even bothering to close it and risk damaging it further, you turned back towards your uninvited houseguest to check his own damage. In the light cast from the window you could make out a dark purpling bruise along the side of his face spanning from his temple to his jaw. Wincing in sympathy you shuffled closer and began gently prodding at his ribs. When he didn’t immediately shoot up in pain you returned your attention to his face. His mask was still firmly in place and you were grateful for it. You did not want to get dragged into the nightly struggle. Hoping that the bruising along his face was the worst of his injuries you tried to think of what to do next. You did not want to know what or who had managed to do that to the man. Instead you reached over and began unfolding the blanket you kept on the back of the couch. His suit left little to the imagination and you didn’t think it had to be very warm in the night chill now that he wasn’t actively fighting for his life and the lives of others. You could admit that despite the fact he was injured he had a nice figure. But that wasn’t something you’d be bringing up. Like most people you’d seen and heard about Nightwing enough to know how the media loved to sexualize him. It had to be exhausting and you weren’t about to add to it. Gently laying the blanket over him you wondered if he’d been exhausted or simply lost consciousness. There was no way for you to check without waking him and you dreaded the thought enough you weren’t about to even attempt it. Scrubbing an exhausted hand over your face you turned towards the bathroom where you kept your medkit. Closing the door mostly behind you before flicking on the lights you caught sight of your haggard appearance. You were exhausted from work. The dark circles under your eyes were a badge and testament to your workload. You missed Gotham’s much cheaper rent. Back in Crime Alley you hadn’t had to work as much as you did now. Sure the area had been Crime Alley but rent was cheap and so long as you kept your head down no one had bothered you much. Nudging open the cabinet underneath the sink you collected the medkit and swiftly left the bathroom. Now wasn’t the time to get lost in thought. Setting the kit down on the coffee table in what you hoped was Nightwing’s line of sight, you next turned your attention to the kitchen. As if on autopilot you shuffled in and grabbed what you needed to make a couple of sandwiches. You worked in silence as you stacked them on a paper plate and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. Like most people you had a few waters in the fridge more for looks than an actual drink. Taking them to the coffee table you set them down next to the medkit. Sweeping one last concerned gaze over the vigilante still passed out on your couch you took a deep breath. You had done everything you could and you had at least enough confidence to know he wouldn’t die on your couch if you left him be. Satisfied he wouldn’t die in his sleep you left Nightwing be as you shuffled on back to your room and the sweet siren’s call of your warm bed.

In the morning you awoke half convinced it was a dream garnered by too much Lifetime TV. Especially when you saw the bat sitting against the nightstand. It wasn’t until you sat up that you had a feeling it wasn’t a dream. Your medkit sat at the foot of the bed. A place you would never leave it. Wide awake with adrenaline you shot out of bed to check if Nightwing was alright. What greeted you was an empty living room, the blanket folded and placed where it always was, no food or water left on the coffee table. Your second clue that it hadn’t been a strange dream came when you wandered into your own bathroom. Condensation clung to your mirror and one of your towels was definitely missing. Looking around further showed that he’d clearly had a shower before he left and you wondered exactly how tired you had to have been not to hear the water running considering the only bathroom in your apartment was in your room. Shaking it off you brushed your teeth and wondered why Nightwing had felt so comfortable showering in your apartment with only a flimsy bathroom door between you. Was he just that confident in his ability to sense someone sneaking up on him? Not that you would have even attempted. There were certain boundaries even you wouldn’t push and going out of your way to learn someone’s secret identity was one of them. Not that you thought you’d even recognize him. Grabbing the keys to your mailbox and a dog treat you locked the apartment door behind you. Like every morning you were going down to the ground floor to grab yesterday’s mail. No vigilante was going to ruin your morning routine.

No matter how bizarre.

Your routine was something you shared with your neighbor directly above you. Though more specifically you shared the routine with his dog. Your neighbor usually went down at the same time as you did every morning to grab yesterday’s mail and take his adorable puppy for her morning walk. To say you adored that dog would be an understatement. She had the ability to happily and shamelessly distract and derail your thoughts every time you saw her. She was the sweetest, happiest, thing you had ever seen with her wiggling body and lolling tongue. Truth be told, of which you would never admit, you could pick Haley out of a line up before you could pick out her owner. It was incredibly embarrassing but there was really nothing about Dick that stood out to you other than his dog. Sure, he was an attractive man, as your other neighbors liked to gossip, but Haley had always had your full attention. You hadn’t even realized how long he’d been your neighbor until he’d gotten Haley. Your direct nextdoor neighbor had practically laughed herself to tears when you admitted it to her. Cackling about how of course you’d notice the puppy before Dick ‘sex on legs’ Grayson. Which you couldn’t even argue against.

As always Haley was sitting by Dick’s feet and promptly burst into happy wiggles and pants at the sight of you. Dick glanced up and then he smiled in greeting before going back to his mail, Haley’s leash draped loosely over an arm. Like always you smiled back before grabbing your mail, feeling Haley start pawing at your leg for her daily treat. Tucking the mail underneath your arm you knelt down to scratch Haley behind the ears.

“Hi there sweetheart.” You cooed cheerfully just like every morning since you’d seen her. She was soft, smelling vaguely of vanilla and oatmeal shampoo. “Did your daddy give you a bath?”

You thought you might have heard a huff of a laugh from the man in question but Haley had already zeroed in on the treat in your hand and had sat down with impatient squirming for her treat.

