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heliads · 1 year ago

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everything is blue • conrisa space au • Chapter Eighteen: So Die the Kids Worth Saving

Risa Ward escaped a shuttle destined for her certain, painful death. Connor Lassiter ran away from home before it was too late. Lev Calder was kidnapped. All of them were supposed to be dissected for parts, used to advance a declining galaxy, but as of right now, all of them are whole. Life will not stay the same way forever.

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Risa is no stranger to captivity. Sixteen of her years around the standard sun were spent in a jail for children, forced there by parents who couldn’t spare the expense of committing to the dominoes they’d already pushed over. Even the Graveyard had been a bit of a prison, even if it had been the best damn prison of her life. This latest one, then, should be fine. It isn’t.

Maybe it’s the throbbing headache threatening to split her skull that truly makes the difference. This is Risa’s first experience being on the receiving end of a tranq dart, and she’s already decided that she would quite like it to be her last. For the first hour or so, it took everything in Risa to lie very still on her back with her eyes squeezed shut and not throw up. The nausea has worn off a little by now, but every part of Risa hurts, and her brain only seems to want to work at half speed.

Slowly, painfully, she puts the memories together to remember how she ended up here. She had been with Connor in that synth-park, and they’d been found by Dorian Heartland. They’d tried to run, and Risa had sacrificed herself to lock the gates so Connor could get away after she was shot.

She can only hope that her little stunt had worked. Maybe he’s lightyears away by now, free and alive. If he were smart, Connor would use this last bit of freedom to get as far from Dorian Heartland as he could. He’s got a bit of a head start; if he went fully off the grid, there’s a good chance that he might never be found again. The galaxy is a big place. There’s plenty of room for a boy and his ghosts.

Knowing Connor, though, he’s probably lurking nearby until he can get a chance to break her out. Secretly, Risa’s both mad and glad of it. She doesn’t want to be here, she doesn’t want to get distributed. She wants Connor to live, but she wants to live, too. She wants them to be alive together, if possible, and she most certainly does not want the guilt on her shoulders if he dies trying to get her out of here. Risa knew what she was getting herself into when she locked the park gate between them.

Still, the idea that someone might eventually come for her is appealing, even as a metaphorical safety blanket to clutch in her mind while she waits for her captors to come back for her. Once her head clears enough for Risa to slowly raise herself onto her elbows, she takes a good look at her surroundings. She’s been placed in a room that, by some miracle, has managed to beat out her old quarters in the OH-10 StaHo in terms of raw minimalism. There is no furniture here, not even a chair on which she can sit. The walls are bare, the ground smooth and uncovered by rugs. The only object in the room other than Risa herself is the narrow cot she’s been placed on to recover.

Clearly a cell, then. This place obviously isn’t meant to hold anyone for a long time, which means that she’s going to be moved pretty soon. They were probably waiting for Risa to wake up before they could do something with her, but what? If she was headed straight for her distribution, she’d just wake up in the Chop Shop of the nearest harvest complex. Suns, they probably wouldn’t even bother to wake her up, just put her in the embrace of a dozen scalpels. Her last memory would be of Connor screaming her name back in the park, reaching out to her before the darkness of the tranquilizer pulled her under.

Honestly, not the worst moment to be her last. Risa’s done a lot of living. It’s been depressing and boring at times, gritty and terrifying at worst. The brightest spark has been Connor by far. If she had to die now, having not quite made it to the upper age limit of distribution, maybe it would be alright if her last recorded thoughts were of him. At least then she could end on a good note. The last taste on her tongue would be sweet instead of copper-bitter like blood.

Risa gathers her strength, then forces herself into a seated position, swinging her legs over the edge of the cot so she can stand. Immediately, her head protests, and Risa sways so badly that she almost falls over before catching herself in the nick of time. Once she blinks the last of the swirling black spots from her eyes, Risa stands straight again and walks over to the door. Trying the handle once, she discovers it’s locked, although this doesn’t exactly come as a surprise.

The only thing left to do, then, is to wait. Risa’s thoughts, although desolate at times, are certainly a better threat to face than whatever calls her name outside that locked door. She lies back down for a while, then stands up again when the nerves get to be too much, pacing back and forth in an effort to drive off the stress. Time passes, might be hours or just minutes. It’s hard to tell in this windowless box.

She’s just starting to think that they might have forgotten about her when the lock clicks open. Risa springs back, regarding the door warily as it swings wide to reveal Dorian Heartland, hands clasped comfortably in front of him. The man files in, followed by two soldiers, who stand on either side of Heartland.

“Risa Ward,” he says by way of greeting. “Good to see you up.”

“What, afraid that you damaged the product too badly with your tranquilizers?” Risa asks daringly.

Unfortunately, Heartland doesn’t even bat an eye. Risa wonders why she bothers with emotional appeals; this man has no soul on which such claims would grate. “Precisely. I’m glad that you’re able to see things from an efficient perspective. Connor was awfully emotional.”

“Was?” Risa asks, struck by horror. “You don’t mean–”

But Dorian Heartland just waves a hand absentmindedly, clearing her worries from the air like smoke from a snuffed flame. “No, no. I misspoke. I simply mean that, the last time I had an AWOL captive, it was Connor and he repeatedly jumped to conclusions. Connor Lassiter is not dead. Not yet, at least,” he muses, “But he will be. No one can hide from me forever.”

“We did,” Risa hisses. “You had to go to the trouble of laying a trap, remember? You couldn’t find us on your own.”

“Yes,” Heartland admits, “But then I captured you. So the point remains.”

Risa greets this with harsh silence, staring at Heartland as if she could tear the flesh from his borrowed bones with only the force of her eyes upon him. Heartland sits contentedly in the hostile atmosphere, then jerks his chin towards the two men bracketing him.

“I hope you don’t mind the guards,” Heartland says abruptly. “They won’t be casting judgment on anything we say here, trust me. They’re just a necessary precaution, I think.”

Risa arches a brow. “What, in case I go crazy and try to rip the distributed parts out of your body with my bare hands?”

Heartland’s expression doesn’t even flicker at the threat, which is a shame. Risa would like him to be disgusted or afraid. Anything to upset this power imbalance. “Something like that, yes. Were you considering it?”

“I do whenever I look at you,” Risa tells him matter-of-factly. Her old administrators at the State Home would be horrified. So much for only treating adults with respect. Then again, she’s already failed them once, right? Might as well commit until the end. If she’s a wreck, she’ll be one through and through.

Dorian Heartland just chuckles. “Such spirit. It’ll go to good use in a better host, of that I am certain.”

“If you’re so keen to distribute me, why are we still talking? Save your breath and ship me off to the Chop Shop.” Risa says.

Heartland shakes his head. “There’s something I need from you first. I’m certain you won’t mind the delay between yourself and the knife.”

Risa’s forced smile turns a sickening shade. “Hundreds of years alive, and you still need something from teenagers other than their body parts?”

He doesn’t respond to the insult. “Yes, actually. If there’s one fault of the older generation, it’s that we often aren’t the best at connecting to the younger ones. You’re going to do that job for me by speaking to the distributes across the world.”

“How would they possibly all hear me?” Risa asks. It’s somewhat of a pointless question, more a matter of buying time before the inevitable than anything else. Risa has already seen firsthand the impact of one AWOL against the world, and it was called Radio Free Hayden.

“A broadcast,” Heartland answers her. “Pre-recorded, obviously. I don’t trust you enough to do anything live. I have a feeling that you’d try to act out. As for your script, I should think it would be obvious. Scores of teenagers around the worlds have felt inspired by you and Connor. They think anyone could avoid distribution by just running away or even fighting the Juvenile Authority officers. It’s inconvenient to my policies, I’m sure you can understand. You’re going to convince them that distribution is a good thing.”

Risa actually laughs. It feels good to clear her lungs. “That’s absurd. I’m not going to say that, obviously. Who in sunfire do you think I am?”

Heartland sighs, although his polite smile hasn’t shifted for an instant. “You know, I have to say I’m disappointed, Miss Ward. I was really hoping that you’d be willing to think a little more rationally. Then again, I suppose I learned my lesson with Connor when I asked him the same thing. No one likes to feel as if they’re betraying their friends.”

“So you knew better,” Risa summarizes. “Fine, nothing changed. Kill me already.”

He scoffs lightly. “Oh, no, no. You misunderstand me. Just because you are not willing does not mean that you won’t film it. If there’s one thing I have learned over my centuries, Miss Ward, it is the importance of control. If you cannot inspire it naturally in others, then you must have a way of manufacturing it synthetically.”

Risa’s throat dries up. “What are you talking about?”

Heartland’s sinister smile broadens. “I have a way of making people do what I want. Trust me, you won’t feel a thing.”

Risa’s head rears up. “No. Whatever you’re talking about, I won’t do it.”

Heartland takes a step forward, leering down at her with his unsettlingly asymmetric eyes. “That’s the thing, my child. You will.”

He beckons his guards with one finger and they lunge forward, seizing Risa and dragging her from the room. She fights the whole time, but these soldiers have the benefit of a steady diet and workout regimen, plus several more years of experience under their belt, and they hoist her down the corridor like an errant child.

She’s deposited in a larger room. There’s a machine in the corner that she doesn’t recognize, sized to hold either a small engine or a large person. Most of it is underneath a polished, curving shell, but there’s a window on the side near the top. A conveyor belt feeds in and out of the coffinlike center piece, and a bland logo on the side labels the machine as UNIS.

Risa doesn’t recognize it, although she is more familiar with the several cameras pointed towards a chair in the center of the room. She’s steered into the seat and held there by the guards, while someone in a doctor’s scrubs appears in the door after Heartland, preparing a syringe loaded with a substance even Risa can’t recognize.

“What are you doing to me?” She asks. Risa tries to sound brave, but her voice cracks along the way, and she’s exposed for what she really is– terrified, absolutely terrified. Risa wants to be courageous, but in this moment, hope seems like a far and fleeting thing.

Heartland sits down on a chair opposite her, giving Risa the vague impression of a particularly fascinating holo about to be studied. “I’m taking over your self control. It’s a simple procedure, merely a matter of adjusting your brain to be more open to receiving instruction. I’ve had plenty of time to develop it, so don’t worry about that. It’ll fade once I’m done, so I can still have your cerebral matter harvested without issue.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought this out perfectly,” Risa growls, watching the doctor loom ever closer, syringe in hand.

“I have,” Heartland says pleasantly. “All things according to plan.”

Risa wonders about this plan, if he’s been working on it since his first natural lifetime, if it’s ever shaped or changed. She wonders if her life factored into it at all, if her death will affect it. If there’s any conceivable way she could throw it off kilter.

Then the needle is in her vein, and the only thing Risa can wonder about is just what is being pumped into her, and how to fight it. Already, she feels that something is shifting in her mind. Her head is a little fuzzy, more so than just the lingering aftereffects of the tranq. Something is wrong, very wrong. She tries to struggle against the guards holding her in place, but halfway through flailing around, Risa can’t entirely remember why she wants to do this. It would be much more convenient to just sit there and wait for instruction. There’s a man opposite her. She hates him, she thinks, or did at one point. Why? He wants her dead– yes, that’s it, but the deep cut of that is blurred a little, no longer relevant. It is simply a fact, and Risa is not affected by facts.

“Risa Ward,” the man says. “Do you know who I am?”

Risa ponders this. The hands are gone from her shoulders, but she has no need to run. “No.”

“Think harder,” the man urges. “You will remember.”

Now that he’s suggested it, Risa recalls it easily. “Dorian Heartland,” she answers, the name rising readily to her lips as if she were answering a question in school.

“Yes,” he nods. “That’s right. Do you know what I need you to do?”

“Film a holo. About distribution. I’ll say it’s the right thing to do,” Risa says obediently. Something churns in her stomach when she relays these words, but she can’t fathom why. This is what is expected of her. Why would it be wrong?

Heartland claps his hands together once. “Technology. You have to love it.”

This makes no sense to Risa, but she watches motionlessly as Heartland abandons his chair to stand behind a recording device in front of her. His empty chair is removed by an assistant, who returns moments later holding a holo in her hand. It projects only a few large words into the air, just out of sight of the recording device.

“You’re going to say exactly what we show you on the holo display,” Heartland informs her. “No deviations, no improvisation. Our story is sufficient.”

“Okay,” Risa affirms.

They click a few buttons on the recording device and a green button flashes on the side, indicating that the camera is live. Risa’s attention is forcefully dragged over to the holo with her script. It feels as if an invisible hand is pressing against her skull, forcing her to look at the words, tugging her jaw open and shut to speak the words.

“My name is Risa Ward, and I am an AWOL,” she begins. “I ran away from my State Home when I heard I was going to be distributed, even though they only wanted to help me. I didn’t understand that this choice was for the best, and by becoming an AWOL, I was ridding the galaxy of the resources it desperately needed.”

She pauses for a moment, frowning. Her heart is beating erratically in her chest, and she wants to suggest to Heartland or the doctor holding the empty syringe that she should perhaps be checked out, but then she remembers that she was not to say anything but what was projected by the holo, so she stays silent before carrying on as normal.

“Distribution is a necessary task for the survival of the human species. It’s a good thing, and I realize that now. All distributes who have run away should turn themselves in to the nearest harvest colony. We all know what is right, and we have a moral duty to fulfill our responsibility to the galaxy that raised us.”

Bile is rising in her throat. A voice flashes across Risa’s mind, screaming no, no over and over again. A heartbeat later, she realizes that it is her own. Risa doesn’t want this.

Heartland snaps his fingers, dragging her back to reality. Risa realizes that she must have gone silent; although she was urged to say only what was on the cues, Risa was never given guidance as to how slowly she could say it, or if she could pause for an exceptionally long time, or even stop speaking. Somehow, her body is rebelling, even if her mind can’t recall why this is important.

Now that she’s been reminded of the task at hand, Risa straightens up. “I say again, stop running from distribution. It’s for a good cause. I stand by it.”

Heartland joins her, standing in front of the recording device with a pleasant smile. “You heard it there, from one of the galaxy’s most notorious AWOLs. To prove it, Risa Ward will conduct a distribution right now.”

Risa’s eyes widen. Her blood runs cold in her veins. This isn’t a direct order, and since the assistant has put away the holo with Risa’s script, she realizes that she can’t say anything at all. Her lips feel stretched thin in a forced smile, so dry that they crack and begin to bleed. She can’t move to fix it. She can’t do a thing at all, not unless Heartland tells her.

