#cw: child soldiers

[sleepyfan-blog]

Exhaustion

Author’s note: this is the second part of Sirass’ backstory! First. Next. I hope you enjoy the fic!

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @whorety-k @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Warnings: medical horror, child endangerment, child soldiers, child death, child abuse mention of brainwashing/indoctrination, Iron Warriors Aspirant Training, please ask me to tag something if it bothers you/I missed something

Summary: A look into the day of Aspirant Sirass, immediately post surgery.

Sirass woke up, as he did most days after his capture by the Iron Warriors, in pain. He gritted his teeth and breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth as he waited for the agony from the most recent surgery he’d been forced to endure. He heard a quiet sob from one of the other aspirants in the bunk above him. Part of him desperately wanted to reach out to his brother to try and comfort him… 

But Sirass was keenly aware of the fact that their captors were watching them most if not at all times. They saw compassion as a weakness. They saw kindness as pointless unless it was in service to manipulate others. If they were being watched, saying a kind word, or poking his head over the side of the other’s bed and trying to crack a joke, or offering a light touch to the shoulder or arm would get their entire squad beaten black and blue if they were lucky.

So Sirass forced himself to ignore the quiet sniffling and hiccupping from the occupant of the bunk above him, breathing through the pains of the surgery inflicted upon him. He’d been informed that it was another organ meant to make him stronger, better, faster. To turn him into an Astartes. He knew when the pain was at a level he could start to move at, as the aching, bone-deep ravening hunger in the empty pit his stomach had become started to gurgle and grumble.

The Iron Warriors aspirant looked at the chronometer and suppressed an annoyed sigh. He had an additional hour and a half before he and his squad would be collected for the morning meal…

Though to call the thick, porridge like substance filled with chalky vitamins and gods knew what else a meal was generous at best. It tasted awful, but it filled his belly up like nothing he’d ever eaten before. Sirass closed his eyes, muttering to himself the many if arbitrary seeming rules that he’d been told that sticking too would allegedly allow him to survive the trials ahead of him into becoming an Astartes.

Sirass didn’t necessarily want to become an Astartes, but he’d also been told that if he did survive and pass all of his trials, he would eventually be able to go back home. He might be able to see his mother again, which was the main hope driving him onwards. He’d heard over and over again how it was an honor for him and the others to be chosen to become Astartes. To Serve the Imperium of Man, to serve the Tyrant of Olympia in such a direct and honorable manner. Sirass privately thought that was a lot of groxshit, but he knew better than to say that out loud. 

Rebelliousness was severely punished. Dissension meant death - and often not just of the mouthy Aspirant who said unwise things, but those closest to his physical proximity. 

~

“GET UP YOU LAZY LAYABOUTS! IT IS TIME FOR FIRST MEAL AND TRAINING!” The training sergeant yelled as he kicked down the door, startling awake the nearly dozen aspirants who’d been sleeping in their bunk beds. 

There were startled sounds coming from the others, and Sirass had jumped in his bed as well, but he waited three seconds before getting out of bed, immediately turning to make it before standing at attention at the foot of his bed, hoping that he hadn’t bled through his bandages and sleeping tunic from the abdominal surgery he and the others had received yesterday. He’d be scolded for being messy.

The others slid out of bed at varying levels of coordinated and stumbling. The aspirant two bunks above him rolled off the edge of his bed and began to fall.

Sirass reacted on instinct, taking a half step forwards and catching the other before he could fall all the way to the floor, setting him on his feet as fast as possible, silently hoping that the training sergeant either didn’t notice, or didn’t care that had happened.

The training sargent swept past the two of them  without so much as a glare in their direction - which caused Sirass to let out a tiny sigh of relief, making sure to make as little noise as possible.

The brother he caught murmured a soft “Thank you!” Before going up on his tiptoes to make his own bed before standing at attention.

Two of the aspirants at the far side of the sleeping room hadn’t left their beds. They hadn’t even moved when the Sargeant had called for everyone to leave their bunks.

Sirass could understand why they didn’t want to move - his body ached from the surgery and he was so hungry he was shivering and felt a little weak at the knees and clammy. But such open defiance meant a beating.

The training sergeant stomped over to where the two unmoving aspirants were and looked at them both. There was a small sneer on his face “Weak. These two were week. Not enough Iron Within to handle the process. Cadet Sirass!”

“Yes sir!” Sirass called out, snapping a crisp salute the other’s way, ignoring the way that it tugged at his stitches.

“Lead this group of your brothers to the cafeteria. I will hold you personally responsible if anyone gets lost or the group loses discipline on the way to the grubhall. Understand?” The sergeant ordered.

“Yes sir.” Sirass acknowledged, swallowing hard. “You heard the sergeant. Everyone line up in two lines. Cadet Malix, you’re my second.” Several of the others looked at the unmoving Aspirants, but no one wanted to be accused of Questioning Orders and hurried to obey. That and Sirass suspected that they were just as hungry as he was.

~

The trip to the cafeteria was mercifully short and silent, though He had been forced to reprimand four of the others for trying to start an Unauthorized Conversation in the hallway of the massive ship they’d been training on. He wanted to know what was going to happen to the unmoving aspirants as they did, but as he was “in charge” of them, and cross-chatter wasn’t allowed in the hallways, he had been forced to maintain discipline. 

The hot sludge they were being fed today was greyer than normal, and the liquid that was too sweet-salty to be normal water was thicker as well. Sirass couldn’t find it within himself to care or wonder about the whys behind it, eating his position of food as quickly as possible. 