“You’ve got her trained quicker than I have.” Dick groaned when you handed her the dog biscuit. That made you laugh.

“I’m just happy you let me spoil her. She’s such a good girl.” You smiled and gave her one last scratch before straightening up.

“She’s the best.” Dick agreed mildly before yawning. Your gaze was sympathetic.

“Long night?” You asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Something like that.” You agreed unsure if you should admit to Nightwing stretched out on your couch in the wee hours of the morning. Or the fact he had apparently been comfortable enough to use your shower and steal one of your towels. Did that mean he was coming back? Or were you going to have to buy another towel?

“I better get going. You know how Haley gets when she can’t get her usual walk.” He told you with an affectionate eye roll. You laughed.

“I’d be cranky too if I couldn’t get in some exercise.” You teased, “Bye Haley.”

Haley yipped at you tail wagging as you wiggled your fingers at her.

“Have a safe walk.” You told Dick when you glanced back at him. He smiled.

“Yeah, thanks.”

You could feel his eyes watching you as you turned back towards the stairs and disappeared behind the door.

#Nightwing #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #I wrote this for the laughs #DC #oneshot for now #kinda implied he might have a thing for reader #but its not specified #bitewing #I love the dog she is best baby #if DC even ATTEMPTS to kill off Haley I will be lighting their offices on fire

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50setsofplayif · 2 years

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You are introduced as a manager for the college basketball team, but it seems like you've transferred on a messy year.

The team's reputation is at risk after one of its new star players, is accused of cheating in an exam. Your best friend, a sister of one of the players, pleads for your help in finding the real culprit before the team is banned from playing All Star School Tournaments.

You begin to investigate and get to know the different members of the team, including the serious scholar, the charasmatic captain, the laid-back joker, and the brooding outsider. As the investigation progresses, tensions rise among the team members and secrets are revealed as you learn about how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Will you be able to clear the team's reputation before it's too late?

No Demo - Spotify - Visuals - Pinterest

Features

A customisable MC – hair, clothing style- in general, physical features.

Build and repair relationships with a cast of characters from two different schools.

Choose between five RO's to romance or befriend.

Build up your stats! You'll need them.

This game is 18+ due to the basics (swearing, drug abuse and so on) a better description will follow with chapter 1!

ROs

( The charismatic captain: Riley ) : This basketball player is the charismatic leader of the team, with a charming personality and a magnetic presence. He's confident and outgoing, but also has a vulnerable side that he doesn't show to everyone. Lately, he's been feeling the pressure of being a role model to his teammates, and struggling with the realization that he might not be able to achieve his dream of becoming a famous basketball player if his team's reputation is ruined as he's torn between wanting to pursue his dream of becoming a famous basketball player and not wanting to abandon his teammates in the dirt of these accusation towards the new teamate, who are like family to him. How will you help him navigate these difficult decisions? ♥︎

( The serious scholar: Orion ) : This basketball player takes his academics very seriously, and is under a lot of pressure to maintain his high grades from his parents, as he's been threatened to be pulled out if his grades drop, while also performing well on the court. He's struggling with being a perfectionist, and it's affecting his sleep schedule and overall health. He's also worried about the accusations of cheating, as he knows how damaging they could be to his team's reputation. Can you help the serious scholar balance his academic and athletic responsibilities, and clear his team's name? ♥︎

( The laid-back joker: Isaac ) : This basketball player is always cracking jokes and making his teammates laugh, but he's secretly struggling with anxiety and introversion. He feels like he has to put on a happy-go-lucky persona to fit in with his outgoing teammates, but he's really struggling to keep up as he's secretly an introvert with anxiety. Can you help the laid-back joker find his true voice and overcome his anxiety, and find the confidence to be himself? ♥︎

( The brooding outsider: Vincent ) : This basketball player is the team's grumpy player, with a quiet and brooding personality. He doesn't reveal much about his past, but there's a hint of something darker lurking beneath the surface. Some people on campus whisper about rumors of him being involved in bullying in the past, but he's never spoken about it. Despite his prickly exterior, he's fiercely loyal to his teammates and has a strong moral code. How will you help him open up and confront his past, while also supporting him as a valued member of the team? ♥︎

( The enigmatic transfer: Eli ) : This basketball player is the team's enigmatic transfer, with a mysterious and elusive personality. He's new to the team and the college, and doesn't reveal much about himself or his past. After his first exam, he was accused of cheating and it's tarnished his reputation on campus. He's been keeping a stoic persona to avoid any further scrutiny, but he's struggling with the weight of the accusations against him. How will you help him clear his name and find the truth behind the accusations, while also getting to know him better and unraveling the mystery of his past? ♥︎

#interactive fiction #If #Wip #Fifty sets of play IF #FSOP

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rapowersolutions234 · 2 months

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Repair Of Casting Cracks | Metal Stitching And Metal Locking

Metal locking and metal stitching processes have been used by RA power solutions technicians for more than 44 years to repair of casting cracks and damage casting. Cracks in casting are primarily influenced by melt quality, casting equipment, casting process conditions, and grain structure. The repair of cracks in casting by metal stitching and metal locking has a definite advantage over the repair of cracks by welding. For the successful repair of broken, cracked, and fractured casting parts, metal stitching is becoming increasingly popular. The services of crack repair of casting cracks and aluminum parts are offered 24/7, and we are considered to be cost-effective. All crack repairs of metal stitching and crack repairs of damage casting are undertaken with a guarantee. For more information, repair of crack casting, Turbine casing crack repair on site, and crack repair damaged casting rectification Contact us at [email protected], [email protected] or call us at +91 9582647131, or +91 9810012383.