The door to the room flies open. In struggle three guards. At their center is a shifting figure, thrashing about wildly in an attempt to escape. Risa stares at him unblinkingly, watching as the guards force the boy to the machine in the back of the room. Once they’ve got him pinned, standing in place in front of the machine, she realizes she knows him. This is Starkey, from the Graveyard. And, according to Heartland, she is about to distribute him.

Heartland’s hand comes down on her shoulder. It’s supposed to be comforting, she thinks, or maybe just a reminder that she must obey him. That wasn’t a problem before. It isn’t supposed to be a problem. Maybe it is.

“What do you think of this boy facing his necessary distribution, Risa?” Heartland asks her.

Risa feels as if she’s being torn apart. “No,” she grits out through bloodied lips. “No.”

It’s just two words, but Risa feels as if she’s fought a battle. Unperturbed, Heartland just sighs. “We’ll have to cut that out of the final holo,” he directs his assistant, then turns to Risa again. “One more time. How do you feel about Mason Michael Starkey’s distribution?”

“It’s good for the galaxy,” Risa’s mouth says.

Across the room, Starkey’s face contorts. “Risa! Don’t let them do this to me.”

It is Heartland, however, who interrupts. “She’s not just going to let them do it,” he remarks, “She’s going to oversee it herself.” Turning towards the recording device, Heartland continues, “This is our new UNIS system, capable of distributing a patient without needing a doctor. The latest technological advance around. All Risa has to do is press a button on the side to begin the process. She’d love to do that, wouldn’t she, Risa?”

Risa bites down on her tongue so hard she tastes a spill of copper in her mouth. Her voice box is begging to say one thing, just one thing, that will stop all of this pain. The yes gets muffled somewhere in a desperate cough Risa lets out, a cough that turns into a choking, hacking spill of blood into her lap.

Heartland sighs again. “Risa.”

“Yes,” she mutters bitterly. “His distribution will be good.”

Starkey screams at her again. Risa’s head is a mess of right and wrong, complacency and rebellion. Briefly, she wonders if this is how Dorian Heartland feels with all of his hundreds of different brain donors– a broken, raucous symphony of overlapping voices, all shouting over each other until he goes mad. She thinks she’ll crack first. She’s got less experience with insanity.

Heartland grips her by the arm, leading her over to the distribution machine. “On the illegal AWOL sanctuary known as the Graveyard, Risa Ward as a medical officer in charge of healing runaway distributes. Now, she’ll put that knowledge to good use by overseeing this AWOL’s distribution.”

Risa’s head shakes back and forth, a violent denial. “No,” she grits out once more.

Heartland’s gaze feels like a brand burned into her skin. She can practically hear the hiss of searing flesh. “Try again.”

Risa straightens up like a puppet on a string. “This is the perfect process.” She gestures to Starkey, who’s staring at her in abject horror. “This boy was selected to help us all. Now he will. Distribution is required to save our universe. A person is not a person. A person is nothing more than the sum of their parts. Sometimes, the galaxy wants those parts back. We are giving them back now.”

The guards force Starkey onto one end of the conveyor belt. He tries to fight, but he’s been strapped in with thick metal bands that resist even the smallest of motions. “Risa,” he begs, tears starting to slip out even despite his attempt at a stony demeanor. Risa is embarrassed for him. “Risa, please. I know I messed up. I know I did. Please, don’t do this to me. I won’t bother you again, I swear. Not you, not Connor. Please don’t do this.”

Risa stays silent, unable to do anything but stare at him. He’s sobbing openly now; so much for the brave boy, so much for the bold one who stalked Connor deep in the bones of the Graveyard, who swore he could do the whole savior thing so much better than any of them. “Please, please, please. I’m just a kid.”

Risa leans closer. She can’t explain why. Starkey seizes hold of her hand, clutching to it so desperately she almost thinks he’s trying to break her bones to stop the process. Quietly, in a voice scraped raw from pleading, so fine of a whisper that Risa barely hears him at all, Starkey begs, “Just kill me now, Risa. I’m scared of this. I’m scared.”

Risa is crying. She wasn’t told to do this, so she automatically stops once she realizes it’s happening, but the tear tracks refuse to leave her face. They burn treacherously against her skin. She’s doing something wrong. This is wrong.

“I can’t,” she tries to say. Only some of the syllables make it out.

“Yes, you can,” Heartland soothes. “Just press the button, Risa. I am asking you to do this.”

Her body lurches forward, towards a panel on the side of the machine. Starkey is pleading with her again, saying anything to get her to slow down even a little. He’s choking on the tears and saliva in his mouth, blood running out of fresh wounds on his face. He’s telling her to take one of the guards’ guns and shoot him now. He wants it fast, and unwinding won’t be fast. Please, Risa. Please.

“Just one button,” Heartland repeats. “Do you not have hands capable of completing the task? A mind with which to listen and receive commands? I ask this of you, Miss Ward. I demand it. Heed not the boy. He would say anything to avoid this fate.”

“To avoid agony?” Risa asks. Her teeth gnash down around the syllables, and she has to force her jaws apart to keep speaking. “How horrible, that he would want to live.”

“Yes,” Heartland says. “Horrible. End it.”

Risa’s arm flies up on its own command. She half expects to see Heartland gripping the wrist, compelling her to this awful task, but this is Risa, all Risa. The instrument panel is smooth. Risa’s mind knows how to start it. She can do it right now. It is what has been asked of her.

No.

The button awaits.

No, please.

So easy to activate.

Risa, please. I never wanted to hurt you.

She can’t tell if it’s Starkey speaking or her.

Risa. Risa!

She presses the button.

Starkey screams once, never-endingly, a high, drawn-out sound that makes Risa clap her hands to her ears in a failed attempt to block it out. The conveyor belt jerks him forward into the machine. A hatch shuts him inside, and the scream is abruptly cut off, like a slashed throat. Through the small window in the side, Risa can see Starkey thrashing about. Something metallic flashes near the bulging veins in his throat, a needle maybe, and his muscles slacken completely. They’ve paralyzed him to conduct the procedure. Starkey’s eyes drift slowly in his skull, and then they roll up to meet Risa’s gaze. She sees it in his expression when they start to cut. He may not feel it, but the brain knows anyway when it starts to disappear.

Risa spins away from the window, and, unable to suppress her gag reflex any longer, throws up in the corner of the room. This is wrong. This is wrong. Starkey is being distributed, and she can’t stop it. She started it. It was all her fault. No, not her fault. Heartland’s. Heartland’s fault, because he was the one who injected her with that solution, the one that took over her neurons and made her comply. Risa doesn’t want to comply anymore.

When she straightens up from the fetal position, Risa realizes that the machine has gone silent. The rest of the guards have shifted around in the room, as has Heartland, leading her to believe that significant time has passed while she was trying to undo the mental lock on her self control. A hatch at the opposite side of the machine clicks open, and a series of small containers roll out, each individually labeled with pre printed signs. Heart. Hands. Liver.

It’s Starkey, in pieces. Unwound. Acid surges forth in Risa’s throat again, but she manages to fight it back. Across the room, Heartland rises from his chair, clapping his hands together matter-of-factly.

“Well, that’s over, then. Not so hard, was it? A job well done.”

He moves to inspect the vials and flasks, but Risa stands in between them, blocking him off. “You don’t come near him,” she hisses.

Heartland frowns. “Why not? It’s not a him anymore. Just pieces.”

“Still Starkey,” Risa glares. She couldn’t protect the boy from this awful fate, maybe, but she can watch out for him now.

Heartland sighs. “Come on, now. You have to obey me. Step away from UNIS.”

Risa doesn’t. The tug is gone from her brain, the metal hook slipped out from the cerebral matter. It can pull her no longer. “Not a chance.”

Heartland’s brow furrows. “Let’s try that one more time. You have to step away.”

“No,” she spits. “You can’t mess with my head anymore. Get the fuck away from me.”

Heartland glances back at the doctor, who’s still idling in a corner, scrubs creasing from his awkward posture. “You gave her the full dose, right?”

“Yeah,” the doctor confirms. “No way it should have worn off this quickly.”

Heartland swings around to look at her again, peering at Risa like she’s a lab rat on a dissection table. “Fascinating. What could have caused that breakthrough?”

Risa just grins, sickening and slow. “Me. We’re better than you think. Stronger than you know.” She turns back towards the recording device, which is still blinking a methodical green in the background. They must have forgotten to turn it off during the process, or maybe they were hoping for a triumphant speech after Starkey’s unwinding was over.

“It’s wrong,” she shouts, “All of it is wrong. Unwinding will never be worth it. Get your parts and pieces somewhere else. The children don’t have to bear your burden. Unwinds deserve to live.”

Instead of being genuinely alarmed, Heartland just looks disappointed. “That accomplishes nothing. We’ll just cut that clip out. And seriously, Risa, language. I thought I’d only have to lecture Connor about that.”

Risa feels maniacal. “We’re more alike than you think. It’s him and me, always will be.”

Heartland tsks under his breath. “I can see that now. I had hoped that at least one of you would be able to listen to reason, but I suppose the same fate will befall you anyway. No matter,” he says crisply, directing his guards towards the unwinding machine, “Take the samples away. We can finish their packaging and send them off later this evening. Who knows, maybe I’ll even keep some skin. I could use a new graft or two.”

The thought of any bit of Starkey ending up in this monstrosity makes Risa’s stomach sour. Not entirely aware of what she’s doing, Risa reaches behind her, grabbing a container. Lungs. Trying desperately to ignore the fact that she’s holding the still moving samples of someone she knew, Risa holds it high.

Heartland’s face pales. “What are you doing? Put that down.”

“No,” she mutters. “Starkey wasn’t yours when he was whole. He won’t be yours in pieces, either.”

She holds the glass container in her hand for a second longer, then throws it down onto the ground, where it shatters and breaks. Pink liquid spills onto the floor, depositing a pair of intact lungs onto the ground. Risa watches as they desperately beat, fluttering in the air from the sudden lack of nutrients, and then go still.

“What are you doing?” Heartland shouts.

“I’m killing him,” Risa announces. “He’s not your toy anymore. None of him.”

No more will Starkey suffer. They say you’re still conscious even after distribution, that each and every one of your pieces remembers what it was like to be whole and responds appropriately. If any semblance of Starkey is still alive and thinking in these vials, Risa will put him out of his misery. She launches another container to the ground– kidneys– then grabs the brain samples as the guards attempt to draw near. These are the ones she needs to destroy most of all, the parts of Starkey that can still form thought. She couldn’t save him from unwinding, but she can save him from the awful, permanent afterlife of being a foreign part in someone else’s body. Maybe he’d want it. Or maybe this is just the only thing she can do to destroy Heartland’s carefully laid plans.

Risa’s hand and legs are stained with pink and red from where the vials shatter. Her limbs are covered in gore, but still she keeps going, until each and every sample is gone. It’s a mercy, she thinks. No one should continue like this. She eyes the pieces visible in Heartland’s own face, how the seams ripple with the contortion of his face. If she launches herself at him now, is there a chance she could claw those parts out, too?

She’s taken down before she gets the chance. Once they no longer have to fear the threat of destroying any more of Starkey’s samples and incurring the wrath of their boss, the guards tackle her in moments. Risa is sent plummeting to the ground. Her hair becomes matted with blood, Starkey’s blood, but she still fights and punches and kicks and claws until they drag her to her feet. The last thing Risa hears before she’s forced back into the hall again is Heartland shouting to the guards to prepare her for her own distribution, and then the door shuts on him and the only sound is her scuffling against the iron lock of the guards’ hold.

A nurse is sent in to take Risa’s vitals. Risa is tied down firmly to a chair; they had to hold her still and send more guards to bring in the seat, plus tie her down. She bit at least one of them. When the nurse comes inside, she almost drops her supplies in shock at Risa’s condition. She must be an absolute mess; blood and cell media has dried on her clothes, her skin, her hair.

“What did you do?” The nurse asks, horrified.

Risa grins slowly, deliberately. Madly. “I killed him. I killed Starkey.”

She’s happy about it, the killing. If there was ever a girl named Risa Ward, a girl who thought that she could be good enough to beat the rising distribution rates at the OH-10 State Home, who believed that she could maintain her morals and decency even as an AWOL, she died on that bloodstained floor with the bits and pieces of Mason Michael Starkey. So die the damned. So die the innocent.

This is how Risa loses herself. Blood splashes and bone splinters. In a few short hours, she’ll be nothing more than that. So much for victory.

a/n: are we having fun guys

unwind tag list: @reinekes-fox, @sirofreak, @locke-writes

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#unwind #unwind imagines #unwind oneshot #unwind series #unwind fanfic #unwind dystology #unwind dystology imagines #unwind dystology oneshot #unwind dystology series #unwind dystology fanfic #connor lassiter #connor lassiter imagines #connor lassiter oneshot #connor lassiter series #connor lassiter fanfic

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allzelemonz · 1 year ago

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Finding and Feeling (2.1): The Ropes

Pairing Type: M/M Rating: T/Language Warnings: Kidnapping, internalized homophobia, threats, pissing (non-kink), hostage awkwardness, drinking, pining Summary: The move to Horseshoe Overlook and Kieran’s favorite tree. Other Chapters

The ride through the cold mountains and the thick trees wasn’t too bad. Most folks left Kieran alone in the back of one of the wagons. He can peer out of the back and look at that big Ardennais Bill was fawning over before. The war horse seems like a hard worker, pulling one of the heavier wagons without a fuss. Kieran feels the urge to give him a peppermint and pat his head, but in the state he’s in he’d probably take the treat for himself.

Bill sits on the bench of that same wagon, holding the reins to his horse with a loose grip as if he trusts the big creature to follow the caravan. If Kieran thinks about it too much, he can feel the ghost of Bill’s hands. Heavy on his shoulder, forcing him to sit. Light on his waist to get him up into the wagon. Kieran knows his cheeks are hot, likely showing a flush. He’s thankful for the covering on the wagon and his only company being crates.

The wagons curve and halt after a few hours of travel. Once again, it’s Bill that comes to get Kieran. He hauls him up and guides him out. Kieran doesn’t resist, he’s just happy it’s not too cold out here. From what he saw on the ride over, they’re somewhere in the Heartlands. They moved around the river a bit, but Kieran knows his way around well enough to figure it out. His theory is confirmed as some of the women walk by, whispering about Valentine.