“I wonder why Umil and Shay weren’t moving… They’re going to be in trouble.” Malix murmured quietly, a worried frown on his face.

“They were the last ones out of surgery, yesterday.” Sirass responded quietly “And their surgeries took twice as long as ours. I don’t… I’m not sure…” While most of the time, if an Aspirant was going to die because of a surgery, they died on the table, not returning to the squad they’d been assigned to, from what SIrass had seen. But sometimes an Aspirant or two died in his sleep after being released from the butchers… Apothecaries… Who’d cut him open and shoved an additional organ inside of them before sewing them back up again.

“Ah. I… Oh.” Malix sighed, staring forlornly at his half-full bowl of sludge. 

“You need to finish eating. You know how they get when we don’t.” Sirass encouraged. “It’s best… Not to think about it. There’s nothing we can do.”

Malix huffed silently but nodded, morosely digging his spoon into the grey sludge, swallowing down another mouthful.  The two of them diligently watched over their remaining brother-aspirants for breakfast.

~

The only positives about the handful of weeks after a Surgery Day was that the physical training was less gods-awful, if only to ensure that they didn’t rip their stitches and bleed out over the training floors and waste the time and expense poured into them by the trainers and medical staff who were shaping them into astartes. The downside was during those weeks, they pushed the propaganda and indoctrination into How Amazing The Imperium Is and Serving The Imperium hard.

Sirass dutifully repeated the mantra of the Iron Warriors over and over again, to the beat that the training sergeant set, alongside his fellow aspirants. They would be doing this for another hour, before being told more Glorious Stories about the chapter, and the brilliance of their Primarch, Lord Perturabo. 

The more he learned about the incredibly powerful being, the less he ever wanted to be anywhere near the near-godlike being. He sounded equal parts tyrannical bastard and unholy terror, both in the forge and on the battlefield. All Sirass wanted was to be able to see his mother again, to apologize for not listening to her. He could still remember what she looked like, and the sound of her voice, at least…

He did most of the time. It scared him, the days when he forgot what his home had been like. To know that he couldn’t recall the color of his mother’s eyes. On those days he’d take out the purloined needle he’d taken and practice the stitches his mother had taught him on the blanket he had, or the inside of his clothing, making sure to undo it before anyone could see what he was doing. The needle wasn’t something he was allowed to have as an aspirant, and practicing a skill that would probably be seen as frivolous… Sirass did not want to be beaten for trying to remember the one person who had truly loved and cared for him.

Not in this place of blood and fear and misery. Sirass was fairly certain they were trying to beat all of the kindness and humanity out of him and his fellow aspirants. This one, small act of defiance was something that he was hoping he’d be able to have.

[fictionkinfessions]

Born to be a living weapon forced to be an actual person for once. I hate this let me out

x

[allebooklover]

For the prompt counting clocks by @flashfictionfridayofficial.

I sort of went with the alternate meaning of clocks - clocking someone in the head, and regular clocks.

Content warnings: violence and child abuse. Character repeatedly remembers violence committed on kids, and daydreams of people getting hit in the head in multiple ways.

Edited to include the words ‘counting clocks’ (hadn’t realised I left it out).

“-the clock in the house is an antique from the Fujiwara’s grandfather’s generation. It symbolises—”

The teacher droned on, a continuous monotone that blurred the words together, until Enn could barely made sense of what he was saying. He could understand Japanese just fine, despite spending the previous few years in Italy, but he couldn’t say the same for Japanese literature. Metaphors, similes, symbolism— none of it made sense to Enn, even with Minase’s efforts. Even after a month, he couldn’t make head or tails of it, and if he was being honest with himself, he never would.

He glanced up at the clock. It was a perfect circle, painted white with crisp black numbers circling the rim. 10.15am, it read. Enn’s shoulders slumped before he could stop them—he forced them back up with a flinch, gaze flickering frantically to the teacher. Thankfully, the teacher was too busy reading the textbook to notice his slip.

It could be wrong, he thought hopefully. The clock could have been wounded wrongly, just like the old square clock they’d had back in the hellhole that ran anywhere between 3 and 8 minutes early. He didn’t have anything to compare it to, but that didn’t matter. Having allies was a wonderful thing, especially in an unknown environment. Carefully, his eyes slid to the side of the classroom. Kazumi was seated three seats aside and down, scribbling into her notebook like her life depended on it, dark shadows under her eyes. Her wrists were bare, and just like the classmates surrounding them, she looked completely focused on what the teacher was saying. A far cry from the silent, wary girl he remembered, who needed to keep everybody in sight at all times and panicked when they weren’t.

He wasn’t sure if he liked that.

Focused as Kazumi was, it was all too easy for her to die. Enn could already see it in his mind’s eye—the classmate seated beside her whirling around and punching once to the face before stabbing a pen into the side of her neck, a tactic they’d learned back when they were in the Nero famiglia’s care. Clutching at her throat, wheezing for air as warm blood slid down her fingers, staining her blouse red—

Kazumi’s eyes shifted towards his. Her brows furrowed into a scowl, eyes flickering back to the whiteboard and back to him. Pay attention, her look said, and Enn slid his gaze back to the front with a sigh.

He glanced up at the clock—10.20am. Enn resisted the urge to smack his head on the table. He peeked to the side instead, gaze shifting to the third seat beside the window.

Minase was looking down at his textbook, bangs falling into his eyes, pen held loosely in hand. There was a watch on his wrist, but the head was facing away from Enn. He gritted his teeth, thinking his options through.