#Repair Of Casting Cracks #Metal locking and metal stitching #crack repairs of damage casting #Onsite crack repair #onsite crankshaft repair

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metalstitchinglocking · 1 year

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Cracks Cast Iron Repair and Repair of Damaged Engine Block

On-site Metal stitching sometimes serves as the only feasible method to fix cast iron problems and repair an otherwise damaged part or large piece of equipment. Cast iron and other cast metals are unable to be repaired using traditional welding techniques, which frequently cause additional damage to the component being welded. After an inspection, we were able to suggest a fix to save the severely damaged block by metal stitching as we have been helping clients for 40 years with the repair and maintenance of these engines. RA Power also suggested that after the entire engine was rebuilt in its workshop, it be installed aboard the offshore vessel. Dial +91-9582647131, Tel. +91-124–4378292.

#cast iron repair #cracks cast iron #cracks cast iron repair #on site metal stitching #damaged engine block #cast iron #engine block repair #repair of damaged engine block #metal stitching #metal locking #Repair of crack in cast iron #metal locking process #crack repair by metal stitching #Engine Block Stitching #Turbine casing crack repair on site

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engineoverhaulingservices · 2 years

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For the past 40 years, RA Power Solutions has been using metal stitching and metal locking processes to fix cracks and fix fractured castings. Call +91-9582647131 or send an email to [email protected] for more information on metal stitching of engine blocks, cast iron crack repair, metal crack stitching, lock and stitch cast iron crack repair, cast iron stitching, metal stitching cast iron, etc.

#cast iron repair #repair #repair crack cast iron #crack cast iron #cast iron stitching #metal crack stitching #repair of damage casting #cast iron crack repair metal stitching #repairing cast iron #cast iron block repair #cast iron crack repair #Cast Iron Crack Repair by Metal Stitching #Cracks in Cast Iron #repair of crack in casting

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lcortes · 27 days

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In the Mushroom Kingdom, the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the vibrant landscape. Luigi Mario, usually the cheerful and optimistic brother, was now weary and worn. For days, he had toiled alone, laboring to rebuild the plumbing systems that Bowser had ruthlessly destroyed during his latest attack. Mario was away, safeguarding Princess Peach during an important kingdom conference, leaving Luigi to face the daunting task by himself.

As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Luigi sighed deeply. The echoes of his hammer striking the pipes resonated in the dimly lit tunnel. "Just a few more hours," he whispered to himself. "I can do this. Mario and Peach will be back soon, and I promise I’ll have everything ready." He had promised the Mushroom people that the repairs would be completed before his brother's return, but with each passing hour, exhaustion settled heavier on his shoulders.

Luigi’s hands trembled as he inspected the damage in the west tunnel. The ceiling had sustained significant damage from Bowser's relentless attacks. He could almost hear the echoes of the chaos that had ensued—the roars of Bowser, the screams of the Mushroom citizens, and the frantic rush to safety. “Just one more check,” Luigi told himself. “Then I can rest.”

As he ventured deeper into the tunnel, the air grew heavy with dust and despair. Luigi’s heart sank when he saw the cracks in the walls and the debris scattered across the floor. He knew the risk; he had seen what had happened in other tunnels. But he pressed on, determined to finish the job. Suddenly, without warning, the ground beneath him trembled violently.

A small earthquake shook the Mushroom Kingdom, rattling the stones and causing debris to fall from the ceiling. Luigi barely had time to react before a cascade of rocks and dirt tumbled down, trapping him beneath the rubble. Panic surged through him as he struggled to move, but the weight of the earth was too great. “No! Mario!” he cried out, his voice barely a whisper in the darkness. “Help me!”

In the suffocating silence that followed, Luigi’s heart raced with fear and sadness. He thought of his brother, of the countless adventures they had shared, and the times they had always looked out for each other. He had never said goodbye, never had the chance to tell Mario how much he loved him. Tears streamed down his face as he lay there, trapped and alone.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly. Luigi’s body ached, and the pain from his injuries pulsed with every heartbeat. He tried to call out, to shout for help, but all he could manage were muffled cries, swallowed by the darkness around him. The thought that Mario would be busy with Princess Peach, unaware of his predicament, gnawed at him. “What if he never finds me?” he thought, despair creeping into his heart.

Suddenly, as if the universe was listening to his cries, a glimmer of light pierced through the darkness. Luigi's heart raced. “Could it be?” he wondered. He strained his ears, and through the rubble, he thought he heard the distant sound of voices. Hope flickered within him, igniting a spark of determination. He began to pound on the rocks above him, calling out as loudly as he could, “Mario! Help! I’m down here!”

Meanwhile, Mario and Princess Peach were returning from the conference, their hearts filled with hope for a peaceful kingdom. As they approached the castle, Mario couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. “Luigi should have finished the work by now. He’s been down there too long,” he said, worry etched on his face.

Peach placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Let’s check on him. He might just need a break.”

They headed toward the west tunnel, the very place Luigi was working. As they arrived, they noticed the ground was disturbed, and debris lay scattered about. Mario’s heart dropped. “Luigi!” he shouted, rushing to the entrance of the tunnel. “Can you hear me?”

A faint, muffled response floated back. “Mario! Help! I’m down here!”