Bill tugs him along to a tree and Kieran’s heart sinks a little, he pulls out a long length of rope and takes his time with looping it around. Kieran sits still, eyes mostly fixed on Dutch just a few yards away. The new camp bustles, everyone rushing around to get things set up. Bill doesn’t say a word when he finishes tying the rope around. Something in Kieran was hoping for some kind of warning from him, some kind of acknowledgement.

Kieran settles for watching Bill walk around the camp, only looking at others when that older woman shouts or when someone comes near him. Bill works on what must be his tent and Kieran finds himself smiling a little bit when he drops something on his toe and shouts curses. Kieran corrected himself quickly, reminding himself that Bill is a man and his captor. It’s not right, none of it.

Night comes faster than Kieran expected it to. He can see some of the Van der Lindes around their fire, others at the tables. It’s a much more pleasant environment than the O’Driscoll camps he’s stayed in, despite his being bound to a tree. They all seem happy, friendly even. O’Driscolls would’ve started a fight by now or maybe killed somebody. Half of the gang is drinking, celebrating a new camp and outrunning the law that’s after them. Hardly anyone pays him any attention, a blessing and a curse.

Then there’s a shadow, one Kieran can place both by his size and his hat’s shape. Bill stumbles over to the food wagon in front of Kieran’s tree. He fumbles with a crate before pulling a bottle out and taking a swig.

Kieran decides to take a chance, needing to relieve himself more than anything. “H-Hey, Mister-“

“Quiet, O’Driscoll.” Bill snaps, glaring at him. “Lucky Dutch wants ya alive.”

Bill stumbles when he steps, showing his drunken state. He gets a few feet from Kieran’s tree, shoving a finger near his face. He seems like he’s going to speak, but all he does is point.

“I-I just gotta…” Kieran swallows his nerves. “I gotta go… ya know…”

Bill bursts with laughter. His face features a wide grin as he shakes his head at the thought. “That’s what ya gotta beg about?”

Kieran looks down at his feet, face red as he’s laughed at.

“Alright…” Bill finishes his laughing and moves around to untie one of Kirean’s hands. “Hurry up then, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran flushes further as Bill watches him, but he manages to fish himself out and relieve himself. He’s thankful that Bill seems more interested in swallowing the rest of his beer than watching. Kieran hurries to tuck himself away and the second his hand leaves his button, Bill yanks his wrist back to the binding spot on the tree.

“Could…” Kieran thinks, wanting nothing more than a little more mercy from Bill. “Could I have some water, Mister?”

Bill laughs again. “Ya eager fer me ta help ya with yer pecker again so soon, O’Driscoll?”

Kieran’s heart picks up. “N-No, I-I-“

“Ain’t nobody gonna help ya, boy.” Bill chuckles. “Only reason I let ya piss is so nobody has ta smell ya.”

Kieran nods, shrinking himself a little so he’s shorter than Bill. “Sorry.”

Bill opens his mouth, then waves dismissively at Kieran before stumbling away. Kieran watches him as he walks to his tent and collapses on his bedroll. It doesn’t take long for Kieran to be able to hear Bill’s faint snoring in the distance. He lets himself fall asleep to it.

#burn month #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #slow burn #fanfic #fanfiction #bill williamson #kieran duffy #kieran duffy x bill williamson #bieran

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kaurwreck · 1 year ago

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January 2, 2024 [1:04 AM]

below is a transcript of dms i sent while reading the final chapter of Return to Tsugaru by Osamu Dazai

What's worse, that I can't be sure any of this chapter is or that he would write this at all is the only truth that really matters.

Did he find his father in his father's place of birth, or did he just wish he had. Did he see his father in his eldest brother or only the rejection he imagined receiving from his father had he'd ever worked up the courage to ask anything of him.

Was he recieved liked he belonged there or did he just think he should have been so that's what ought to have happened had the narrative been satisfying instead of what it was, which was lonely and othering.

Was he brave enough to even see how he'd be received at all, or did he keep walking, so that he could decide what would have happened had he not cowered.

Everywhere he has never been, he is of the people, their blood is his, he is as native to the locale as the flora and fauna. But where he has history, where his family live and lived, he is a wandering vagabond, a mere passerby, an outsider. "I can't help feeling that this area is not really Tsugaru," he says, as if to reconcile who he is now with the man who declared himself to be a peasant among peasants "There is nothing here of Tsugaru's luckless karma; the clumsy tactlessness so typical of Tsuguru is absent. Just looking at the landscape, you can sense it— it is knowing, cultured, as it were. Its heart contains no mulish pride." Or does it just look like the place where your father lived, and you can't see yourself in anything he's known because he never bothered to know you.

Dazai, have you once written about Tsugaru, or has it been you all along.

Oh, but then he DOES find himself in his fatherland. The worst parts of himself, the parts he despises the most. The pretense and lack of confidence and the naked fear: "The people of the Tsuguru heartland really lack confidence in their own history. They haven't a trace of it. That's why they end up assuming that posture of arrogance, why they square their shoulders and accuse others of being 'base.' It's the basis of the obstinacy, the stubbornness, and the complexity of the Tsugaru people, and ultimately the cause of their sad destiny of isolation and loneliness."

Aren't you like me? He says to his father and brother. Isn't it just that you've forgotten? Isn't it just that you've resigned yourself? Aren't you just as timid, only you're too stubborn to admit it?

Dazai doesn't hate pretense, he's afraid of the loneliness it promises. He's afraid of resigning himself to never being known.

But he also doesn't know if he can survive being known either, if anyone like him as ever survived it.

"Since the start of my journey, I had always been treated by others, but suddenly, the unedifying thought occurred to me that tonight for once, I might try to get drunk all by myself."

...

"I realized that after all, I could not do a single thing by myself, and this made the delicate taste of the entrails even more memorable."

We don't do anything on our own, love.

#japanese modern lit reading diary #return to tsugaru #osamu dazai

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randomshyperson · 4 years ago

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Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Land of Thieves #ChapterTwo

Western/ Red Dead Redemption AU / Slow Burn / childhood best friends to lovers

AO3 (English)

Chapter warnings: explicit language, explicit violence.

Summary: When you were a child, you swore that no matter how high the reward in your head, she could always count on you. Life as an outlaw in the west is not easy, but you believe that train robberies are still easier than asking a pretty girl to dance. Land of Thieves, also know as your love story with Wanda Maximoff in the Wild West

Marks: @mionemymind

You wished you could sleep longer when you felt the first rays of sunlight invade your tent through the tarp, the light making you instinctively raise your hand against your face to avoid the glare. You grumbled, but forced yourself to get up. You didn't bother to put on your boots, or fasten your suspenders around your shoulders, letting them fall against your waist. You stretched, walking toward the fire with the intention of making some coffee.

- Good morning, kiddo. - You heard Steve greet you, and you just nodded to him, yawning. He walked toward you, pouring himself some of the coffee you had just brewed. - I have an assignment for you.

You took a sip of the coffee, frowning at the bitter taste. You walked over to the supply wagon, looking for some milk, while Steve waited for you at the campfire, which was only a few feet away.

- What do you need, Captain? - you asked as you poured some milk into your drink. Steve smiled at the nickname. Only the early members of the gang called him that, in reference to his former position as an army captain.

- We need to restock a few things. And we haven't picked up our mail in a few days. - He says to you, reaching into something in his left pocket. He raises his hand and offers you a few dollars. - I need you to buy the items on Pepper's list from the warehouse and go to the post office.

You signal him to put the money away, finishing your coffee.

- Don't worry, I will sell the panther skin I got yesterday. - You explain. - It's worth enough to buy the necessities, and if we need more, I still have some change left.

Steve smiled at you, grateful for your kindness in paying for the groceries. You exchanged one last glance with him before returning to your stall, looking for your clothes.

Suitably dressed, you decided to detour your way for a moment, thinking about something. You walked toward Wanda and Pietro's stall, your gaze slipping inside when you caught a glimpse of the redheaded girl's sleeping figure, the image racing your heart. You looked down uncomfortably, and thought about coming back later, but the next second Pietro stumbled out, smiling at you.

- Hey Y/N, good morning! - He greeted you while buttoning up his wool shirt.

- Good morning, gambler. - You greet him with a teasing tease that elicits a smile and a roll of the eyes from the boy. - You still haven't told me if you won anything at poker.

You followed Pietro toward the campfire, waving to Pepper as you passed the supply wagon, and she handed you the list with a grateful look as she hurried off in Peggy's company, you had no idea what they were doing. Pietro stretched as he grabbed a tangerine from a crate in the supply wagon and gave you a wicked smile.

- Of course I won at poker. - He announces and you laugh before giving him a suspicious look. - I don't understand why you doubt me; you're a great teacher.

- Of course. And that has nothing to do with you being a light-handed cheater, does it?

Pietro laughed at the insinuation, taking a bite of the fruit he was holding. You switched the weight of your feet, and he looked at you curiously.

- I wanted to ask you something. - You began, looking down at the floor. - Something about your sister.

He looks at you with a suspicious expression, but with an amused smile threatening to escape his lips. He gestures for you to ask. You hesitate for a second, then take a deep breath to gather your courage.

-Do you know if she's seeing anyone? - you ask, looking intently at Pietro. He frowns, and you hasten to add, "Romantically, I say. If there are suitors

Pietro finishes chewing the fruit slowly, increasing your anxiety considerably. And then he lets out a loud laugh.

- You've got to be kidding me. - he says between laughs. - You two are a total disaster, I can't believe it.

You looked at him with confusion and impatience, not understanding what it all meant. Was he laughing because Wanda had so many suitors that the question was ridiculous? Or maybe he was laughing at you, stupid enough to think that someone like Wanda would look at you.

Pietro dried the tears of laughter, panting breathlessly. Before he could clarify what he had said, you heard a familiar hiss. Steve caught your eye, gesturing to his watch, signaling you to hurry.

- You can tease me later. - You grumbled to Pietro before walking towards the camp exit. Your gaze lingered on Wanda's tent, you pushed the feeling of shame to the back of your mind.

Valentine was crowded today, you thought as you took a few steps to the side of the warehouse door allowing a lady to walk past you. You greeted the shopkeeper with a nod, pulling Pepper's list from your pocket as you ran your eyes along the shelves. You decided to hand the list to the shopkeeper, knowing that he would ensure that no items were missing with the intention of charging every cent.

- Do you have a cart? - asked the man, looking up at you from the list.

- Yes, it's parked across the street. - You informed him with your hands in your pockets.

- I'll sort it out and my boy will carry the items for you. - Said the man with a smile, you knew that kindness very well, and were not surprised when he added - A young woman can't carry that much weight alone.

With no intention of arguing, you just looked at him without smiling, which seemed to embarrass him slightly. The man made a noise in his throat, and went back to reading the list. You walked over to the newspaper section and were slightly distracted by the horse racing headlines, when you heard the shopkeeper's voice again.

- You're new to Valentine, right? - he asked, stooping to the counter to pick up a package, which you recognized as coffee. A red-haired, muscular boy entered the place through the back door, and began to carry in his arms some of the items the shopkeeper had put on the counter before leaving.

- Yes, I came from the South. - You simply say. Steve always taught not to give too much information to strangers.

- Not exactly much to do around here, if you ask me. - Said the man, you just grumbled in agreement, but he seemed willing to hold a conversation. You considered just walking out the door and waiting outside, but you didn't want to be rude. - Nothing happens in Valentine.

- That's fine, I appreciate the quiet. - You grumbled, but he didn't seem to pay any attention.

- We only have brutes in this town in my opinion. - The man continued his monologue, and you went back to looking at the magazines. - And when they're not brutes, they're weirdos. Even the town doctor hides out in your house, nobody knows what he's doing there.

Now you have some relevant information. You blinked intently, but the man seemed to be just complaining, and you understood that he wouldn't have any more information about this, and that it was worth your while to check with the local doctor. A few minutes passed, until the red-haired boy returned, waving to you and telling you that the wagon was loaded. You handed the shopkeeper a few dollars, and seeing the bruises on the red-haired boy's hands, you decided to give him a small tip.

You walked over to the wagon, stroking the horses before climbing on, guiding the vehicle toward the post office, which was at the other end of town. You would return to Valentine at another time to investigate the doctor.

When you arrived at the post office, you grabbed two apples from the crates behind the wagon, and handed them to each of the horses. Your boots got muddy when you climbed down, but you didn't care much.

-Hello, good morning! - greeted a man when you arrived at the booth. You smiled.

- Good morning. Do you have any mail for any of these people? - you asked, handing him a list of aliases created for the gang to receive orders. The man frowned, and took the paper and started looking through the shelves.

- You live in some kind of commune, do you? - He asked in an amused tone, given the number of names.

- Big family. - You grumbled in an almost ironic tone, and he didn't seem to notice, smiling in agreement.

After a moment, he had separated two package boxes and about five letters for you. You smiled in appreciation as he handed you the items.

-I couldn't find anything for "Carol Marvel" and "Natasha Black. - He announces as he hands you the list. You nod your head. It was common for Carol and Nat to have nothing to receive, both of them had no other family members, or friends that you knew of. And as for you, you didn't even put your name on the list anymore, the gang being the only people you had.

- All right, thank you very much. - You thanked them before you left. Stowing the packages in the cart, you kept the letters in your jacket pocket so they wouldn't get crushed.

You climbed into the vehicle again, whistling slowly as you rode back to camp. You stopped only when you heard a whistle that was not yours. Feeling a sharp pain in your shoulder, you turned your head to notice the arrow pierced through your left shoulder, and then the wagon was surrounded by about ten men, you guessed there were others within the forest around you.

Gritting your teeth in pain you stared at the man in front of the wagon.

- You're not from around here, stranger. - He began, stroking the horses that were quite agitated.

- What do you want? - you grumbled, feeling the sweat dripping down your face from the bleeding.

- Heartlands is O'Driscoll territory and we don't share it. - The man spoke in a warning tone. - Tell your leader that there is no room for another gang in the region.

- Fuck you. - You retorted through gritted teeth. The man let out a hoarse laugh, raising his gun at you.

- Or maybe I'll shoot you now and that will be warning enough.

You were so tired of all this shit. You couldn't even buy food without some asshole wanting to shoot you. Rolling your eyes, you raise your hands, thinking that Steve wouldn't be happy to see you die.