He could ask the other students to pass on the message, but he didn’t trust those students not to narc to the teacher. He could approach or call out himself—Minase rolled with the circumstances like a well oiled ball bearing. He’d give Enn a questioning look but also a honest answer, but that would be against the rules. Obeying the rules was what helped them survive back then, and although the rules were less clearcut, it was helping them survive now.

Adults didn’t like rule breakers. The adults in charge of him back then had made it vehemently clear how much they hated them by kicking rule breakers in the head until their face caved in, pleading be damned. He’d counted forty two kicks, once, for an eight year old who’d stolen a ring. Could still hear the crunch of bone, the horrible hacking coughs as the kid struggled to breath through a swollen tongue and broken teeth. Kazumi was too smart to be caught, but Minase wasn’t, and Enn refused to see them go through the same thing.

He’d kill the teacher before that happened.

He’d seen some squads do it to their handlers. Enn had dreamt of joining in, when things got too much. It had never ended well, but when you were deemed failures by the lab and sent into an underground war between criminals as meat shields and fodder, striking back was worth death. It wouldn’t even be hard—it was clear that the teacher had never killed anyone in his life, unlike the mafiosi. Attention split between twenty kids and the whiteboard, the teacher wouldn’t see Enn coming until it was too late.

He wouldn’t even need a pen—the textbook they were using would do. Enn tightened his grip on his textbook. All he’d would have to do was throw it at the back of the teacher’s head with enough force to break a skull, and if that failed, he’d have his fists. He’d seen kids die of brain damage after getting clocked in the face, and the teacher would die just like they would - crying in pain, vomiting down their fronts, clutching at their heads until they fell limp and still. One strike, two, three; counting clocks to the head just like he had for the rest of the dead.

It’d get him executed by the adults in front of the others to teach them what happened to failures who fought back, but at least that meant no more Japanese literature class. No more struggle to adapt to this weirdly peaceful place, where violence was the exception instead of the rule.

(Kazumi had told him that things had changed. That the people who’d took them in didn’t want to kill them, or for them to kill anyone, or do anything that wasn’t what a regular high school kid would do, whatever that meant. It was clear that they were trying to believe it, but Enn wasn’t sure he was ready to join them just yet.)

Kazumi was looking at him, brows furrowed. Shoving away the memories of blood and violence, Enn shifted his gaze to his notes. Above them, the clock ticked on, slowly and inevitably marching towards the end of the lesson, and the beginning of a new one.

[sunshiline-writes]

COLORS OF THE END #2: Silver of the Knife

Synopsis: Isobele gets revenge. CW: Child soldiers, stabbing, blood, GORE GORE GORE, hallucinations, bug hallucinations, really graphic description of gore and wounds, cauterization, lady whump, Ben and Isobele's ceaseless bickering even as one of them is dying, pain, passing out due to pain, I think that's it??? let me know if I missed anything Previous | Masterlist | Next Word count: 2.9k

It only took a moment. A moment's distraction. A singular glint of something familiar to pull her attention away from what was important. A flash of something from her past. It was just a doll. A singular doll made from cloth. Clearly hand stitched. Peeking out from under a tent. Isobele didn’t know why it called to her like so, but she couldn’t help herself. She crouched, grabbing it, examining it in her hand. Ben and Jeremiah were talking on the other end of the camp, she could hear their voices. Talking idly about something she couldn’t be bothered about. 

Isobele heard him before she felt him. His foot rustled the tent. She spun around to face him, if she couldn’t see him, her power wouldn’t work. But she saw his eyes, he was already too close. The knife slid in like butter. Just beneath her left rib cage. It slid out just as easily. Her hand grabbed the wrist, twisting. He grunted, kicking her backwards with a foot to her stomach. “You killed the kid. He was.. He was just a kid,” he whispered as he turned around, ready to run. 

There was nowhere to run for him. Her breath caught in her throat. Hand covering her wound. She ignored the burning pain, the way every breath seemed to send more blood on her hand. She was ripped apart from the inside. Isobele shook her head, she needed to focus. Focus on what was in front of her. Push through the pain. She’d done this before. She could do it again. “I don’t see any kids here,” Isobele said, voice soft. 

The man's head was not hard to get into, she ripped through it with relative ease. A name was in the forefront of his mind. Julius. Not his name. His name was unimportant though. She just needed a few pictures, some images and she could create something new. Something horrifying. 

“All I see is you.” 

His own hands were covered in blood. Not his blood. It traveled up his arms, under his shirt, up to his neck. Over his chin, into his mouth. He was choking on it. He wasn’t choking, but he felt like he was, hands going to his throat. Scratching at it. 

No survivors. 

Bugs crawling over him, into his mouth, the hand with the knife, glints in the light. Silver and red. A reflection. The knife carves into the soft flesh of his throat, splitting it down the middle. The knife falls into the dirt. His hands dug into the skin, poking and prodding. Pulling. Strings of muscle and she could see the bone in his throat. His trachea was open to the world. Blood spills down his front, completely covering his chest. Honestly, it’s a wonder he’s still alive as he falls to his knees. Gurgling sounds coming from him. One last push, more feelings of something crawling there. His own hand grabbed his trachea, fingers around the bone, and she saw him pull. More choking sounds, and the light in his eyes dies. He fell forward, his hand outstretched. His trachea was in his hand, covered in red and bits of pink. 

Her job was finished and the pain came back tenfold. Her breathing was labored and she finally mustered the strength to call out. 