Without hesitation, Mario began to dig through the rubble, his heart pounding with urgency. “Hang on, Luigi! I’m coming!” He worked furiously, clearing rocks and dirt, driven by the fear of losing his brother. Peach joined him, pulling aside debris with all her strength. After what felt like an eternity, Mario finally uncovered a small opening. With a final shove, he cleared enough to see Luigi’s face, pale and bruised but alive. “Luigi!” he cried, relief flooding his voice. “I’ve got you!”

With Peach’s help, they carefully pulled Luigi from the rubble. As soon as he was free, Luigi collapsed into Mario’s arms, tears of relief and pain

#luigi #luigi mario #mario

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edupunkn00b · 21 days

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The Vulture, Chapter 1: Death

Photo of a vulture sitting on a dead tree branch by Abhishek Singh via Unsplash, colored by edupunkn00b

Death - Next - Masterpost - AO3

Written for the @xts-reverse-bangx and inspired by @sanderssidesfanfiction's depiction of the Sides as Arcane tarot cards.

Death encounters the Musician, badly injured. Instead of collecting his soul, he seeks help to save the future King's life.

Bloodied and unconscious, Remus carries a wounded Roman home back to the Mindscape, looking for anyone who can help.

Parallel tales set in the Imagination and the Mindscape, Roman's life hangs in the balance.

Atop the old horse named for her hide the color of sun-bleached bones, Death strode slowly through the valley carved between the two great kingdoms. There was a time when the border between the Kingdom of Light and the Kingdom of Darkness had been well-defined, each side demarcated and protected by a tall, stone wall stretched as far as anyone could see.

When the storms of life would strike, each kingdom would send their teams to repair cracks and fissures spidering out from the damaged boulders. They worked in silence, lifting stones, balancing each with hands on either side of the wall until the rocky division was made solid again.

At least, each side was meant to work without speaking to the other.

The silence was broken in small ways; murmured ‘thank you’s’ and ‘mind your fingers.’ But over the years the tiny pleasantries bloomed into hushed tales of heartache or of celebration. Whispered confessions of dissent.

And of love.

Before either kingdom could move fast enough to stop it, the peoples of each land tore down the wall that divided them. Stone by stone, they built wells and cairns and taverns, crafting from that which had separated them an entire village to share between them.

Over the centuries, a valley was formed. Shaped slowly by the surrounding forests’ rain and wind; rapidly by the earth’s great heaves and sighs that could be heard for miles, trees fell away along the edges of a river and the land swooped up on either side.

Despite this, the village remained, a home to peoples of each kingdom.

It was even said that, in time, the lords of each land found themselves drawn to the laughter and light of the shared village and would send emissaries to learn what they could and report back. Not all of them returned and the shared village continued to grow.

After more time passed, the lords sent not only emissaries, but themselves. Wrapped in rough-woven cloaks, swords sheathed and hidden beneath the layers, the lords trudged down the paths to see the village with their eyes. Sometimes they’d be recognized and sometimes not. Every time they ventured down, they were greeted with a warm smile and a cold tankard of ale in the summer or a mug of steaming spiced mead to fight the winter’s chill.

There had been many mugs of spiced mead served up this evening. The full moon and a sky full of stars illuminated the thin smoke curling up from the last remnants of the village’s cookfires. The embers—and good company—would keep the villagers warm through the long winter night.

The inn was still brightly lit. Long, warm shadows cast outside by dozens and dozens of candles burning brightly within. Dodging the watchful glances of those inside, Death quietly led his horse through the darker parts of the path. He had no business at the inn tonight.

No, tonight would be quiet. Soon even the most stubborn in the village would surrender to bed and rest. And by the time they woke in the morning, Death would have found his own place to sleep away the sun’s bright rays.

Death had just reached the edge of the village when Bones, ears flat, snorted and side-stepped the path.

“Shh, shh, shh, girl… You’re safe,” he curled close and scritched just behind her ear until it slowly eased up, twitching as she listened. “What do you hear? Hmm?” Death scanned the meadow before them.

The field glowed white. Unlike in the busy paths of the town, that morning’s snow sat unbothered, save for a few rabbit tracks. And perhaps those of a hungry doe. But not all the valley’s creatures left tracks. Some flew.

At the far side of the meadow, bloodied claws gripped on the hilt of a sword driven deep into the snow and earth beneath, perched one such creature.

The Vulture.

Without the benefit of a good rainstorm to clean it, the wrinkled skin of its featherless head and neck was dingy and stained from previous feasts. At this distance, the setting moon lent its head a dirty orange cast. The Vulture saw him, then tilted his head and continued to preen his feathers as though he had not.

Urging Bones on, Death closed the distance between them and spoke. “The death you wait for is not coming tonight. You should move on to my kingdom where you’ll have more frequent meals.”

“Do not be so sure of that,” the Vulture laughed, low and throaty. “Has Death himself missed it?”

Eyes narrowed, Death looked beyond The Vulture and out into the woods just behind him. Another sword lay broken, half-buried in the snow. Two more glistened under the cover of the trees.

A fifth was driven into the ground just next to a fine leather boot poking out from beneath the shrubbery.

Death leapt down from his stead and ran to the form. It was the Musician, the beloved Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Light. The Musician’s ordinarily pristine white robes were torn. Stained with mulch and moss, his red sash kept bright only by the blood seeping from wounds in his chest.

He shuddered at Death's touch.

“He’s still alive,” Death called back to the Vulture. “You can’t have him.”