- I'll tell him. - You grumble. It takes him a moment to put the gun down, but when he does, he has a satisfied smile on his face.

- Yeah, yeah, be a good girl. - The man says, and signals to the others to let go of the horses' reins. He takes a few steps to the side, allowing the cart to move.

As you ride a few yards, you hear him shout in an ironic tone to wash the wound, and you just ignore the urge to shoot the fellow in the face.

Climbing down with difficulty from the wagon, you groan in pain as you feel the arrow still stuck against your flesh. You walk around the vehicle, unfastening the straps of the tarp that covered the cargo compartment. You groan again, feeling the wound throbbing a little. Looking around the camp, you look around for someone. When you notice the figure of Bucky a few feet away from you, you call out to him and wave for him to come closer. He smiles as he walks over to you, but his expression turns to concern as he notices the arrow in your shoulder.

- Girl, what is it? - He hurries worriedly raising his hands to touch it, you take a step towards peace, smiling helplessly.

- It's okay, I just need help unloading the wagon. - You say and Bucky looks at you with a mixture of concern and surprise, but nods frantically.

- Of course I'll help, now go treat that wound, for God's sake. - He says looking at you. You let out a breathless laugh before you leave.

Walking toward your hut, you grab some alcohol to clean the bruise, but before you can sit down, Pepper comes up to you with a worried look.

- Oh my god, Y/N, what happened? - She questions, and you mutter "ambush" but she's not paying attention. Pepper drags you into her own hut, while letting out exclamations of concern, complaining that you should have taken someone, and that you should be careful, and that the gang was in a dangerous place now, attracting the attention of several people in the camp who look at you with curiosity.

-It's okay, Potts, really. - You speak as you feel her push you down on the bed. She reaches over to grab a makeshift medical kit. You feel embarrassed by the attention, but still appreciate the care.

- Take a deep breath, okay? - She asks, and you know what's coming. Closing your eyes, you obey, feeling her break the arrow, the movement hurts nothing compared to feeling her push the rest of it away, seconds later. You groan in pain. - There, now I'll just clean it up.

You nod with tears in your eyes. Pepper smiles tenderly at you, and you look away from her to the rest of the camp, noticing that Steve and Peggy are walking toward you.

-What the hell happened? - Steve blurts out in a mixed tone of anger and concern, he would probably already be wanting to cause a war against whoever had attacked you.

- I made some friends. - You joked, but shut up with a mumble as you felt an intense burning sensation when Pepper poured the alcohol on your wound.

- Who did this to you? - Peggy asked, stepping closer as she watched Pepper clean the wound.

- They surrounded me a few meters from town, on that stretch of road covered with trees. - You explained, looking at Peggy. - About ten men, maybe more hiding. They said that this is O'Driscoll territory and that they won't share it.

Peggy and Steve exchanged a look, until Steve assumed a thoughtful pose, turning away.

- They could become a problem in the bank's job. - He says simply, and you frown.

- They are already a problem now. - rebuts Pepper, looking away from your wound. - If they attack our people in the streets!

- That was just an idle threat. - Steve retorted without looking at Pepper. You hated it when he assumed this posture of being the owner of the truth. - If they were going to kill someone they would have done it. Maybe they think that we want to take Heartlands from their domain, we just need to warn them that we have no interest and that we will only be here for a while.

- Steve, we can't risk everyone's safety. - Peggy said looking at the man, and he offered her a tender smile.

- I'll talk to them, Peggy. - He explained. - If they don't accept, then we will fight.

You let out a surprised exclamation.

- A gang war before a bank robbery? You've got to be kidding. - You retorted and felt the three of them stare at you. - And who do you intend to take to these two services? The last time I checked, half of the shooters were wounded.

-I don't understand your attitude. - scolded Steve, causing you to swallow dryly. - I'm trying to do what's best for the gang.

- How is putting us at risk the best thing for the gang?

Steve looked really shocked, and even hurt by your words. But he straightened his posture before he spoke.

- Treat your wound first and rest. We will talk after that.

And he left. Peggy gave you a tender look, as if to wish you to get better, before following Steve to his tent. Pepper patted your thigh as she finished dressing your shoulder. You sighed, looking at the ground.

- Y/N, get some rest, okay. - She said to you in a calm tone. - We are all nervous lately, and I know that you hate fighting with Steve as much as he hates fighting with you.

You shook your head in agreement, a sad smile on your lips.

- Thanks for the bandage, Potts. - You said softly, and she smiled, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. You smiled.

Leaving the tent, you walked around the camp toward the stream, feeling quite thirsty. It took three seconds for Pietro to surround you.

- I can't believe you got an arrow shot through you while buying coffee. - He announced in an amused tone, but his eyes showed his concern. You laughed softly, and continued walking toward the creek, being accompanied by him.

- You know how rival gangs are. They shoot first and ask questions later.

- I saw Steve coming out of the hut with a scowl on his face. Did you fight?

You groaned.

- Oh yes. I was being an unfair jerk and he was being a hardhead. - You grumbled, stooping down to drink some water.

- Damn it, I'm sorry. But you'll figure it out. It's not like Steve's going to be mad at you for very long.

- I hope so. - You say, sitting down at the edge of the stream, and enjoying some of the breeze. Pietro looks unnerved. - What's the matter with you, anyway? You're nervous.

He is silent for a moment, and then sits down next to you.

- Promise me you won't get angry?

The sentence makes you look at him suspiciously.

- What did you do?

He hesitates a moment, looking away from you to the stream as he drums his fingers on his knee.

- Look, I know you warned me to stop cheating, but it seemed so easy...

- Pietro... - You interrupted in a warning tone, looking at him with concern.

- Damn, I screwed up everything, okay? - He spoke in a tone of guilt and despair. - I thought that there were only peons with me at the table, but then one of them saw me stealing and the next second two brutes appeared and I almost got shot.

You blinked a few times, frowning. Feeling a slight headache coming on, you signaled for him to continue explaining.

- I don't know who they are, but they're staying in Limpany. - He said, looking back at you.

- You're an idiot. - You grumbled, looking back at the creek. - How many men did you say?

- I played with one of them, and there were two more as security. - He explained, you started planning. - I guess it's a small group, since they're all at the brothel.

You nodded, lifting your knees to rest your arms and head against them. You closed your eyes for a second.

- I imagine that you have no intention of paying off the bets. - You said in an ironic tone.

- Well, I don't have two thousand. - He replied in the same tone, and you let out a surprised exclamation.

- What the hell were you doing at a two thousand table? - you exclaimed, and Pietro shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes. - I told you to only play with what you can cover, idiot.

- And what's the fun in that? - He grinned back, and you grinned back at him, it was true after all. You took one last look at the stream, and sighed wearily.

- Five minutes. I had five minutes of peace. - You grumbled, and Pietro laughed.

- You're getting crankier every day, you know. - He teased, and you gave him the middle finger, which made him laugh. You both stood up, and Pietro pushed his shoulder lightly against yours several times on the way to the horses.

Limpany was so small, you were surprised they even considered it a town. It was in the middle of nowhere, in front of the same river that flowed into the camp. You guessed that the main income from that place came from the town's brothel, which was probably visited by the citizens of Valentine as well as Rhodes, and of course by the many travelers passing through.

You warned Pietro not to attract attention, and he rode silently beside you, following your lead. You left your horses at the entrance to town, and walked together toward the saloon, which was buzzing with the noise of music and voices.

But then the place fell silent the moment you stepped through the door. Even the pianist looked at you angrily. What the hell had Pietro done in this place, you thought. Two tall, stout men stepped out of the crowd, signaling to the bartender that all was well, and the music resumed. The brothel girls laughed again, and everyone focused on their drinks and games. You swallowed dryly as you watched the man approach, and Pietro took a step beside you.

- The little thief decided to show up. - Said the bigger man in an ironic tone - Do you have my money, boy?

- How about I bet the money back? - You suggest to the man and he looks you up and down, a mischievous smile on his face.

- Sweetie, you can pay me back another way. - He says, and Pietro gets angry enough to push him away. The two men are as quick as you are to draw their revolvers.

- Hey, Louis, please. No guns in the saloon. - says the bartender in a fearful tone, you imagine it took a lot of courage for him to give some kind of order around here. The taller man laughs lightly and then points his revolver at the bartender, who raises his trembling hands. Seeing the man's desperation, the man named Louis lets out a laugh and lowers his revolver, nudging his friend by the shoulders to do the same. You only holster your gun when he holsters his. - I'm just messing with you, Charles. - Mocks Louis, and then he turns to you.

Pietro continues with a defensive posture around you, and you almost laugh at the thought that it was him in the first place who will ask for your help. But any thoughts of amusement are quickly interrupted when the man suddenly punches Pietro in the face. You widen your eyes in surprise, and hold your friend back from advancing on the man again. You notice the worried and curious looks at you, and you also see two other angry looking men standing up, which suggests that they might be members of the group. You wouldn't stand a chance to fight them all off.

- I suggest you only come back here with my money. - The man grunts and turns to walk toward the bar.

You raise Pietro's face with both hands, noting the damage from the punch. His nose was bleeding but not broken. He looked irritated. You sighed, and gave him a short smile as you said softly.

- There are five men in total. Two at the bar, one on the stairs, and two more at the back. Can you see them?

- Yes. - mumbled Pietro, running his eyes around the saloon.

- Can you aim?

He nodded, and you patted him on the cheek before turning around. Taking a deep breath, you quickly drew your revolver, three shots echoed through the room, and were followed by two more. Screams echoed along with the sound of bodies falling to the ground. The vast majority of the people were too shocked to react, but many ran out of the saloon. You walked over to the body of the man who had punched Pietro.

- If we have any luck, it's just these. - You said checking to see if he had anything of value.

And then you heard shots outside, and someone shouted:

- The bastards are in the saloon!

- I think you spoke too soon. - joked Pietro, and you ran to use the door frame as cover.

At this point, the vast majority of the people ran out of the saloon through the back door, desperate with the commotion and afraid of being shot.

- Steve had said that bar fights were forbidden, right? - You joked, and Pietro laughed as he loaded his revolver. Someone shot at the door and you turned your face to the right.

- I think he just said that you were forbidden to fight. - Pietro replied in the same tone, putting his arm out to the side and firing twice. You started exchanging fire with the men outside, but it wasn't easy to aim correctly. - In fact, I am surprised.

- At what? - you asked as you finally hit someone. You hid your whole body against the doorframe to reload your revolver.

- You still haven't asked where Wanda is. - He teased, and you felt your cheeks heat up, but you laughed. He wasn't lying after all.

You managed to hit two more shots, but they were not accurate, and the men continued to fire, although with less precision. You let out an impatient grunt.

- You know, I think you should give up poker. - you commented, drawing a laugh from Pietro.

- And I think you should propose to my sister. - He hits back and you almost get shot, stumbling back in surprise. Pietro laughs but looks at you, worried that you've been shot. You assure him that you are fine with a nod.

- Don't say things like that to me in the middle of a gunfight, please.

Pietro laughs and then puts the body out, firing three more shots. The noises finally stop.

- Now that this is over, can we talk about it then? - He asked in a provocative tone, you blush and look at the floor as you walk him out of the saloon.

- You're very annoying, you know. - You grumble, and then you look around, but identify no one else wanting to shoot at you.

Quickly checking the bodies for anything of value, you feel Pietro tap you on the shoulder signaling you to get up, and when you look up you see the town sheriff walking towards you.

- Murder and pillaging is punishable by hanging. - He comments while holding a stick between his teeth. It doesn't sound like a threat.

- Not interfering with the shooting is punishable by what, officer? - Pietro retorts, and the man smiles slightly.

Ignoring the provocation, he walks toward the body of one of the men you have killed. He kicks the body slightly to the right, showing his face bloodied from the bullet in his forehead.

- See the scar? - He asks and Pietro nods in agreement, you just stare at the body intently. - These bastards are Lemonye's raiders. They took over the town weeks ago. - The sheriff looks around for a moment, observing the curious looks of the inhabitants who were hiding in the few establishments in Limpany. - We have no gunslingers around here, no one strong enough to stop domains like these. And well, the state has no interest in protecting a place that has no cattle, gold or oil.

- We are not gunslingers. - Pietro tried to lie, and the sheriff just let out a laugh.

- Of course. - He spoke in a slightly ironic tone. - Just good friends from the neighborhood. - And then he assumed a serious posture. - Anyway, I have to thank you for what you've done here.

- Why don't you make a deal with Valentine's sheriff? - you asked after a moment. Neither you nor Pietro felt exactly honored to have helped the town, killing was not exactly something you enjoyed doing, although it was almost always indispensable in the life you led. The sheriff let out a dry laugh at your statement.

- That man is too concerned about the married ladies of his town to help me. - He replied simply. - Don't worry about the bodies, I'll get the boys from the brothel to help me with it. I won't report you to the state either.

Pietro smiled but you just nodded, nudging his arm to let him follow you. You waved your hats lightly in farewell to the sheriff before you left.

You rode off in silence, and you told Pietro that you should ride in the opposite direction, because one should never ride straight back to camp after conflicts like these. He nodded, and you both rode in silence.

- Wanda went to Saint Denis.

Pietro's voice startled you. Blinking in confusion, you were very distracted and had to look at him to be sure that he had really said something. Noticing his insinuating smile, you confirmed that he had.

- I didn't ask. - You grumbled stubbornly, and Pietro chuckled.

You spent a moment in silence, before you gave in to the urge to know more.

- Not that I have any interest in that. - You started without looking at the man riding beside you. - But why did she go to Saint Denis?

- Work. - He answered, hiding a smile, and you squeezed your hammock slightly at the vague answer. And then Pietro let out a chuckle. - Didn't you just say you have no interest in knowing? - he teased, and you let out a lame laugh.

- Screw you, Pietro. - You mumbled, and you continued in silence for a moment.

- I really can't tell you. - He said after a while, and you frowned. - If you ask me, I think she went to buy you a present.

- What? - you exclaimed in a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. Pietro laughed at your expression.

- Have you forgotten that it's your birthday the day after tomorrow? - he teased. - I already bought your present too, by the way.

- You didn't have to buy anything. - You said, looking forward, your cheeks flushed. - But I'm sure I'll love it.