“Benjamin! Jeremiah!” she calls, grunting as she forces herself to a standing position. “Come here for a second…” Her world spun and she took a step forward. The pain shooting down her leg, up inside her ribs. 

“Oh shit.. Oh shit. Issy,” Ben screeched, immediately rushing to her side, arm around her waist, holding her up. “Why the fuck would you get stabbed at a time like this huh?” 

“What like I had a choice?” she bit out. 

“Could have gotten stabbed closer to the train. You’d bleed less.” 

“You’re a dick.”  “Guys stop,” said Jeremiah, staring at the treeline. Probably gauging whether they could make it to the train before she bled out. That would be nice, she was actually quite keen on not dying. Besides it would be a real strike to her ego if she died from something as stupid as a stab wound. As Jeremiah calculated, Ben got to work. Pressing his own hand to her side. 

“Pressure Issy. Lots of pressure.” Isobele hissed through her teeth, groaning. Finally she let herself lean against him, her world spinning for a moment. Vision going grey. She bit down the nausea in her stomach, crawling its way up her throat. She was so tired suddenly and she slumped forward. 

“No. No. Come on Isobele. Do not pass out right now. I swear to everything, I will kill you if you die.” 

Oh, full name, she was in trouble now wasn’t she? 

“We need to cauterize it,” came the voice in front of her. Jeremiah’s soft and still cracking voice. God he was so young. “She’s bleeding too much. We need to do it now.” 

“Yeah.. Yeah.. Do what he says. For once the kid is right,” Isobele agreed, as Benjamin started to set her down. He left her sitting up against a box of supplies, she held her hand over her wound. Her throat felt like it was closing. Why did she want to cry? She was not going to die here. That was just an embarrassing thought.  

She didn’t realize that Ben and Jeremiah were arguing until she looked at them again. Oh, she must have blacked out a little. Their words came flooding back into her head. “Jeremiah you have to. Come on. You have to heat up the knife, Isobele doesn’t have her daggers and even if she did she’s too weak to charge it herself.” 

“No! I don’t want to. I’ll lose control and.. and.. I can’t control it that well.” “Yes you can. You have to Jem. Come on. If you don’t she will die. Do you want her to die, Jem?” 

Jeremiah stepped away from Benjamin, who was holding the knife that had been used to stab her. It glinted in the light. Even covered in blood it still shined. Isobele found herself wondering if she could be like that too. Still silver even under the cover of blood. 

“You’re scaring him Ben. You keep that up and this whole place goes up into ash. Including us. I actually plan on making it back to the rendezvous. What about you? Calm down, take a deep breath. I’m not going to die here if you just think for a moment, idiot.” 

Ben turned to her, eyes wide, then he glanced at Jeremiah. Jeremiah was panicking too, breathing fast, static was filling the air. Slowly, Ben approached the kid. One hand snaked around Jeremiah’s head, cradling it and he pressed his forehead against his. “Hey kid, breathe. I’m sorry. I got scared. Let it get the best of me. Won’t happen again I swear. But you’re in control here okay? You’ve got it. Deep breaths and you can do it.” 

Jeremiah’s hand shook but he gripped the sharp end of the knife. Static in the air once again. There was silence for a moment before the knife’s color changed from silver to the orange of fire. Ben smiled.

“Good. Good,” Ben said softly, as Jeremiah retracted his hand wincing. It was cut and it smelled like burnt flesh. “We’ll get you cleaned up when we get back okay?” Then Ben kneeled down over her legs, lifting her shirt to reveal the wound. She winced as the shirt stuck to it. It was open and as she uncovered it with her hand, more blood gushed out. Ben hissed through his teeth, holding the knife over the wound. So close she could feel the heat. 

Isobele couldn’t look at it, instead she just looked at him. She looked at Benjamins brown eyes that meant safety. Swallowing thickly she nodded. 

“Do you need something to bite on or–” 

“Geez, just do i-” 

Isobele screamed. 

Her world went black. She was back home in her hammock, staring at the clouds. Silver. They were silver. Not clean silver like the knife she could see her reflection in, but a grey silver that seemed angry and tired. 

She came to in Benjamins arms. He was carrying her with his hands under her knees, the other around the small of her back. Oh god, she was never going to live this one down was she? She could hear him now. 

I saved your life, blah blah blah. 

Gross. She’d never admit to it. 

It was a slow trek through the forest, mostly quiet save for Ben’s slow humming of a song she didn’t recognize. 

“I can see your eyes open, I know you’re awake.” 

“Barely,” she groaned, “tell anyone back at base about this and I will kill you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kill me when you can stand upright by yourself,” Ben said with a small laugh. He shifted her in his arms and pain shot through her body. Up in her stomach and down into her legs. She was on fire. Isobele whimpered and shook her head. 

“Ben,” Isobele whispered, “It hurts.” 

“I know. We’ll get you to Sonya and she’ll heal you up okay?” There was a tension in his voice. Worry? She ignored that. She always ignored it so that it didn’t have to live in her head that Ben cared about her. It was easier to deal with if she pretended that they hated each other.  

Jeremiah whistled lowly, signaling something. They stopped moving, listening, and waiting. A few seconds later a whistle came through the forest, sharp and loud. They all looked at each other, then stepped through the foliage. 

Zachary stood next to the train, leaning against the sleek metal flipping a coin in his hand. She never understood his obsession with that coin. They didn’t even use coins like that anymore. Only in areas where they held onto old ways, too afraid to change. But most people used batteries now, they were way more valuable than some old coin with a dead guy's face on it.