“Neither can you,” the Vulture laughed bitterly and took flight, its words more thought than voice over the cold wind spilling down into the valley. “Unless, of course, you take too long to get him help. Then he’s ours.”

Ignoring the Vulture’s taunts, Death scooped him up and settled him onto Bones’ back. He draped his own cloak over the Musician and mounted Bones behind him. One hand on the reins and the other looped securely around the Musician’s floppy form, he sent Bones into a gallop back toward the village.

Flying in lazy, swooping arcs, the Vulture followed.

Roman heavy in his arms, Remus kicked open the doorway to the Mindscape. Twisted, stinking ivy trailed after them, tendrils gripping their clothes and hair. But the power of the Imagination faded in the soft light of the common room. All that was left was the dirt and blood they tracked in with them.

And the wounds Remus’ monsters had inflicted on Roman.

“Logan!” Remus called, falling back against the door to shut it. “Jannie?” The common room was quiet, lit by the tiny nightlights Patton had installed. “Anybody? Please!” His voice broke as he laid Roman out on the couch, wincing with him at the jostling. “Ro needs help!” he called again, his voice echoing off the silent walls. Everyone else was asleep.

Everyone but Virgil.

“Shit, Re!” He raced down the stairs two at a time, headphones dropping on the landing. “What happened?”

#The Vulture #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #ts remus #ts roman #ts virgil #ts patton #ts janus #ts logan #ts lucas #of course I had to throw Lucas in there #how could I not include him in a canonverse story?

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clever-fox-studios · 8 months

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Two Weeks

A little thingy I started as a crossover of my Legacy AU and @garbagechocolate 's Truth Virus. I might continue as it's short and meant as pure angst, if that's desired; it'll go on AO3 if that's the case. It's not canon to my AU at all, but it does have Legacy-canon-compliant information that may or may not be relevant when the time comes~

Content below the cut:

Overhead lights hummed, casting dirty yellow-white light across cement, tile and metal rebar and pipes, trying and failing to make the dirty underground service bay seem somewhat sterile but only managing to pick out every crack and spot of dirt in grimy, perfect detail. Normally, Parts & Service was busy and filled to the brim with techs and programmers looking for something to do during the day, but at this moment only two could be found operating the repair pod, the others long gone on daily tasks of some sort or hiding out of camera view to catch a smoke or pilfer uncollected fries from the warmers. Fingers drummed the service pod keyboard lightly–click-clack-clack–but never enough to press a key by accident. That was what rookies did. Contrary to the opinion of corporate, they were not rookies. They were not paid like rookies, and yet…

Yet.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just wait for Phil?”

Balling a fist, the older technician slammed his fist into the desk, avoiding the keyboard altogether but still startling his coworker into biting his own cheek with fright.

“Owowow–”

He gave the younger worker a hard look, stilling their whining so he could speak, sharp and firm as a stroke of a key on the computer. “It’s a fucking patch for the new system they wanted the jester thing to test run.”

This was true.

“It’s from the server at fucking corporate, so it’s gotta be legit, right?”

This was also true.

“We shouldn’t have to wait for Mr. Espresso For Dinner to supervise us every fucking time the talking pipecleaner needs a spit shine”

Nervously, the younger technician nodded, then shook his head. “But Phil–” He stopped for a moment. “Mr. Mercer was extremely clear about us being careful with the theater unit after the–”

“I. Don’t. Care,” the older man cut in, face creased with angry lines and graying brown hair. “I’ve been working here almost as long as that junkrat in a trenchcoat. Just because he’s Reed’s favorite little dumpster fire he gets the head IT position, but I’m just as capable of working on the attendant as he is. I’m not a fucking rookie–no offense.”

“N-none… taken,” the younger man squeaked, unable to voice further concerns.

“Just get the fucking twink down here so I can get this done, will you?” With a sigh, the older man wheeled his chair to the desk and began to prepare the file for processing, grumbling under his breath. “It can’t be that hard to install a fucking patch for something that’s already in their system, it’s robotics, not fucking rocket science!”

“Let me guess.”

Sun fidgeted with his ray, fingertip flicking over the point rhythmically, eyes looking anywhere but into the acid-bright hazel eyes staring him down from behind unkempt brown-black hair.

“You didn’t stop them because Mason’s a jackwad and you didn’t want to cause more problems?”

Nodding, Sun’s fingers closed around the end of his ray tightly–a nervous reflex. Before he could do any real damage, a hand wrapped around his wrist, firm but not overbearing. It still got him to jump, gaze darting up in spite of himself to see the hazel gaze was less of a disappointed burning and more of a concerned flicker, one that knew well and good about his… ‘problematic’ tics that had been developing over the months.

“I’m not mad, Sun,” the man said, voice gentle as he slowly brought the jester’s hand down from his head. “Not at you two, anyway.”

Sun couldn’t help himself, the apologetic babble coming up before he could really stop it, “I’m so so so sorry, Phil! I know you’ve told us not to let them bully us, but the new employee was so nervous and we didn’t think it was a big deal, we just–”

Phil’s palms pressed into both of Sun’s cheeks, causing him to stop as the short human got his attention, face unchanging. “Sun,” he started, speaking slowly and firmly, “I. Am not. Mad. At you. Understand?”

Feeling his jaw quiver, Sun nodded; the hands left his face, turning to hold the man’s chin in thought as he finally broke eye contact. Quietly, Sun folded his own together at the fingers, trying desperately to contain the guilt he felt as he noticed the stirring in the back of his programming of Moon as the night unit tuned in from wherever it was he found himself during daylight hours.