Pietro smiled, and you were silent. You really had a tendency to forget your birthday, and this was probably because it wasn't really your birthday. The date had been chosen by Steve, as the day he adopted you as part of the gang, but you had no idea if it was even close to your actual birth. You were too small to remember what day it really was, and besides, you didn't have any documents. So you just accepted the chosen date. And in outlaw life, it wasn't really your priority. Almost every year you forgot, and were always pleasantly surprised by the other gang members with cake and music. Unlike the twins' birthdays, where you always took time out of your day to do some activity with them, you didn't feel very comfortable with all the attention, so you always spent your birthdays inside the camp, helping out with chores like a normal day. You were lost in your own thoughts, when you heard Pietro whistle softly for you to stop, and you looked at him confused. He got off his horse, stretching his body.

- You're bleeding, miss. - he warned as if it were obvious. You blinked and then looked down at your shoulder, the cotton bandage completely red. - Come here, I'll clean it for you.

You dismounted the Horseman carefully, and now that the adrenaline had left your body, you felt your shoulder ache. Unbuttoning your shirt, you walked over to Pietro as you took it off. He gave you a playful look and whistled.

- Wanda is going to lose her mind on her wedding night. - he teased, and you felt your face heat up.

- Are you willing to get punched in the face again? - You retorted angrily and awkwardly.

He just laughed and made a motion with his hand to the water in the lake, making you wet. You let out an irritated grunt, feeling the cold liquid against your body.

- I'm really going to punch you, Pietro.

- Shush, stop being grumpy. Sit here. - He said, pointing to the rock beside the lake.

You sat down and he began to change the bandage in silence. You looked at him while you waited, and he made a few faces that made you laugh.

- There you go. - He announced after a while

- Thank you.

When you thanked him, he looked at you seriously, and you didn't get up.

- You won't hurt my sister, right? - he asked, looking straight at you. Feeling your heart race a little, you swallowed hard.

- I have no intention of doing that. - You confess sincerely, and Pietro shakes his head.

- I know we are like family, but I won't forgive you if you hurt Wanda. - Pietro says in the same tone, his gaze wavering between you and the lake beside you. You sigh

- I won't forgive myself if I hurt her either. - You confess with your head down, and Pietro puts a hand on your healthy shoulder.

- I think it will be fun to be your brother-in-law. - He jokes and you laugh, pushing him lightly. - I'm hungry, can we stop at a saloon before we head back to the camp?

- Sure, Pietro. - You say, getting up. - Rhodes is closer, and they have great rooms. We can spend the night.

- Any chance we could play poker? - He jokes, and you tell him to shut up, nudging him with your shoulder as he lets out a laugh.

When you finally get back to the camp, it is almost lunchtime for the next day. Pietro sleeps a lot when he drinks, and you saw him with a bottle of beer being escorted by a pretty girl toward his room in the Saloon in Rhodes, both of them stumbling slightly while you laughed and played with your set of cards. Then it took a while for you both to leave town for the camp.

You nodded to him as you walked toward your own tent, while you unbuckled your belt and holster to throw them on the bed. You were changing into more comfortable clothes when you heard someone calling you.

- Can we talk, kid? - Steve's deep voice came into your tent. You looked away, closing the trunk of clothes on the floor of your bed.

-Sure, Steve. - You said and followed him toward the camp trail, and you walked side by side in silence for a few minutes.

- Do you think I'm putting everyone in danger? - he asked after a while, his tone slightly concerned.

You felt your cheeks heat with guilt.

- I'm sorry I said that. - You mumbled. - It wasn't fair.

- We don't apologize for telling the truth. - He retorted, making you smile.

- The truth is that we all chose this outlaw life, Steve. - You said, stopping walking to look at him. - I guess I was just trying to pin my frustration on someone. Things have been going wrong ever since we left Armadillo.

Steve lets out a sigh.

- Yes, I had that feeling too. - He confesses, looking away to his surroundings. - But I'm optimistic about everything. We've been through worse, right? We just need to get back to our normal rhythm.

- I think so. - You grumble. - Things will get better when we're all here.

- Oh, sure. - Steve seems to remember something and you look at him curiously. - Maria and Monica came back yesterday while you were away. They must be packing up.

You felt a wave of excitement rush through your body, but then you took on an almost disappointed expression, and Steve added:

- Natasha will show up soon, don't overthink it. - He tried to reassure you, and you looked down at the floor.

- It's been two weeks since she left for Tumbleweed. - You grumbled, and Steve laughed lightly.

- Which happens to be on the other side of the country. - He pointed in a playful tone. - Nat will still have to decipher Peggy's letter to find us. And the trip from Tumbleweed to the Heartlands is not a short one. Relax a bit.

You shrugged, knowing he was right. Steve came over and ruffled your hair after a while, laughing tenderly and earning a grumble from you.

- How's your shoulder? - he asked, watching you try to fix your own hair with a grimace.

- Sore. - you said, and he nodded.

- Do you think you'll be able to shoot it during the robbery?

You chose not to mention that you had been involved in a shooting less than twenty hours ago, so you just nodded. Steve smiled and looked straight ahead. You followed his gaze, feeling your heart race a little as you saw Wanda, at the moment laughing as she helped Bucky carry some wood and he made faces as if he was trying too hard to lift the weight.

- You'll be eighteen tomorrow, won't you? - Steve asked in a gentle tone, and you agreed softly, without looking away from Wanda. - At that age, it is common for young women to be courted.

You almost choked at the insinuation, and turned your head very quickly to the side, watching Steve stare ahead, a playful smile threatening to escape.

- What are you talking about now? - You asked awkwardly, and he let out a little laugh.

- I'm just trying to say that it's perfectly normal at this age...

- God, I'm not talking about this with you. - You grumbled, your cheeks flushed, making him laugh. You looked forward, staring at your feet.

- Now, don't be so grumpy. - He teased, If we were like those families in the city, I'd have married you to some magnate about five years ago.

You let out an indignant sigh.

- If my father had tried to marry me off by force, I would have fled the country. - You started - And then I would have ended up as an outlaw, just like now.

Steve laughed, and you looked around again.

- I'm only saying that because you and Pietro have been riding together a lot. - And ignoring the look of absolute horror on your face, Steve continued. - And he's a decent guy, he'd be a good choice.

- I have to admit that it is brave of you to assume that I would marry any of the guys we met. - You countered, and Steve laughed heartily. - Although Pietro is a good man, we are just friends. I've never seen him like this.

- If none of the guys catch your eye, what about the girls? - Steve asks and you feel your stomach sink with nervousness, he continues talking however, not expecting your answer. - I know you're missing Natasha terribly.

My dear God. - You grumble with reddened cheeks, bringing your hand to your face to cover it in embarrassment. You laugh nervously. - You really do get everything wrong. - You say, staring at him after a moment, you decide to tease him. - Not everyone is in love with their best friends, you know?

Steve chokes in surprise, but laughs at your teasing. He looks away, and replies:

- I know, I know, especially since Wanda isn't your best friend, is she?

You blush profusely, and mumble something like "mind your own business" before leaving in a huff. Steve laughs as he walks with you, and you walk back to your tent and he says goodbye, ruffling your hair again, making you let out a dissatisfied exclamation.

Back in your tent, you try to fix your hair as you look in the half-broken mirror that hangs from one of the canvas's timbers, and you blush when you see Wanda through the reflection standing at the entrance to your room.

- Hi. - She greeted you with a smile, and you turned around, feeling warm, and smiled back.

- Hi Wanda. - Trying to hide your complete lack of posture, you kept your hands in your pockets, pressing your fingers against the fabric. - I haven't seen you for a while, everything okay?

- I should be the one asking you that. - She comments, stepping closer. You hold your breath when you feel her inches from your face. She shifts her gaze from yours to your shoulder, pulling your shirt aside to see the bandage. - Does it still hurt?

You ignore the uneven beating of your heart as you deny it with your head. She smiles at you, without turning away.

- Knowing you and Pietro, I'm sure he's already told you what I went to Saint Denis for. - She comments with a slight smile, and you think she is going to pull away, but she brings her face closer to your ear. You feel something in your stomach clench as you hear her whisper, her breath tickling your skin. - I went to get your present.

Holy fucking God, you think, closing your eyes for a moment. Your body becomes hypersensitive to Wanda, but she pulls away in the next moment. Her cheeks are slightly reddened, but she has a falsely innocent look on her face that makes you realize she knows exactly the effect she has on you.

- You're not going to tell me what it is, are you? - you ask, relaxing your body slightly, which attracts the attention of Wanda, who looks at you with her pupils slightly dilated. - Not even a hint?

You joke in a playful tone, pouting, and watch Wanda look down at your mouth. She smiles and grabs your belt and holster from the bed, only to approach you again, causing you to lose all relaxed posture. Without saying anything, she lifts the belt, and to slip it behind your back she comes even closer, her breasts bouncing against yours, making you hold your breath. She closes the belt in front of you and gives you a mischievous smile.

- That's your cue. - She whispers, and you can't think of anything with her so close.

-R-right. - You say breathlessly, Wanda bites her lips, a smile threatening to escape. She gives you one last look before turning away. You let out a breath you hadn't even realized you were holding.

- Let's get some lunch before Bucky comes to grab us by the hair. - She says in a playful tone, pulling you by the hand out of the tent.

- I want to hear about what you found along the road, Wands. - You told her, honestly, you just wanted to hear her talk to you, even if it was to say that she had ridden in silence for twelve hours. Wanda smiled in agreement with a nod of her head. She only let go of your hand when she needed to grab the quilt from the soaking, and you tried not to miss the feeling so much.

#wanda maximoff x reader #marvel reader insert #western au #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #marvel imagines #red dead redemption au #Land of Thieves #wandaxreader

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higuchimon · 3 years ago

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[fanfic] Encounter In Pain

Shun winced as he picked his way across what had once been a beautiful park. Now it was little more than ruins, shattered and bent metal everywhere, and a few other things that he didn't want to look at, because if he did, he'd probably start understanding what they were, and he'd never be able to sleep again.

Yuuto ghosted along behind him, feet as quiet as his Phantom Knights, eyes darting everywhere. The way he looked at it all worried Shun more than he cared to admit, but he never asked. Neither of them went out of their way to make noise. Noise could attract Fusion scum and there was more than enough of those wandering around without that kind of help.

Unfortunately, the sort of people who went around invading other worlds didn't wait patiently around for permission to commit even worse acts.

They'd been on the way to what had once been a grocery store and was now going to be a supply drop between one of the nearby cities and Heartland City. Fusion soldiers guarded a lot of the usual places they used for that, so Shun and Yuuto both hoped this could be kept secret for a while.

Perhaps it might have been. If they'd ever made it there.

The explosion came without warning. Shun wasn't even sure of which side it came from, only that it wasn't in front of them. Behind or to the side; it really didn't matter. What mattered was that it blew up several of the still standing buildings - not that there were very many of those left. But what was left was enough to cause more trouble than either of them wanted.

Pain tore into Shun, sending him sprawling forward, long gouges tearing into his coat and pants, a streak of flame exploding across his chest, and sharper agony flowering across his arms and one leg. He twisted and bucked, fighting back the screams that wanted to tear out of his throat. If he screamed, the Fusion soldiers who did this would find them, and he wouldn't be able to stop them. He wasn't even sure if he had a duel disk anymore right now. He'd have no way to fight them off.

Yuuto? Was Yuuto all right? He'd never been happier that Ruri hadn't come with them today. He didn't want anything like this to happen to her.

Hands touched his shoulders, and he jerked, wanting to scream even more, but Yuuto's familiar hand touched his lips, keeping him quiet. Shun wasn't even certain which way he faced right ow. Why couldn't he even see anything?

"We're going back," Yuuto whispered, voice close to Shun's ear. "You're in no shape to continue."

Shun wanted to tell him no; they needed the supplies, and there weren't many who could make this run. But whenever he tried to scrap together words, nothing came out of his mouth. Finally he just managed to nod. They'd figure out what to do later. If he couldn't even manage to walk, then they weren't going to make this supply run. Though how they'd be able to get back he also didn't know.

Something was tucked over him. Shun figured out a few seconds later that it was Yuuto's cloak. It seemed in better shape than his own coat was right now. Very carefully, Yuuto - he guessed it was Yuuto, there wasn't anyone else around who could - tugged him away from where he'd fallen and into a somewhat cooler place.

"You're going to have to stay here while I go get some help," Yuuto murmured to him. "I can't get you back on my own."

Shun wasn't so sure of that; he knew Yuuto was a lot stronger than he looked. But he wasn't really in any condition to argue right now. So he didn't even try to protest. Not that he could have done a good job of that right now. Just the thought of moving hurt. So he stayed where he was and hoped that Yuuto would get back soon.

Shun figured out very quickly that he didn't like being here, unable to defend himself or even move to a safer place if anything happened. He didn't blame Yuuto for going back for help, though. Neither he nor Yuuto knew that much about medicine and if they didn't find someone who did, then his odds of getting back home in one piece were practically nothing. He wasn't going to let that happen. He had to be there for Ruri.

They were the only ones that they had left right now. Their parents hadn't survived the initial invasion. Neither had anyone else on their street and very few people from their neighborhood in general. Only a handful of people they'd known before remained. But so many others - cards, or worse. Shun hadn't known what 'worse' could be. At least, he hadn't experienced it. Now he had. Now he'd sen not just the cards of people he'd once walked past or seen in stores, but he'd seen their bodies, torn apart at times, or just laying there in the rubble - or someone mentioned that they'd not gotten away before whatever building fell or the Fusion forces struck.

Why? Why did those invaders do this? What did they want? Shun wanted to scream his questions at someone who would answer him, and he knew that even if got answers, he wouldn't like them. There just wasn't any reason for it to happen at all.

How long had Yuuto been gone? Shun still couldn't see what was going on. He thought his eyes were closed but he couldn't be sure. How badly had he been hurt? Every part of him throbbed and ached and there were plenty of place where he'd been sliced by whatever it was that had blown up. He could feel something sticky on various parts of his body and guessed that was blood.

Ruri wasn't ever going to forgive him for this. She'd told them to stay safe and he'd not done that. But he looked forward to hearing her telling him how stupid he was. Ruri would do that quite loudly and roundly. She made a habit of doing it every time he got back from any sort of mission, whether she’d been on it with him or not.

The pain didn’t ease, but it didn’t get any worse, either. He’d take that. A faint breath of wind blew against him, chlling what parts of him it could reach, and he wondered how much longer it would be for Yuuto to return.