The man pushed himself to stand straighter, staring at them. The disappointment was written all over him. It made her stomach do a flip. Zachary was always disappointed in them. Somehow there was always something they could do better, something they could improve on. Nothing was ever satisfactory. 

Zachary walked up to them and looked at the wound for a moment, leaning down and pressing a hand gently on it. It set fire under her skin. She squirmed away and looked up at Ben, whose face was carefully neutral. Even if his grip had tightened slightly. 

“What happened?” Zachary asked, his voice smooth, brows furrowed in worry.

“She got hurt. We need Sonya,” Ben said, voice shaking a bit. 

“Jeremiah what happened to her?” 

Jeremiah seemed to appear from nowhere, stepping up beside Ben. Zachary always asked him for the truth, because he always told it. Jem was annoying like that. Always following orders perfectly and telling the truth. The good thing was, Isobele was the only one who truly knew what happened. She pictured the man’s trachea in his hand, covered in blood and muscle. There was a certain pride that she took in her work. In the way that she could make people do what she wanted, see what she wanted. She was strong enough to make a man tear out his own throat with his bare hands. She wasn’t strong enough to stop him from stabbing her first though. 

“I’m not sure, Sir. She was alone when we caught up with her. She had already been stabbed and the man was dead. Isobele killed him. Sir, he tore out his own throat. It was impressive. There was-” 

Zachary raised his hand to stop Jeremiah from speaking and the boy's mouth clamped shut. “That’s enough. Take her inside. I’ll have Terry set her up with an IV and pain killers,” he said sighing, “I’ll talk to you later about paying attention to your surroundings. You let someone sneak up on you. You could have died.” 

She almost did. Isobele cringed slightly at the reprimand. Ignoring the urge to hide her face in Ben’s shoulder. Resisting the urge to put a thought into Zachary’s head about crawling under the train and letting it cut him in half when it started moving. 

Ben huffed a breath, “Can we go inside now? She isn’t as light as she looks and my arms are going numb.” 

“You’re an ass,” she grumbled. 

Zachary sighed, stepping aside. Placing a hand on Ben’s shoulder and whispering something in his ear that Isobele couldn’t hear. Ben’s jaw tensed and he nodded, stepping up on the train steps and carrying her inside. 

__ 

The rest of it, getting the IV, everything was a blur. She blamed that on the painkillers. On the brightside, she was able to sleep through most of the train ride back. Sleeping ten out of twelve hours was something she didn’t do often and she was grateful at the opportunity. When she woke up, her head felt like it was filled with cotton. Everything blurred but there was one thing that was clear in her vision. Jeremiah, he sat in the chair across from her, one leg crossed over the other, book in his hand in the dim light. His hands were bandaged, again.

“Oh,” he said softly. “You’re awake. You slept a lot. Ben told Zachary to let you.” 

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, moving to set up, fire spread through her abdomen and she cringed. Maybe sitting up wasn’t the best idea. “No Sonya?” she asked. 

“No she’s back at base, she’ll heal you when you get there.” “Oh.” Jeremiah hummed, closing his book and he looks up at her. He’s got odd eyes. The kid had always had odd eyes. One light blue, like ice, the other so black you could drown in them. He had a soft voice, a soft demeanor. He was soft all around. Jeremiah was also stupidly tall for a fourteen year old. Or perhaps she was just stupidly small. 

Jeremiah leaned forward and pulled something from his back pocket. It glints in the light. The knife. The one that stabbed her. She reached for it, grabbing it by the handle and looking it over. It’s heavy, heavier than she thought. The handle is carved from wood. In the wood is carved a V. She thumbs with the sharpness, impressed. It makes a soft sound when she flicks her thumb across. Perfect. 

“Thought you might want to add it to the collection,” he said, shrugging and leaning back. 

“Yeah. It’s a nice dagger.” 

“Shiny,” he agreed awkwardly. God he was so fucking awkward. What was it? The murder at age twelve? Or was it just his regular personality? Either way it was fucking strange. Jeremiah was strange. 

“You’re fucking weird kid,” She commented, flipping the knife in her hand. 

“Thank you,” Jeremiah said, tilting his head to the side. “I have something else for you.” 

“What is it?” 

Jeremiah pulled something out of his front pocket. A paper. He unfolded it slightly and it came to life. A small paper crane. Perhaps a homage to one of their first meetings. When Isobele was a grand age of eleven and Jem was a shy eight year old. She held out her hand and he gently transferred it to her palm. 

It was an old memory, a fond one. One of her only ones when it came to Jeremiah. He hadn’t talked when he first came to them. Zachary said that he was just adjusting, Isobele believed that he just had nothing to say. It was after a particularly hard day of pushing herself, of training too hard like usual. She sat in the hallway outside of the arena, catching her breath. Jeremiah came out to join her. Placed a paper crane in her hand. 

She made it look like it was flying, and had it soar around the hallway. Just like now as she made it look like it was flying around the room. It flew by Jeremiah’s head, and around her own. It flew toward the window and landed on the sill. They watched for a moment before the illusion flickered and the crane stayed still in her hand. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. Something digging at her chest, making her throat close. Jeremiah was a kind soul. If he had the choice he’d probably never hurt a fly. Yet here he was, making sure that there were no survivors in a rebel camp. And gifting her silver knives and paper cranes. 

“I figured you could use something good,” he said with a smile, patting the bed twice and standing up, moving to leave. 

“You don’t have to go. You could stay.” 

“And do what?” 

She glanced at the book in the boy's hand. “Tell me about your book.” 