“Is he mad?” the crackly voice inquired.

Sun knew only he could hear his brother but it didn’t offer any solace–it was upsetting, if nothing else. Wrong. Even after months, he still wasn’t used to it, finding himself turning to answer only to be met with an empty room. This time, though, he was acutely aware that Moon wasn’t there. That turning would net only a concerned gaze from their maker, Phil Mercer.

“Not at us,” Sun whispered back, aloud.

Phil’s gaze flicked to Sun at the sound, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t need to. Instead, Phil mumble, a bit loudly on purpose so they boys–the theater jesters both–would hear without needing to be direct, “That idiot can’t even set the time on a microwave without using wikihow. I could run diagnostics myself and see if it worked but Al’s already up my ass as it is and I don’t have time for a full sweep…” He sighed with exaggeration, folding his arms together.

Sun’s head was tilted curiously at the mutterings, his fingers fidgeting over each other rhythmically.

“Of course Mason picks this week to be a pain. The inconvenience can’t be helped.”

“We’re sorry–”

“Shush.” Rubbing the back of his head and neck, Phil came to a decision–he only hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite them all later. “How’s daycare duty treating you both? Any issues outside of the whole ‘Moon didn’t switch from theater to nap time’ thing the patch was for?”

With a click and whirl of his rays, Sun smiled, glad for something good to talk about--relatively speaking. “Oh, it was lovely! The children are so much fun to interact with! Such wild imaginations!”

A half smile crept onto Phil’s face under his 5-o’clock shadow. “Moon? What about you?”

Sun waited as Moon spoke, relaying his answer precisely while switching the voice setting to the blue unit’s default. “It’s different trying to make the little ones sleep instead of cheer or laugh. Keeping them up by mistake was… odd. But I’ll learn.”

“Well,” Phil mused, “hopefully you find it easier now but I’ll be honest, I don’t trust that patch corporate sent–especially knowing Mason was the one to install it.”

“I don’t trust that guy as far as we can throw him,” Moon muttered, earning a snicker of agreement from Sun.

Catching this, Phil asked, “What's so funny?” still grinning.

Eyes wide, Sun stuttered, “N-nothing! Moon just–doesn’t like Mr. Mason!”

Knowing how this game went, Phil pressed, “So what did he say?”

“It’s not that funny, really!”

“Then why’d you laugh, Sunny D?”

With a raspy giggle, Moon kept on in the back of Sun's mind, “I saw him struggling once to change the input source on the TV in the P&S bay when he pulled a late shift.”

Sun’s voice cracked with disbelief. “What???”

“Let me in on the joke,” Phil begged dryly, giving the tall robot a playful elbow.

“No no–stop!” Sun laughed, rays spinning while Moon dropped more little things about the man named Mason and his prevalent skill issues; if he could cry he’d surely be in tears from laughing, between the snark of his brother and the amused ribbing of his friend on either side as Phil started piling on his own observations of the tech’s mishaps. “Please, this is so mean!”

“You’re feeling better though, right?”

The others stilled, giving Sun a chance to catch his breath so to speak. “I… am, yes.”

“Good.” Phil gave his back a pat. “So listen carefully, alright?” Sun nodded, feeling Moon’s presence close in as he leaned in to hear. “I’ve already got a bunch of things to go over and finish up for you guys for this new trial run they want you two to do. I’m going to work on my own fix for the default program issue but I can’t install it until I’m back.”

Sun’s rays retracted just a hair, giving off a series of clicks that gave away his sadness as he clamped his hands against them with embarrassment. “Ah!”

Phil’s brows raised in a sympathetic arc. “I know, I wouldn’t leave it be like this but Emilia’s…” Without meaning to, Phil’s voice trailed off for a moment, his mind going a thousand miles away briefly. “She’s having a rough trimester.”

“Oh no.” Carefully, Sun’s hands grazed Phil’s shoulders, attempting to comfort the man . “Of course, of course! You can take time for Mrs. Mercer as much as you need!”

Phil gave the lanky robot’s hand a grateful pat. “Appreciated, Sunny, but I still have a job to do. I’ll be home for two weeks and I’ll come back with all kinds of things to clean you up and make you the best daycare attendant those chucklefucks at corp–”

“Phil, language!” Sun blurted, catching both of them by surprise for a moment.

After a second of seeing Sun’s shocked face, rays retracting with embarrassment, Phil let out a deep laugh. “Well, it’s already working so that’s a relief!”

“Can we do that to all the adults?” Moon wondered quietly, a devious feeling creeping into Sun’s mind of how his brother wanted to abuse that feature for his own amusement. It was admittedly tempting with the way some of them talked.

Exhaling briskly, Phil got the pair’s attention before they could get caught up with mischief planning. “Do you think you two can handle me not being here for that long?”

“We should." Sun hoped saying it would give him some confidence in the idea.

“Can you promise me not to be too agreeable with the new guys and keep your butts out of P&S until I get back?”

That one would be harder. “W-we can try. The kids…” Images of the last few days flashed through Sun’s active mind–colorful paper, sliced apples, pillows soaring through the air–and glue.

So.

Much.

Glue.

“You are too new to this to have that look of ‘back in ‘Nam’ already, Sun.”

Sun blinked and came back to the present, grin shaken but not gone. “It was just a lot! Great, but a lot! We can handle it! The helpers are very good at keeping us ready to go!”