The sound came without warning. Footsteps! Shun tensed as best that he could, hoping that this was Yuuto and whatever help he'd brought along. Though - was it too soon? He couldn't be sure and he still couldn't see anything. So he refused to move, no matter how much he really wanted to. If he was wrong and there were Fusion soldiers there, then he'd never see Yuuto or Ruri again.

"Are you sure you saw someone?" Not a voice that he knew, but it sounded regardless. Shun tensed, straining against the darkness. He thought he saw a few shapes moving in the shadows that surrounded him, but he had no idea of what they were, or if they were anything at all.

"I'm sure I did. If we can find whoever it is, we can card them."

That wasn't what Shun wanted to hear. It was what he expected to hear, but not what he wanted. He couldn't move enough to be sure he was out of sight, and he thought that Yuuto's cloak had fallen off. He still had no real idea of where he was or how concealed he might be. If those Obelisk Force soldiers found him, there wasn't much he could do to fight them off. He'd be a card in no time flat.

Footsteps, coming closer. Those weren't Yuuto's. He was certain of that. He thought they sounded like boots on rock. He strained to see better, but nothing worked. The steps came closer and closer.

The voice that spoke wasn't one he knew. It was quiet, and he thought female. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'll get them away from here. Just stay quiet."

Was he actually hearing that from a member of Obelisk Force? Those who had wreaked so much destruction on his world? Shun didn't believe it. This was some kind of trick. But he couldn't argue or resist. Whoever it was turned around and walked away.

"Well, Himura?" That was one of the earlier voices. "Find anything to play with?"

"No. Nothing but rubble back there." It was the same voice that had spoken to him. Shun would have frowned if he could. Why was she lying to them? Just to keep him safe? He didn't believe that. She had to want something from him. But how would she get it? What could it be? It wasn't as if he had anything to offer.

He couldn't even ask what she wanted. All he could do was listen as the other Obelisk Force grumbled, unhappy they hadn't found someone they could card or worse, and they all headed away.

Himura. He didn't even know what she looked like, but he would remember that name.

He had no idea of how long he stayed there, but it was starting to get a little chilly by the time Yuuto and a couple of other people - who he still couldn't identity - came back. Yuuto raced over, resting one hand on Shun's forehead.

"He's still alive," Yuuto reported. "Can you help?"

The voices weren't ones he could identify right away but they did sound familiar. He'd probably heard them around camp. Whoever they were, they hurried over to him and started doing incomprehensible things. Pain that had more or less toned down to throbbing aches and half-dried blood shot up all over again as they checked him over. A few noises managed to make it out of his throat this time, but nothing that could be called 'words'.

"All right, I think he's in good enough shape to head back to camp. If we move him carefully. It looks like most of the damage is lacerations, cuts, bruises and a possible concussion. And his coat needs to be replaced."

Shun wasn't sure of how much of that was true; but he'd never taken medical classes, and the little bit that he'd had to learn since the invasion hadn't covered this. So he couldn't argue, as the three of them settled him on a makeshift stretcher and started to carefully make their way back to the base. He wasn't sure anymore if he couldn't see because of damage or because the sun had begun to slip behind the still standing remains of the city buildings, sending sable fingers of shadows across the land. Or possibly because his head throbbed so much that he could hardly think, let alone look at anything.

Yuuto stayed by him the whole time, murmuring about how Ruri intended to deliver the worst lecture to him as soon as they got back, and some of the younger rebels would probably admire the scars he would have. None of that surprised Shun. He considered himself lucky just to have survived the explosion in the first place.

The thought of 'Himura' hadn't escaped him at all. He just didn't have time to wonder about who it was, and he wasn't going to tell anyone else. He would find out what she wanted before he mentioned anything to Yuuto or Ruri. He thought they'd understand, but he wasn't going to change his mind. She wanted something; he just didn't know what it was.

But whatever it was, he wouldn't give it to her. His world had paid enough for the knowledge of other worlds, and all he wanted was for them all to leave everyone he cared about alone.

The End

Notes: I want to write this from Yuuto’s POV, and maybe something from Akane’s. This contributed to her decision to tell Asuka what the invasion was really like. But will she and Shun ever get to discuss this?

#fanfic #higuchimon writes #ygo arc v #febuwhump2022 #kurosaki shun #yuuto #osiris red girl #himura akane

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fistofgork · 4 years ago

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Broken Realms: Teclis & Lumineth Battletome

So I finished reading both now, can move on to End of Enlightenment next.

The Battletome I don’t have much to say because the additions are mostly mechanical. Glad to be introduced to two of the Tyrionic nations now, and curious to see what the other two will be, but I’m going to largely talk about Broken Realms.

Since a lot of it might be spoilers I’ll put it under a divide but to give just a sum of my overall opinion: Overall I enjoyed it and it is a very good example of doing right one thing 40k does very poorly in lore, but I do have issues with the treatment of Nagash in it.

So, in simple terms, Broken Realms Teclis is the story of Teclis and the Lumineth successfully baiting Nagash into a trap. The end result of this trap is that the Necroquake is undone and Nagash is, at least for a time, bound in Shyish.

It is, out-and-out, a victory for the Lumineth and a major display of their agency and efficiency within the lore.

With this and the Morathi book the trend of the Broken Realms seems to be that the protagonist of the book triumphs (a normal enough trend) and unlike in 40k the protagonists can be from many different groups. I hope this means that Be’lakor, coming next, will triumph in his book as it will suck if two Order characters triumph in their books only to buck the trend once there is a Chaos Protagonist.

Overall there is a lot I like here. First of all: as a fan of the Lumineth I am of course just pleased they are depicted as competent, intelligent and capable, that goes without saying. But, there is a lot more to it than that:

I am glad that during the Lumineth invasion of the Ossiarch Empire the book is at pains to stress the Lumineth know they can’t successfully conquer the Ossiarchs, they are just launching pinpoint strikes to undermine the dread the Ossiarch’s inspire by showing that you can hit them where it hurts and live to tell about it. This stops the Ossiarchs from losing ground but still gives the Lumineth a victory.

I am glad Katakros is not present as this prevents him being served up as a Worf when he’s just started solidifying an impressive reputation for himself.

Teclis’ final plan to defeat Nagash, and that clash, in isolation, is largely fine. I agree with the overall outcome of Nagash being high on Necromancy being individually stronger than Teclis, but losing to Teclis’ use of allies and his own arrogance. Those are classic weaknesses of Nagash. So, in isolation, the final fight is fine.

Then, a major positive, is this book shows a serious thing I wish 40k could do. It gives more than one faction AGENCY!

In 40k Lore, particularly of late, NOTHING can be achieved by anyone unless it is the Imperium, or Chaos over the Imperium. All agency HAS to be connected to the Imperium and Imperium alone, often not even that, Space Marines and Space Marines alone.

The other factions can’t ever star in their own plotlines. They are always sidekicks to existing Space Marine plotlines at best.

The clearest example is, of course, the atrocious handling of the Ynnari plotline. Taking the single largest Xenos development in ages and just making it almost nothing but an excuse to write more about the Imperium whilst the Ynnari practically vanish from existence. It is incredibly depressing.

In Broken Realms: Teclis, however, we see AoS once again just do better than 40k. Stormcasts don’t show up AT ALL in this book. Sigmar either. This book gave the Lumineth their own major plotline, their own major triumph, had them achieve something Sigmar and his Stormcast had so far been unable too, and it didn’t feel the need to second them to Stormcasts or make them sidekicks.

Again; just compare how the Ynnari, and Aeldari as a whole, are treated compared to the Lumineth. It is such a breath of fresh air in AoS that more than one faction is allowed to actually be the stars of their own stories!

So what are the things I dislike? really there are two points I didn’t like:

Neferata and Mannfred continue to suck. I have said before I am bothered by how low-tier these two are presented as. Neferata’s first appearance, seemingly depicting her as being awed by a low-level Stormcast, was always annoying. Olynder and Katakros, the newest Mortarchs all have major successes and victories to their names. But these two? Two of the oldest beings alive? They suck. They just constantly fail and get shown up. This story is no different. Both Mannfred and Neferata hatch schemes and both just fail. I feel this was unnecessary. Since the overall ending is Nagash’s defeat I don’t see why Mannfred and Neferata couldn’t have been allowed smaller victories to at least give Death some triumphs in this.

Nagash was perhaps the one major antagonist who SHOULDN’T have been beat up again. Archaon, Gordrakk, any Mortarch, Sigvald, fine, but Nagash? he is the memetic loser of the Gods. Of the pantheon only one God has gotten himself ever ‘destroyed’ in a battle (Alarielle just spent so much power she retreated into a seed pod). That god is Nagash. He’s also done it TWICE now. Archaon beat his ass. Now Teclis did. Nagash also has VERY few personal triumphs. Yes, during this period, Death has done well, because Olynder bested the Celestant Prime and Katakros personally lead the first and only successful counter-invasion into Chaos’ own heartlands. But, Nagash himself? Almost every time he personally is involved in a fight it ends in failure. As always he is a bit hard to take seriously when every time, about, he’s shown his face in public its been to get his ass handed to him. Again; in isolation the actual way the Teclis v Nagash fight plays out I am fine with, Nagash is individually stronger but cannot understand the merits of friendship like Teclis, seeks to dominate rather than live in harmony, and underestimates due to his arrogance and thus is brought low by Teclis cooperating with others. That’s honestly a perfect way to structure Teclis v Nagash. But...they just had to let him have some wins himself or make it that more time passes since he got his ass kicked by Archaon. This just makes it look like Nagash really sucks at fighting.

Beyond those two complaints, overall, I still enjoy the book. If the trend holds that the protagonist of the book wins I will be pleased as we’ve had two Order books now where their characters won, so we should at least have one character from Destruction, Chaos and Death also get a win.

A last little note: we have some more info on Tyrion. Not much though. It seems in response to Archaon breaching into Slaanesh’s jail Teclis and Tyrion both went there. Teclis returned to fight Nagash, but not Tyrion. When Nagash queried this Teclis’ direct answer was to say that Tyrion couldn’t come because he was busy fighting his own battle against a foe ‘greater than Nagash’. The implication is maybe Tyrion is currently trying to keep Slaanesh suppressed alone in the Hidden Gloaming then due to the weakening wards?

At the same time an earlier segment did mention Tyrion has gone on some secret quest he set himself for and has not been seen since. So, at this stage, mostly I think it is just GW giving an explanation for why he seems so absent despite the desperate times, and writing in some plot hooks they can use for when they decide to make him.

#age of sigmar #aos #aelf #lumineth realm-lords #tyrion #teclis #nagash

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goulets · 4 years ago

Text

Heartland

Chapter: 3/8 Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson Additional Characters: Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Colin Wilkes, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake, Duke Thomas Rating: T (for now) Case Fic / Kid Fic a03 link

The library has its benefits: no harassment from over-familiar family members, no Dick sexually frustrating him within an inch of his life, and, if he’s willing to be a little sentimental, he kind of does want to show it to the baby. She’s too young to appreciate it, probably, but it stirs something in him to share it with her all the same. He’s heard it’s never too early to get kids into reading - his parents sure as hell never tried, but Jason had read anything he could get his hands on, once he learned how. It had saved him, back then. Maybe it can do the same for her one day.

“Could’ve sworn Bruce had a Dr. Seuss anthology somewhere in here,” he says to her, combing over the shelves with his eyes. “Guess not. You up for something more sophisticated?”

She grunts, squeezing his shirt in her fist. “Alright,” he agrees, pulling Twelfth Night off the shelf. “Shakespeare it is. You’ve got taste, kid.”

***

(dick)

Venice is a nightclub that has gone by many names during its Gotham tenure, and just as many owners. Dick has been undercover here at least twice, back when the club was catering to the wealthier patrons of Little Italy. The current management clearly hasn’t bothered with maintaining that exclusivity - the building is now shabby and outdated, even for this neighborhood. One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is the real draw of Venice, which is the illegal casino in the back rooms beyond the VIP lounge. Through all the club’s owners, the casino has always been run by the Falcones, and always frequented by the city’s most morally flexible elected officials. In the past four nights that Dick’s been staking the place out, he’s seen five judges, two city council members, and even the new police commissioner slipping out the back door into the alley, stinking of gin and cigar smoke and patting their coat pockets with an air of satisfaction. It’s good intel to have, Barbara’s told him. Always helpful to keep the files updated on who’s being bought and by whom. None of that really makes him feel better about the fact that he’s been staking this place out for four nights and still hasn’t managed to pin down their actual target.

It’s embarrassing, is what it is. He’s Nightwing, for God’s sake. He’s taken down whole Russian mobs in Bludhaven, and now he’s being completely eluded by a third-string Falcone no one’s even heard of.

Oracle had ID’d the doer of the Torres/Howard murders in a matter of hours, true to her word, and the ballistics had predictably matched up with a few other murders that the police never bothered investigating. Susanna “Susie” Falcone, a second cousin once removed with a rap sheet that puts many of her relatives to shame. Her name must still have some pull in political circles, because she’s only done time once, in spite of being indicted almost a dozen times. Gotta love good old fashioned judicial corruption, Jason had said. No one had been able to argue, looking at the number of charges dismissed.

All in all, it was supposed to be a fairly simple tag-and-bag. Once they’d found her place of work - officially, the Venice nightclub, unofficially, the family casino - he’d been tasked to track her, question her, and then turn her in to the police. He’d chosen his stakeout perch well, on a hotel roof high above the alley, he’d followed her, unseen, and so far, she’s given him the slip every freaking time. The woman has vanished through every doorway from here to Robinson Park, as only the most enterprising criminal can. Were this a different kind of case, Dick might have been impressed.

Instead, he’s annoyed, and having to compromise - his vantage point is lower, closer but more exposed in the thin shadows of a third story construction platform right above the alley. He can see the door to the club without any difficulty, but the moment he moves, he’ll be open to attack.

He’ll just have to move fast. Fortunately, that’s what he’s best at.

There’s a soft motion behind him, almost quiet enough to escape his notice entirely. It’s Jason - Dick hadn’t expected him to actually turn up. No doubt he’s here to make sure they finally succeed in catching their mark tonight, but he’s been so adamant about not leaving Danielle with anyone except Dick that it’s still a surprise to see him. What’s equally surprising to Dick is that he was apparently hoping Jason would show, if the relief he feels at seeing him is anything to go by.