Jeremiah’s face brightened and he sat down again, starting to talk. She was barely listening, she just didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t seem to mind as she stared out the window. She thumbed her finger over the carved V in the handle, vaguely wondering what the name of the man was that she killed. That she made carve out his own throat. 

It didn’t matter, she decided, he was dead anyway. 

__ Taglist: @coyotehusk

[red-rover-au]

I'm sorry just. The idea that Purple kinda disowns his brothers, spends 20 minutes as an only child, then goes to find some baby sisters (cyan and gray in this au?) is sending me.

Most of y'all assume that Donnie found two turtle yokai/mutants. The reality is... well

It also takes place quite awhile after Donnie initially escaped through the portal, as Draxum has had time to recover and Donnie in the meanwhile has gotten a hold of Lou Jitsu's DNA

Local war criminal father is Shocked and Disappointed that his child soldier actually learned war crimes and thinks they're ok now

[nonuggetshere]

GOD I HAD AN IDEA AS I WAS FALLING ASLEEP TODAY

About FaaF naturally

A sad one, TW fir near child death and harm

Involves Xero's attempt at an assassination, or it could be literally just any guard controlled by the Radiance

PK and WL need to talk about something private, and WL looks at the tiny vessel tagging along by her wyrm's side

"Should it be here?"

"It wouldn't understand anything anyway."

"Still, it's...a little..."

He sighs lightly, "Yeah, I get where you're coming from... Vessel, come here."

He kneels down and orders them to sit by the door and wait for them while they talk, says he'll come pick them up once they're done and not to move, then the two go to talk on the balcony and close the door behind them

At some point, Xero/the guard bursts in and attacks PK in the middle of the conversation, managing to take them by surprise and so gets one good swing in before PK darts away and retaliates, pinning them down with soul blades, though he has to keep his wife from killing them on the spot - he doesn't want to be so hasty, knowing they're infected and not themself. He pulls out the sword from his chest and that's when they realise, it's covered in void...

Child harm/near death TW beyond this point

After a moment of shock White Lady, who's closest to the doors, runs out and all her husband can hear is a horrified, heartbroken scream. He feels nauseous, his stomach twisting into knots and feeling like his heart is in his throat as he runs out after her. He sees her in tears, cradling a tiny bundle soaked in void. There's- there's so much void. It covers the floor where he left their child vessel and soaks through his lady's shawl and clothes as she cradles them in her arms.

For a moment he's paralysed, before he just snaps. He flies back onto the balcony, screaming at the possessed guard that he'll kill her, he'll make her pay for this, and he slays them in his rage (something he'll regret and feel ashamed of later), still hitting and screaming at Her well after the possessed person is dead and she can't hear him anymore.

He collapses, panting, near tears, and just gets himself up and stumbles out the door and towards the two, he wants to see how bad it is for himself.

Flower survives, but just barely. They had multiple stab wounds and lost their left arm, if not for their parents immediately healing them they'd be dead. They're barely older than 5, still so very little and defenceless, PK is horrified at how could anyone hurt a baby this young and helpless (hypocrite), even if they're not alive.

They're still on bed rest because that was so much damage and their mother doesn't leave their side and their father only leaves when necessary. They still don't realise Flower's alive and they know they shouldn't be so attached but it still feels like their baby and they can't just leave them. WL spends the entire day by their side, gently stroking their hair and horns with her now permanently void stained hands and softly coos and sings to them

Of course, they quickly realise they ARE alive because no way in hell a toddler is getting this hurt and NOT crying and screaming the second they wake up <3

Which just makes this situation so much worse

[toitlselfindulgenz]

Idk if i'll be able to finish the whole song but hey this is a fun exercise

[hersheysmcboom]

(SONIC 3 SPOILERS!)

(Shadow finds out Maria is alive and turned into an assassin by G.U.N)

Shadow: Maria?!

Maria: who the hell is Maria?

[unkindhands]

Once again thinking about that fic where Kars finally returns to Earth from space but it's several thousand years into the future after a climate apocalypse has ended human civilization and Santana is the only sapient life left on Earth and Kars is finally forced to confront his grief at losing Esidisi and Wamuu and how all his machinations turn to ash without them being alive to see it and also he finally opens up emotionally to Santana after all that time

anyways please read it

[blonde-and-cat-suc]

28. three's a crowd

rating: g 

wc: 1.5k 

cw/tw: domestic violence isolation tactics (implied), past physical abuse (implied) 

desc: Glimmer, Bow, and Adora arrive in Bright Moon on a high note, excited to have She-Ra joining the Rebellion. Adora is skeptical of their welcoming attitude. Three friends is one too many to be true... 

(Canon Compliant) 

///

"Adora! Show me how you threw that punch again!"

"Well, alright", Adora agreed easily, a golden dapple of sunlight coming through the trees giving away the pinkish-red of her cheeks. She was clearly the type that liked to show off—Glimmer had been privy from the beginning. The freshly new rebel had proven herself to be an ally to them with a sort of flashy, grandiose act of solidarity...

She-Ra.

Glimmer couldn't help her giddiness.

Yes, She-Ra's defense of Thaymor was awesome—yes, Glimmer loved every second of it. Beneath her initial disbeliefs, Glimmer was beginning to understand that it didn't matter where Adora had come from. Only where she was going.

Presently, Adora was set to go to Bright Moon, sitting on top of the wayward horse they had fled Thaymor with. Adora couldn't have been much younger than Glimmer or Bow, but she had not been out much. Everything amazed Adora in one way or another.