Moon mused, “Especially Nana,” which made Sun’s smile change from nervous grin to gentle curve at the mention of the older woman with curly, gray hair and too many bracelets that insisted on everyone, even the staff, calling her ‘nana’ or ‘granny’ despite none of the kids in the daycare being her family by blood.

Phil observed all of this quietly, taking note of Sun’s expression and how he tended to look off to the side whenever Moon spoke. Despite being unable to hear the entire exchange, he had some idea what they were talking about; nothing those two did went unknown to him for long, even in spite of their best efforts to hide some of their hiccups from him at first. If nothing else, he was glad they could still talk to each other actively. I’m glad those mooks in the office are still afraid of the big bad OSHA man, he thought to himself smugly, thumb twitching against his forefinger.

With habitual movements, the messy haired man pulled a sucker out from somewhere in his pocket, peeled the wrapper off in one graceful tug and popped it in his mouth–he grimaced as the sour tang of lemon-lime graced his tongue. Peeking at the wrapper, he saw a small green gator-shaped icon stare back at him. Of course it would be Gator Blast.

“Phil?”

Said man glanced up, realizing the yellow jester had finished his aside in time to see the face Phil pulled at the bizarre flavor of Faz-pop he’d managed to fish out. “Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

Rolling the candy to his cheek, Phil grumbled, “Monty’s lollipop flavor tastes like plastic and battery acid.”

Horror and concern flickered through Sun’s optics. “Should you be eating that??”

“Too late now.” He checked his watch quickly and made a displeased sound in his throat. “I’ve gotta go wrap some stuff up before Al starts in on me, promise me you two will be careful.”

“We promise!”

“I’ll see you in two weeks. Moon.”

Sun felt his brother’s awareness lean in again just as he was recoiling to whatever mental corner he claimed for himself.

Brow raised as he placed a hand on the daycare exit doors, Phil stated, “Behave,” despite knowing full well it wouldn’t be obeyed for very long. Waving politely, Sun affirmed on Moon’s behalf that he would, indeed, behave as much as possible–Moon himself made no such claim but chose not to argue the point for the moment. No, it would be more fun later to bring it up if and when Phil eventually found out he was not, in any capacity, behaving himself.

With the daycare functionally empty now, the yellow attendant set about checking his new and improved To Do list. Equipment and playsets loomed above him, one of the few things he found that could make him feel small–and hesitated. They still were not used to sharing a body, never mind the bizarre sensation of action overrides that happened on occasion when one of them felt too strongly and it overtook the other’s priority listing, but this one Sun had gotten familiar with. Though he himself didn’t have any issues with the bright plastic tubes and tangled nets that so many kids--and himself-- loved to scramble and climb over, he knew his brother had some… lingering hesitations about them.

For good reason, he knew, despite having been assured Moon wouldn’t remember the details, yet it didn’t stop the lunar unit from the occasional fear response whenever either of them found themselves looking up at the bars and bridges too long. Gently, Sun murmured, “Moon?” just loud enough to get his pair’s attention and snap him out of his trance–immediately, Sun felt his knees relax and motion return to him.

“Sorry, Sunny,” he heard back after a moment.

Carefully, Sun picked his way across the daycare floor to the great glass wall that enclosed the play area; there was a spot they knew where the shadows on the other side made the glass just a bit more reflective, allowing them a murky look at themselves if they stood in just the right spot. For a moment, Sun saw only himself staring back, red frill laying neatly around his neck, eyes bright and baby blue against his yellow and gold facial mold; he blinked hard and was not surprised in the least that when he look again, what stared back was a red frill laid under a blue cowl, navy and gray features replacing his own as grayed eyes peered back from the glass. A quirky little feature that had taken getting used to, but Phil never passed up on a chance to make things a bit easier on them, even when corporate threatened him with termination for making ‘unsolicited upgrades’.

Guilt crept through Sun’s circuits as he met Moon’s gaze in the glass; part of him was glad Phil hadn’t manually swapped them out to see for himself, but the betrayal of trust was almost too much for the yellow jester to bear. Feeling this, the reflection of Moon’s face creased with concern–he couldn’t touch his brother physically, but Moon knew he could be heard regardless. “You could have told him,” the night-colored bot said gently.

Sun started, “Its–” but hesitated, unable to maintain eye contact with the reflection. “I’m sure it’s nothing major. Mr. Mason isn’t the most… careful with us, and Phil has enough to deal with. You heard him, Mrs. Mercer isn’t feeling well and she’s having a baby–!”

“Sun.” Moon’s voice was firm, cutting off the tirade of excuses before it could get out of hand. “You’re doing it again.”

“I’m sorry.” With a start, Sun realized he’d grabbed onto one of his rays again while talking.

“Why do you do that?”

The barest hint of a shrug moved Sun’s shoulders. “Maybe the same reason the playsets make you freeze in place?” Sun’s brow furrowed. “I–I’m sorry, I…”

That hadn’t meant to be said aloud.

Moon seemed just as confused as Sun felt, thankfully, his brow an exact mirror of Sun’s, bunched in confusion at the odd vocalization. “It’s… fine,” he eventually managed to say, shaking his head. “I don’t mean to do it, I just…”

“I know.” Standing straight, Sun brushed imaginary fluff from his collar, attempting to make himself ‘presentable’ in an effort to get some kind of control over himself. “And you’re right, I should have told him about your eyes, but if he’s going to give us a big system clean-and-polish when he comes back, we can wait until then. Right?”