It’s a nice moment of solidarity, until Jason opens his mouth. “So, fourth night’s a charm, huh?”

Dick bristles. “What happened to not leaving the baby?” he retorts.

Jason bristles back, but doesn’t rise to the bait. It’s a little wrongfooting - a reminder that things are changing between them. Dick is used to the veneer of antagonism that hangs over his relationship with Jason, the unresolved tension they both pretend not to notice. They’d gotten into a pretty good groove when he was acting as Batman, staying out of each others’ way for the most part, and working together when necessary. Dick’s pretty sure Jason doesn’t actually harbor any murderous feelings towards him, just like he doesn’t actually hate Bruce, no matter what he says.

“The girls and Alfred ganged up on me,” Jason says, leaning back against the scaffolding. “Whatever. I needed to get the hell out of there anyways. I don’t know how you stand being around them all so much.”

Dick laughs. “They’re not as interested in me,” he admits. “I’m not the cool sibling.”

Jason doesn’t respond right away. It's hard for Dick to tell, when he’s wearing the helmet, but he thinks Jason is probably waiting to see if Dick is joking. It’s another way things have shifted between them - Jason’s holding back, not jumping straight to lashing out, like he used to. It should be a good thing - it is a good thing, but it’s throwing him off balance all the same. He feels like he's spent most of the past several days looking for Jason, even when Jason is right in front of him. He’s used to trying to find the Jason he knows - or knew - the Jason who was taken away from him. Now there’s a new Jason, a Jason he’s still getting to know. Dick can’t choose between them, can’t decide which one he wants to find every time he looks at him. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to find his one lousy mafia shooter.

“Looks like the cops are covering up the ballistics report on Reynolds,” Jason says, after a moment. “Go figure.”

Dick frowns. “Just Reynolds?”

Jason grunts. “Hold on. What.”

Dick turns to look at him.

“Did you burp her?”

Oh, Dick realizes, he’s on the comm. Someone back at the Manor must have pinged him on a private line.

“Then get Alfred to do it.”

It’s curious that the ballistics on Cy Reynolds’ murder are the ones being suppressed, Dick thinks. He was the only one killed with a submachine gun - the bullets from most of the other crime scenes had come from a standard Beretta APX, and the object of his stakeout, Susie Falcone, had used a Glock on Danielle’s parents. The Glock matched a few other shootings, the Beretta matched none. None of that is particularly noteworthy - after all, Susie is a criminal, and Beretta shell casings are a dime a dozen at any mob shooting.

“Fine. I’ll check back in five. If you asswipes don’t pick up, I’m coming back there.” Jason makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat, which Dick takes to mean he’s hung up.

“Everything OK?”

“Just peachy. By some cosmic fucking joke, I’m the only person in the family who can get the baby to take a damn bottle. I told her they just need to burp her, but I guess that’s too complicated a task for a family of genius detectives,” Jason grumbles. “I knew I shouldn’t have left her. Shit.”

“Jay, relax. She’s fine.” Dick can’t help but grin at him. It’s honestly sweet, the way Jason and the baby have gotten attached to each other. Dick likes to think he’s her second favorite, but it’s pretty hard to tell. No matter who’s holding her, she’s always looking at Jason, and Jason never stops looking at her.

“It’s fucking cold out here,” Jason says mulishly.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “I noticed. It’s April, not August. If you really want to go back, I’m not gonna stop you.”

“I don’t…” Jason sighs. “Look, I’m here, okay? You bungled this grade school op three nights in a row, so congrats, you triggered the bat buddy system. If I leave and you fuck it up again, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Dick supposes it’s his turn not to rise to the bait. “Fair enough,” he says easily, turning around to face the alleyway again. “What were you saying about the ballistics on Reynolds?”

“Oh, Oracle ran the bullets through Interpol. Turns out our ill-fated gang boss was offed by one of Carmine Falcone’s personal weapons. The record’s been scrubbed from US databases, but Babs had a hunch.” Jason sounds impressed.

“Been scrubbed meaning...there was a record,” Dick follows, “and some people might still remember, if they saw the bullets. Hence the coverup.”

“Yup. Hence the coverup.”

“Could explain what the commissioner was doing here the other night,” Dick muses.

Jason snorts derisively. “See, this is what I hate about the mafia. They’re so goddamn predictable. Kill the competition, pay off the cops, around and around forever. It’s so pedestrian.”

Dick laughs. “You’d rather deal with Clayface?”

“Fuck yes I would. Clayface has flair, you know? Anybody can be a mobster, shit.”

Jason has started shifting with agitation, or maybe impatience. Either way, their vantage spot isn’t hidden enough for him to be moving around. “Get low if you’re gonna be twitchy,” Dick tells him. “Or if you’re gonna have a cigarette, but I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Lucky for you I quit then,” Jason says, crouching down next to him. “I’m not jonesing, I’m just fucking cold.”

“We could huddle together for warmth,” Dick jokes, grinning unabashedly when Jason’s helmet fixes him with a death glare. “Wait, you quit smoking? When?”

“When I started taking care of a baby, obviously.” Jason goes still, suddenly. “Is that her?”

The door to the alleyway opens, and they both tense - but it’s just a man, a bodyguard, by the looks of him. Close-cropped blonde hair, early 40s, used to throwing his weight around. Feeling there’s something familiar about him, Dick nudges Jason and motions for him to take a photo. Jason starts almost imperceptibly at the contact, but follows suit. They both hold perfectly still in the shadows as the man looks around, glances in a cursory way along the rooftops, and then sets off down the alley towards the street.

“I know him,” Jason mutters. “From Tim’s case files - he was with Intergang.”

Dick doesn’t say anything about Jason calling Tim by name, but it’s a welcome development. “Looks like he switched sides, if he’s hanging out here.”

“Wonderful,” Jason says. “All right, I’m gonna check on the kid again.”

Dick represses the urge to give him a shoulder squeeze, or ruffle his hair. It’d probably result in him getting shoved off the platform, but Jason’s being so....not different, because Dick’s always known that this Jason was still in him, somewhere. Always hoped, anyways. When Jason had been younger and acted like this, surly with his words but tender with his actions, Dick had always thought of him as cute. It’s like that now, too, except it’s not just cute, because Jason has several inches and at least two weight classes on him. It’s cute in a different way, an adult way. It’s cute in a way that makes Dick want to push harder against Jason’s armor, to catch as many glimpses of that side of him as he can. If he thinks about it too long, it’s cute in a way that makes him want, recklessly.

“Red Hood to Batgirl,” Jason says. He’s calling on the family line this time. “Give me an update.”

“You’re seriously a helicopter parent, you know that, Hood?” Steph laughs in Dick’s ear. “We figured it out. Well...Black Bat figured it out.”

Jason’s shoulders sag a little in relief. Cute, Dick thinks, involuntarily. He needs to get a grip. “About fucking time.”

“She prefers being propped up,” Cass says. “It helps her swallow.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier. And she likes her back straight.”

“You said none of that, actually,” Steph says. “You just told us to support her head. Which we have been, thank you very much.”

“You have her now?”

“Robin has her.”

Dick and Jason look at each other. Jason says, “What the fuck?”

“Right?” Steph sounds amused. “I was surprised too....his friend is here, that ginger kid? He’s the one that took her from the orphanage, right?”

“Batgirl, I swear to god, if anything happens to her - ”

“Oh, calm down, jeez,” Steph groans. “They’re being supervised, okay? It’s honestly precious, you would agree with me if you could see it. I’ll text the pictures to N.”

“Please do,” Dick says. Speaking of cute, in a way that’s much safer to think about.

“Go do your job now,” Cass tells them. “We’re handling it.”

“Yeah, what she said. Batgirls out.”

“Feel better?” Dick asks, after a moment.

“Don’t ask me that,” Jason grouses. “And show me those pictures when you get them.”

Dick grins. “Sure, Jay.”

“Ugh.”

Dick decides to change the subject, before Jason gets too antsy and tries to bail. “So how do you want to play this, when Susie shows?”

Jason points to a dumpster halfway down the alley. “We wait until she’s there. I’ll get the club door, put a taser on it to stop her getting back in or anyone else from coming out. You cut her off before she gets to the street, and we question her on the backside of the dumpster. I’ll take line of sight, since I’m packing.”

Dick nods. “So is she.”

“So is every goon in those back rooms, sure. That’s why we lock their asses in.”

“And if they come out the front?”

Jason spins a gun in his hand. “Rubber bullets do the job just fine if you know how to aim. Let me worry about the backup.”

Another thing that’s changed about Jason - or that hasn’t changed, depending on how far back Dick looks. He uses rubber bullets now, whenever he’s working a case with one of them. Supposedly it’s a stipulation from Bruce, but Jason didn’t use lethal force on the couple cases he and Dick worked together, either, back when Dick was wearing the cowl. Dick thinks Bruce just gave him an excuse - whatever bloodlust Jason was fueled by when he first came back to Gotham has long since dried up. There are still things that set him off - Barbara had informed them about a dead rapist in the Narrows just last month - but Bruce hadn’t even commented on it, besides the barest acknowledgment. Dick thinks he might be the only one that actually cares when Jason kills someone, anymore. And what’s really disturbing is that he’s not actually sure how much he cares. For instance, he knows Jason has a third gun, holstered under his jacket, loaded with live ammo. He could call Jason out on it, insist he ditch it or at the very least unload it.

He says nothing. Let me worry about the backup. If this mission ends in a massacre, Dick will only have himself to blame.

The door opens again, and out steps Susie Falcone.

She immediately looks around, staying still in the doorway for a minute or more. Dick is pretty sure she hasn’t seen him following her, but he’s familiar with the sensation of being watched. He and Jason both shrink further into the shadows, waiting for her to make a move.

The whole process takes about six seconds. The moment she gets a few paces into the alley, they drop down. Jason electrifies the door handle, and Dick outmaneuvers her easily, slapping his police-issue cuffs on her and kicking her gun aside, then spinning her into the wall behind the dumpster. She hits it with a grunt. By the time she’s glaring at him, Jason is at his side again.

“Nightwing and Red Hood?” she says. “Damn. Didn’t expect to see you fellas out here.”

She doesn’t seem scared of them. Dick guesses they’ll have backup coming their way soon.

“Hey, what do you know,” Jason says conversationally, picking up the gun and emptying the clip in one swift motion. “Nightwing, I do believe this is our Glock.”

“Not mine,” Susie objects. “Picked it up off the club floor.”

“Come on, Susie, you’re smarter than that.” Jason crosses his arms. “Look, I can appreciate a sensible weapon. The Berettas the rest of your family favors? Too flashy for me. I loved Sopranos as much as the next guy, but come on.”

Dick suppresses a laugh. “Thought you were a Sig man,” he says in an undertone. He hadn’t expected Jason to take the lead, but it’s working. Susie looks agitated at the mention of her family.

“Wow, stalker. Remind me to move safe houses,” Jason quips back. “Aw, look, she slipped your cuffs.”

There’s a taser in Susie’s newly freed hand, and Dick quickly sidesteps it, twists it out of her wrist and sends it clattering down the cobblestones of the alley. Jason sweeps her legs out from under her and knocks her down flat, maybe a little harder than Dick would’ve. Thankfully, she goes down without a fight.

“Let’s try this again,” Dick says, kneeling next to her and zip-tying her wrists. If he wasn’t sure before, he is now - she was expecting them. They won’t be alone for long. He throws a couple smoke pellets down to the ends of the alley, and clips a nearly invisible wireless mic to the shoelaces of her boot under the guise of patting her down.

“You’re obviously not surprised to see us, so just tell us what we want to know,” Jason tells her, squatting down. “I’ll be honest, I don’t really give a shit that you shot Big Mouth, but what did Linda Torres ever do to you?”

“Let me up,” Susie snarls.

“No. Talk, or I’ll give you a taste of that taser you tried to pull on us.”

“Hood,” Dick hisses.

“See? He knows I’ll do it. Save yourself the grief, Susie.” Jason points the barrel of his gun lazily at her temple.

Susie narrows her eyes. “Fine. The two of them robbed me, last September. Dumb motherfuckers didn’t know who they were messing with. But I let them live because the bitch was pregnant.”

Jason makes a noise of disbelief. “Oh, sure. You’re a real bleeding heart, is that it?”

“Like you’re any better,” Susie fires back.

“You said you waited on Linda because she was pregnant,” Dick says. “Why’d you wait to kill Big Mouth?”

Susie’s mouth twists. “Guess I just felt like it.” Dick doesn’t need to see the tension in her shoulders to know she’s lying.

“Strike two.” Jason clicks the safety off. “Who put the hits out?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Susie answers. “I’m dead if I talk, so pistol whip me if you want to. Here’s the God’s honest truth: I really didn’t need a reason to kill those assholes. I was out for ‘em anyways. But I’m not crazy enough to kill a baby, all right? I don’t need shit like that on my conscience.”

“Keep talking,” Jason growls. Dick hears the whoop of a siren a few blocks off. “Where’s the baby now?”

“Somewhere safe, I swear. If anybody comes for her, it won’t be me.”

Susie still thinks Danielle’s at the orphanage, then. That’s good for them, but potentially bad for all the other kids, Colin included. These guys clearly have no problem killing children, even if Susie won’t do it.

The sirens are getting closer. Someone inside must’ve called the cops. Dick motions to Jason, indicating they need to wrap things up.

“Who is coming for her,” Jason barks, every line of his body a threat. “You’ve got five seconds.”

“You don’t.” Susie looks triumphant. They can hear the shouts of police from behind the smoke. “But don’t worry, boys. You’ll find out who really runs this town soon enough.”

“Hood,” Dick mutters. “We need to go, cops in this neighborhood aren’t cape-friendly.”

Jason stands, visibly enraged, and for a moment Dick thinks he’ll shoot Susie anyways. He’s prepared to move - but then Jason pulls out his grapple, fires, and flies up onto the roof.

“Talk about a bleeding heart,” Susie says to Dick. “He have kids or something?”

Dick doesn’t like her tone of voice at all. She’s too relaxed, too unconcerned about being under arrest. She won’t stay in long.

“It’s Nightwing! Get your hands up!”

Dick obliges, ready to pull his escrima sticks.

Three police officers come through the smoke, weapons drawn. “You better have a damn good reason for being this far out of Bludhaven,” one of them shouts at Dick.