I had no idea that we had this many moons in the sky! Adora exclaimed yesterday, staring into the violet-blue deepness enfolding various moonlight hues. And then, hours later, when the daylight moons had rotated to their positions: Where'd they all go? Why did they leave...? Adora was genuinely regretful. So certain that the moons themselves had moved on from her, specifically, and would not return intentionally, somehow. Bow had to reassure her that the moons would return, (and sometimes they wouldn't, when they got into a New Moon phase). She'd perked up instantly, relieved.

Their first few hours of retreating Thaymor had been spent explaining basic information to Adora that she may not have already known. What Bright Moon was like, the Rebellion, Queen Angella's pitiful alliances across civil Etheria... Adora had no trouble accepting these truths with only the occasional inkling of doubt.

It should have been more obvious before, but Glimmer had only caught on to Adora's true merit when she'd talk back to them with her own insights, pressing them for more information, more analogies, more new philosophies and ideas and morals... and then, more.

Adora was a truthful hero who was also eager to learn and explore the world around her. Glimmer couldn't have asked for a better gift to the Rebellion. She-Ra was going to give the Rebellion the advantage that they had needed all of those years ago when her father...

When the Horde had made their worse offense on Bright Moon to date.

It was all Glimmer could think of when she looked at Adora. Even when they had become comfortable in each other's presence, even when Adora was guiding Glimmer's hands to throw a punch that those calloused, cruel Horde soldiers used—Glimmer knew that Adora herself was ultimately the upper hand the Rebellion needed. With each other's full cooperation, they could protect Etheria from the evil that had grown in its darkest corner. They would burn the Horde back into the ground. Once and for all.

...But for now, the three of them were only lucked-out travelers escaping the Horde's latest brutality. They were all exhausted and each of them had admitted to the group that they were still sore from the day before. Regardless, they kept steady pace, and soon, Glimmer recognized the thinly trekked dirt roads cutting through the trees... They were close to the outskirts of Bright Moon's city. Bow had realized too, flashing a huge smile, "I can't wait to shower and eat and sleep!"

Adora instantly made a skeptical sort of expression. "All at once?"

"Huh? No! But, well... I could definitely try."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"Probably not", he laughed. "How does anyone shower and eat and sleep? I understand showering and eating—and sleeping and eating. But all three? No, I'm not sure. Sorry, Adora!"

Then, she'd only frowned at him. "You're...joking?"

"Only a little bit", Bow laughed again. "I'm sorry. Really. This is the kind of joke that my dads would tell. It's funny. I haven't been home in a while..."

"Dads", Adora tested the word on her mouth. "Daaaaahds. What is a 'Dads'?"

Wide-eyed and open-minded, Adora absorbed what Bow had to tell her about his family and all of his brothers. She got around to prying him for information on the word "brothers", eventually.

"Do you have 'brothers'?" Adora looked at Glimmer expectantly.

"No, no. I'm an only child."

"Me too. Well... I assume so. I don't have a 'Dads' either."

"It's just a 'Dad'."

"Yeah, it's not such a big deal not having one." Adora smiled. "I turned out okay, I think."

Glimmer didn't bother correcting her anymore after that. The dryness of her mouth and lips was starting to get to her, now that she knew that Bright Moon was close. All she cared about was drinking water, and doing those other things Bow had listed. And of course, recruiting Adora to their cause. Giving her someplace to sleep. Making sure she knew how to take a bath when they found time for that.

When they'd broken out of the wooded trails, Adora had climbed on top of their horse just to get a better view of the sight—Bright Moon Castle, and the Moonstone, opalescent and shimmering gold hues in the daylight. "Wow", Adora sighed under her breath, fingers clutched in the horse's mane.

Glimmer beamed up at her. "Welcome home!"

"Home." Adora seemed to cringe around this word. She examined Glimmer and Bow, and even the horse beneath her. "You guys are sure that you want me to live here? With you?"

"Where else would you go?" Bow asked with an equal amount of sincerity. "I couldn't bring you home."

"Because of your 'Dads'..." Adora nodded to him in understanding. "Right."

"Well, Bright Moon has space for you", Glimmer promised.

"Um", Adora had only looked between them again, frowning. "Are you sure...?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just... Well. Um. I really do want to be friends with you guys."

"We want to be friends with you, too!" Bow reached up and touched the side of her arm, but withdrew as soon as she stiffened, knuckles white, contrasted in the hazel-brown of the horse mane caught in the pressure. If Adora noticed that she'd frightened the horse, she did nothing but gesture it to keep trotting. Bow muttered a quick apology, and Adora accepted it quietly, but it wasn't enough to get them away from the topic.

Not that Adora seemed to want to stop talking about it. She eventually managed to hold Bow's eyes, shoulders rounded, knees pressing into the horse so that it swung its head back and forced her to relax again. Delicately, Adora petted the horse's neck, voice soft but leveled, "I'm not sure that I could be your friend. I mean. Maybe it's a Horde thing. But... there's already two of you..."

"And three's better", Bow said plainly. "You're not in the Horde anymore, Adora. You can do what you want about that, now."

"Oh...? I mean. I heard that—that those kinds of friendships always end up bad. That's why it's sort of banned in the first place. Not totally banned. Just... You get flack for having too many friends... Is that true for the rest of the world?"

"Not at all. If everyone stays very good friends. And talks to each other a lot. The more, the merrier!"