Their gazes met in the glass again.

Moon closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “It’s probably just Mason being clumsy, nothing major. We’ll tell Phil once he’s back. Mrs. Mercer needs him more than we do right now.”

“Exactly!” Turning quickly, Sun moved away from the glass, no longer able to maintain a sense of ease while his brother stared back with the empty, gray eyes that didn’t belong to him. “Today’s list has something new on it–” Pausing, Sun raised a finger in thought. “I don’t know where they keep the disinfectant.”

“I hope it’s not behind the desk.”

“Me, too!” Set about to find the elusive chemicals, Sun didn’t dare to check the glass again. At first, he’d hoped he'd been wrong when they chatted after the patch update and he thought Moon’s eyes were off somehow, but then a worker commented on it.

“Why are his eyes gray?”

Thankfully, by some miracle, that tidbit hadn’t gotten back to Phil yet.

Not that it made it feel better in Sun’s coding when he was met with empty gray irises any time he used the glass or a mirrored surface to see his brother.

Moon’s eyes shouldn’t be gray, he told himself fretfully.

They should be yellow.

#security breach #robot #security breach au #sundrop #legacy au #moondrop #fnaf sb #garbagechocolate #truth virus au #truth virus #angst #this isn't going to be fun for anyone

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cybercore-creations · 1 year

Text

Survivor's guilt

Summary: Those memories were now mere echoes of what they once were, fractured beyond repair.

Cw: Panic Attacks, Death, Gore, Implied Self Harm, The most mentally unstable man you've ever met /hj, Hurt NO comfort

Editor sat at his cluttered desk, the dim light of his monitor casting a faint glow on his face. He stared at the screen blankly as videos of Mile flashed by.

A profound sense of guilt gnawed at him, a relentless question echoing in his mind: How could he have let this happen? The weight of responsibility pressed down on him like a leaden blanket, suffocating him. Why Mile? Why Aunt Penelope? Why his mom and his dad? Why not him? Why did he get to live when everyone he's ever loved has died.

"Happy birthday to you." Played through his head phones as his eyes focused on the screen. "Happy Birthday to you!" Mile sat at the kitchen table, a childlike excitement shining in their eyes, a wide grin stretching across their face as their Aunt Penelope entered the room, carrying a cake adorned with flickering candles. "Happy Birthday dear Mile. Happy Birthday to you!" He and Penelope sang. "Make a wish"

Editor slammed his laptop shut, the sound reverberating through the room. His desk quivered with the force of his hand. The abrupt silence that followed was deafening, a stark contrast to his his aunt's sweet voice that had been playing in his ears.

As he sat there in the dim room, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him, he couldn't help but long for the innocence of those simpler times

Editor knew pain better than he knew himself. Every step was a new festering blister inside of him. Those memories, once vibrant and alive, were now mere shadows of what they once were. Time had worn away their edges, like old photographs faded by the sun. They were fractured, shattered into countless fragments that seemed impossible to piece back together. The very essence of what had once brought him happiness had been irreparably damaged, leaving behind unhealed wounds.

The feelings he worked so hard to bury within himself resurfaced with cruel clarity, as if demanding to be acknowledged. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he balled hia fists, knuckles turning white.

His eyes involuntarily unfocused, blurring the room around him. The world outside seemed distant and disconnected as his mind was filled with looping images of death. The bloodied trash bag, charred skin on unidentifiable bodies, the disgusting grin on Mile's face. Like they were proud of what they'd done. Not Mile. Host. He ways tried to correct himself but despite it being an entirely different person, That was still the soft face of his younger sibling. The demented acts forever stuck to their appearance.

His heart pounded against his chest as he felt his body start to shake. His breathing became labored and shallow. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He knew he was losing it, but he couldn't stop it. The memories were too strong. Editor had to be strong. He always had to be the strong one. He forced himself to take a deep breath, his chest expanding as he exhaled. Editor stood up, his legs trembling as he walked to the door. He opened it and walked out into the hall. The door to his room was cracked open, allowing the light from the hallway to stream into the room.

He could hear his aunt's voice singing, Mile's laughter and the happy barks of their dog. He could hear every single moment that had happened in this hallway. Every single moment he'd relive in his head, desperately trying to grasp his once put together life.

There was another layer to these memories, a dark undercurrent that threatened to consume him. He saw the subtle changes in Mile, the signs that something was terribly wrong. The memories of that day when everything had unraveled. He couldn't escape the guilt that had plagued him since that day, the relentless questioning of why he had survived when they hadn't. The pain of those memories was like a physical weight, pulling him down.

Each mark danced on his body, another tally marking off the time since then. As Editor traced the scars with his fingertips, the memories flooded back with renewed intensity. He could almost feel the searing heat of the flames that had consumed their home, the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh. The images of Mile's face, twisted by whatever malevolent force had possessed them, were seared into his mind.

Editor knew that there would be no happy ending for him. The scars on his body were a testament to the enduring agony he carried. In the hallway, the echoes of his family's joy and laughter played like a cruel trick on his mind. He longed for the innocence of those simpler times, but he was forever tainted by the darkness that he was forced into.

With trembling legs, he retreated back into his room, closing the door behind him. The solitude offered no solace, only a suffocating sense of isolation. The images of death continued to haunt him, and he realized that there would be no escape from the torment of his past.

#my movie 14 #mile mm14 #mm14 #editor mm14 #Mm14 fanfic #slenderverse

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