"What does the Horde know about friendships, anyway?" Glimmer shook her head, ready to go into grave detail on why Adora should probably disregard whatever it was that she knew about friendship—and to prepare herself to learn some new things about it—but Glimmer stopped herself. Adora suddenly had a startlingly distant look in her eyes.

"I've only ever had one real friend", Adora told them. "And—I wasn't allowed to have other ones. I-I mean, they were friends. But not friends friends. She used to want to have me to herself all the time. It made sense. Our other friends were opposition to me as her friend. And that's no good for friendship. So, I understand if you guys don't want to be my friend and ruin a perfectly good—"

Bow had stopped the horse with an assertiveness that had Glimmer stopping in her tracks, too. He was silent for all but a moment before he went on with the same tone he had used when he was explaining his Dads to Adora. "This isn't the Horde anymore. You can have as many friends as you want now, Adora! Even if it's not with us."

Glimmer nearly butted in because they kind of needed to be friends with Adora if this was going to work between them all. Maybe not best friends but... something close to it. Maybe Adora was thinking the same way because she'd only nodded at Bow, suddenly unwilling to probe him any further than that.

"Adora, um. I'm sorry about your friend", Glimmer added into the silence.

Adora only gave an uncommitted hum, rubbing the side of her cheek as if recoiling from a strike that never hit. But when she moved her palm and the daylight reached her cheekbones, the rigid, perfect cuts were obvious. Three lines, tapered off down to her jaw. They were long scarred over but... still there. Adora didn't seem to notice it when Glimmer's mouth flattened into a neutral grimace, and she shrugged, lifting a brow, "Nothing to be sorry for. It's just... Uhm. What if we start hurting each other because of that?"

"Hurting each other?" Bow blinked. "Over what?"

"Well... Each other...?"

"We're not going to do that", Glimmer said carefully. "That's... That's a little extreme, no?"

Adora paused. "Do you think it's extreme?"

"Yes", Bow and Glimmer blurted almost together.

Another pause. Adora thumbed at her scarred cheekbone, absentmindedly. "Oh." 

[fictionkinfessions]

I would appreciate if people would stop referring to Black Doom as my father.

Yes, he had a hand in my creation, and I was made with Black Arms DNA, however he has never done ANYTHING to deserve being referred to as my father - let alone anything kinder than that. I barely even feel it appropriate to refer to him as my creator.

I was little more than a pawn to him. A component to a gamble he had constructed to destroy the planet. I have reason to doubt he ever saw me as anything more than that.

He is no 'father' to me, and never was. He's just the same as any other enemy who attempted to hurt me. - Shadow the Hedgehog

x

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

forgot to mention it earlier but gotta go with shinji on this one this is bullshit

[1pcii]

thinking about younger 124ji as years of this kind of unchecked thinking and behaviour, mixed with their unnatural lack of empathy bringing them to the cartoonist extremes they display in canon.

[risingsunresistance]

just remembered this song exists :(

[red-rover-au]

I thought about drawing a comic for this but fuck that its too much work so here are Words instead

Red Rover AU stuff about Leo's mystic training under Draxum:

Draxum wanted Leo to fully harness his mystic powers; he had Donnie come up with Portal 2 esque puzzles for Leo and everything. Unfortunately, Leo is still a damn showoff and to this day uses his portals with more... flourish than necessary.

Let's just say Leo's hood used to have a cape. (He wanted to get a new one after he portal chopped the first but Donnie went Edna on him and said NO FUCKING CAPES). After Leo portal chopped the skin on his elbow, nearly damaging it down to the bone, Draxum started making Leo apply his own first aid. He figured it'd teach Leo to be less careless.

It didn't. But Leo did find that he has a knack for medical stuff, surprisingly. He has a steady hand, and he's pretty good at keeping his head together when dealing with wounds, both his own and others.

I could tell you more about how, whenever Leo seriously injured himself during training Draxum would start a 3 minute timer and tell him to patch it up and promptly attack him the second the timer ended, regardless of how much Leo had done. Leo could be mid suture and Draxum would attack if those 3 minutes ran out.

"The enemy won't wait for you, so neither will I," he would say.

He's technically right. But. You know.

[reasonsforhope]

“In 2019, a colleague and I interviewed dozens of children in northeast Nigeria who had been detained in horrific conditions in a military prison for alleged association with the armed group Boko Haram. The children described beatings, overwhelming heat, frequent hunger, and being packed tightly in cells with hundreds of other detainees “like razorblades in a pack.” Most were never charged and held for months or years with no outside contact.

Since 2013, at least 4,000 children have been detained in Nigeria. Many were abducted against their will or apprehended when fleeing Boko Haram attacks. Some were only five years old.

Our report, published in late 2019, helped prompt the release of 333 children from prison, but authorities refused to allow the United Nations access to the prison or to enter an agreement to ensure children were not military detained and were provided immediate reintegration assistance.

Last week, the Nigerian government finally signed a “handover protocol” with the UN agreeing that children taken into military custody on suspicion of involvement with Boko Haram should be transferred within seven days to civilian authorities for reintegration. This is an important milestone that will help prevent the military detention of children and ensure they receive needed support...

Handover protocols are practical measures to ensure that instead of prison, children affected by conflict can be reintegrated into their communities. In Mali, for example, dozens of children have been transferred from military to civilian authorities for reintegration thanks to a handover protocol signed in 2013. Chad, Niger, and Burkina Faso have also signed protocols.

Children affected by conflict need rehabilitation and schooling, not prison. Nigeria’s new agreement should help children get the support they need.” -via Human Rights Watch, 10/3/22