“Sure do!” Dick calls back. “Arrested a murderer for you, no need to thank me!”

“Shut up,” a different officer retorts. “Keep your hands up, pretty boy.”

“Oh, fuck this,” Jason mutters over the comm. “I’m throwing you an escape, we’ll recon on the library roof. Stop being so goddamn chatty.”

One smoke pellet later, Dick is three rooftops away and flying. He gets to the library before Jason, exhilarated as ever from a good run.

Jason drops down next to him after a minute or so, laughing when he gets a look at Dick’s smile. “Running from the cops still does it for you, huh?”

Dick elbows him, momentarily forgetting to keep his distance. “Doesn’t it for you?”

Surprisingly, Jason doesn’t move away. “Usually they’re shooting at me, so.”

Dick leans closer, testing. “So…yes?”

“You’re so annoying,” Jason says, but he lets Dick nudge his shoulder, bump their arms together. He’s so solid, Dick thinks. So big. More like Bruce than any of them.

“So, how fast do you think she’ll get out?” he asks, when Jason stays quiet.

“Fucking tomorrow, probably,” Jason sighs. “Next week if we’re lucky.”

“Sounds like she didn’t know about Danielle, at least.”

“She’s not the problem,” Jason says, shrugging Dick off and standing back up. “Falcones will blow up the whole orphanage if they get wind of it. We need to put them down first.”

“We need to find out who’s in charge,” Dick agrees. “I planted a mic on her shoe. In the laces. Hopefully she won’t find it for a few days.”

“Good thinking,” Jason nods. “You gonna keep patrolling?”

“Might as well,” Dick says, standing up next to him and stretching his arms over his head. “I’m still stiff from that stakeout, I need to move.”

Jason’s gone quiet again. Dick thinks he hears his breath catch, but the helmet muffles it enough that it could be a yawn.

“You’re going back to the manor?”

Jason groans. “Fuck my life, yes.”

“You miss her, huh.” Cute, his brain chants.

Jason doesn’t answer, but Dick has a feeling he’s getting the stink-eye.

“I miss her too,” Dick offers. “It’s okay.”

Jason sighs. “Dick…”

“It’s a good thing, Jay. You care about her! We all do,” Dick adds, seeing the rigidity in Jason’s posture. “I mean, you’re practically her parent right now. Of course you miss her.”

“...Don’t say it like that.” Jason’s voice is low, almost pained, and Dick knows he pushed too far. “Like…like I have a right to, okay, just. Don’t.”

“Jason, wait,” Dick starts, but he doesn’t get to finish. Without a backward glance, Jason fires off a line to the neighboring building, and then he’s gone.

***

(tim)

The docks are quiet, unsettlingly so, as Tim prowls around the towers of shipping containers, keeping to the deep shadows they cast along the chipped pavement. It’s overcast, so there’s no moonlight to expose him, but it’s also too dark to see which of the trucks and campers parked all over are occupied, which ones might suddenly turn their headlights on him and catch him out.

One truck in particular - an innocuous looking Isuzu with a stunningly weaponized interior, is the object of his search. The driver, Felipe, is one of Tim’s best informants within Intergang - or had been, prior to the upheaval. Tim’s reasonably sure that Felipe is too lowly a grunt to make an example of, but still, he’s concerned that he hasn’t heard from him in a few days.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried. He finds Felipe a hundred yard away from his truck, taking a piss off the wharf. He lets himself into the passenger side of the truck, and immediately notes that it is packed. There’s hardly a spare inch in the back, and Tim has a tough time even getting into the passenger seat with all the bags, clothes, and blankets stuffed into it. He pushes the majority of it to the floor, and waits.

Felipe comes back a few moments later. He opens the door and starts, eyes going wide when he sees Tim, but Tim puts his finger to his lips and motions for Felipe to get in so they can talk.

“Red Robin,” Felipe says, once the door is closed. He looks even more shaken than usual. “What the fuck, man?”

Tim crosses his arms. “You tell me, Felipe. You’ve been dodging my calls for days, and now I find out you’re skipping town?”

“I ditched that phone, man. Boss Reynolds had my number in there, you know? Ditched it as soon as I heard about him. I wasn’t trying to ghost you, honest.”

“Relax,” Tim tells him. “I’m not mad. I’d dodge me, too. Just tell me what happened, and I’ll shadow you out of town. Make sure you’re not followed.”

“Shit, man,” Felipe sighs. “Okay, look. There’s shit I can’t tell you, not if I ever want to hench again. You gotta figure that all out yourself, yeah?”

Tim shrugs. “Fine.”

Felipe swallows. “It started last week when Boss Reynolds met with somebody - I don’t know his name, God as my witness, but from what I heard, ‘cause I was unloading some of that funky alien tech, and you know Boss Reynolds wanted to supervise that personally - anyways, this guy in a suit took a meeting with him, and it sounded like he was offering Boss Reynolds a job. Said he had a new operation, bigger than Intergang, bigger than anything Gotham’s seen in a while.”

“Did Reynolds believe him?”

“Nah, he told him to get lost. They had some words, and then everybody started pulling guns, and I went back to the ship so I didn’t get fuckin’ shot, but I didn’t hear anything after that. Next thing I saw, Boss Reynolds was calling his son up and telling him to demo some building down by the old boardwalk - a hotel, maybe. Guess he wanted to expand that way, I don’t know.”

“That was the old Falcone hotel,” Tim says, mostly just to see Felipe’s reaction. He isn’t disappointed - Felipe goes pale, and his eyes flash to the rosary hanging off his rearview mirror. Tim likes Felipe as an informant because he’s nosy, shockingly competent for a henchman, and because he really likes to gossip. He’s never held back on Tim before this.

“Few days later, one of ours, this merc named Tiberius, comes down to the warehouse and says he’s got something to show us. Takes out a fat fuckin’ folder full of pictures…man, it was some sick shit. Boss Reynolds, his wife, Reynolds Jr, and every fuckin’ guy under him. Kids, man. He just passed it around, made everyone look at it. Then he says, we can either be in the folder, or we can come meet the new boss.”

Felipe takes a shaky breath. “Obviously I go with Tiberius, like everyone else. I heard a couple guys stayed on the ship that was docked, thinking they’d wait ‘em out, but the new boss blew it up. Says we’re not in the tech business anymore, and anyone caught trying to smuggle it is gonna get tied to it and tossed in the harbor. You can imagine my concerns,” he says, gesturing to his truck. Tim estimates half or more of the weapons in it are salvaged from alien junk. Roy Harper would have a field day with the setup this guy’s made for himself.

“So that’s why you’re bailing,” Tim says, understanding. He can hardly blame the guy. “Why not just hide the truck somewhere?”

“Well…I did think about that,” Felipe admits. “Tiberius made us a pretty sweet pitch, once we went along with him. Not gonna lie, I was tempted. Tech is my thing, you know, but I can make a gun out of pretty much anything. I could see the possibilities, is what I’m saying, but that was before we met the new boss.”

Tim nods encouragingly. This is what he’s been waiting to hear.

“Listen, Red Robin - I know we’ve had our differences, but I respect you, man, you know that. You’ve been good to me, so I’m gonna give you some advice here. Stay the hell away from the new boss. Like, don’t even get involved. I’ve been henching for a while, and I’ve seen some messed up shit, but they are crazy. Está loca, you feel me? I’ve seen the hit list, and you’re right at the top of it. You and all the other capes. Half of Arkham, too. And they’re connected, like you wouldn’t believe. Shit, I’m already saying too much, man. You see the position I’m in here?”

“I do, Felipe,” Tim tells him. He hands over a stack of hundred dollar bills, their agreed-upon rate for information. “Where are you going?”

“You’re crazy too, if you think I’m telling you that,” Felipe scoffs.

Tim wasn’t expecting a straight answer anyways. “Fair enough. You heading out now?”

“Soon as you get the hell outta my car, yeah. You said you’d shadow me out?”

“I will,” Tim says. “From a distance. If you don’t see me, it means you’re clear to cross the bridge.”

“All right,” Felipe nods. “In that case, I hope I never see your ass again.”

Tim laughs, and climbs out of the truck.

He finds his own way out of the shipyard, pulls a bike out of a safe house, and catches up with Felipe’s GPS signal halfway to the Fashion District. Once he’s sure there’s no immediate threat, he calls Barbara.

“Red Robin to Oracle. I’m uploading a recording to the server.”

Barbara is in his ear at once. “You met with your informant?”

“He wouldn’t give me a name, but he let a couple things slip.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” she says.

“First, he flinched hard when I brought up the Falcone name.”

“Confirms what we already know,” Barbara says. “Good. There’s more?”

“There’s more.” Tim tries not to gloat. This is, after all, a serious situation. “He was being cagey about mentioning the leader’s gender, so I was already suspicious, but then said ‘está loca’ when he was trying to warn me.”

Barbara whistles. “Well,” she says, sounding satisfied. “That’ll certainly narrow it down.”

“Yep,” Tim says grimly. “Looks like the new head of the Falcone family is a woman.”

***

(jason)

When Jason was Robin, the library had always been his favorite room in the Manor. It had spoken easily to his idea of what wealth was - rich people had fancy cars, sure, and maybe pools and expensive wardrobes, but wealthy people had art collections, and gardens, and libraries. Jason had spent hours upon hours browsing the shelves, reading anything he could wrap his brain around (and plenty of things he couldn’t), suggesting additions to Alfred, and avoiding his schoolwork in favor of learning about more interesting things, like string theory, or cryptology, or chemical warfare.

That was then.

Now, the library is the only place he can get a minute of peace from the constant barrage of his obnoxious, nosy, boundaryless family members. They’ve been characteristically persistent in their curiosity about him, and about Danielle, who is now Dani, courtesy of Stephanie. This is a nickname family, she’d said, and Jason hadn’t known how to disagree. So now she’s Dani, and Jason is family, and that apparently means he is no longer entitled to any privacy, or personal space for that matter. The only person who hasn’t barged in on him is Bruce, which is almost worse, in a way, because it’s one thing when nobody seeks him out, and it’s quite another when everyone does and then Bruce...doesn’t. Not that he wants Bruce to come up and bother him, God. But he’s in the man’s house, he’s hearing him on the comm constantly either on patrol or down in the cave, and all the other Bat brats and even Alfred are buzzing around him like flies. It’s too much - it feels like before, except for Bruce’s conspicuous absence reminding him that it’s not.

Sharing a bathroom with Dick is another before experience that Jason didn’t need a repeat of. In some ways, it was worse when he was Robin - stripping and showering after patrol in the cave with Dick a few feet away from him is a memory he really wouldn’t have minded leaving back in the Pit - and in other ways, it’s worse now, because Dick is always freaking around. There’s no reprieve, he’s not flitting off to the Titans every week like he used to be. Jason hasn’t gone half a day without Dick getting in his space, drawing up close to him and making that earnest eye contact he’s so annoyingly good at; sometimes wet, sometimes half-naked, sometimes both. And what can Jason do? He’s not going to leave Dani, and he needs Dick to be there so he can get some sleep every once in a while, or patrol, or shower. It’s actually been pretty helpful to have him around, in that regard, but if he has to see the guy walking around with bedhead and nothing but a pair of boxer briefs on one more time, he’s going to fucking explode.

So, the library has its benefits: no harassment from over-familiar family members, no Dick sexually frustrating him within an inch of his life, and, if he’s willing to be a little sentimental, he kind of does want to show it to Dani. She’s too young to appreciate it, probably, but it stirs something in him to share it with her all the same. He’s heard it’s never too early to get kids into reading - his parents sure as hell never tried, but Jason had read anything he could get his hands on, once he learned how. It had saved him, back then. Maybe it can do the same for Dani one day.

“Could’ve sworn Bruce had a Dr. Seuss anthology somewhere in here,” he says to her, combing over the shelves with his eyes. “Guess not. You up for something more sophisticated?”

She grunts, squeezing his shirt in her fist. “Alright,” he agrees, pulling Twelfth Night off the shelf. “Shakespeare it is. You’ve got taste, kid.”

He wonders, not for the first time, what exactly he thinks he’s doing, playing at this whole parenting thing. The rational part of his brain knows that this is a case, that Dani is a victim, that Jason is protecting her because it’s his job. The emotional part of his brain has gone completely off the goddamn rails. Case in point: he’s here with her in the library, prepping her for early literacy like some kind of Crest Hill soccer mom wannabe. Like he’ll even be in her life when she starts doing her ABCs - God willing, she’ll be as far away from him as possible by the time that happens.

It’s fucking hard to think about. He never thought he’d get this attached to a person who can’t even burp on their own. It’s been over a week, and he still struggles with putting her down, with stepping away from her, even when he knows he’s coming right back. Steph and Damian have been wanting to hold her all the time, and Jason knows that they’re capable, knows he has no claim over Dani, doesn’t even mind either of them all that much under normal circumstances, and still, he can’t help feeling like something has reached inside and gripped at his heart every time he passes her over. Which is ridiculous, because she’s not his, he has no more claim over her than any other schmuck off the street. She’s just a kid with unbelievably bad luck, and he’s the idiot who followed Dick up the stairs instead of booking it out the door like a sensible person.

He settles down with her on the couch, propping her up on a couple of pillows, giving her foot a little squeeze. She squeals, smiling at him, and stuffs her fingers in her mouth. God, Jason didn’t know he could feel the way he feels whenever she smiles at him. It’s gonna kill him when he has to give her up.

“If music be the food of love, play on,” he reads, walking his fingers up her leg. “Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.”

Dani watches him, chewing happily on her fingers. “‘O, it came over my ear like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets.’ That’s you, you know.” He pokes her in the cheek, grinning. If music be the food of love…but hell, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of this. Especially when she’s all calm and engaging, the precious few minutes that he’s learned to appreciate in between finishing eating and being tired and cranky, when all she wants to do is look around at things, and all Jason wants to do, ever, is look at her.

The door to the library opens, and Jason goes from content to murderous in a fraction of a second. “What the fuck is it now,” he hisses, expecting Damian or maybe Tim, coming to nag him some more, and instead sees Damian’s friend Colin, who looks horrified to have intruded on him. Jason immediately feels like the world’s biggest ass.

“Sorry,” Colin whispers, mortified, and Jason waves a hand apologetically.

“My bad, I didn’t know it was you. Come in, it’s fine. She’s awake, you don’t need to whisper.”

Colin looks unsure, but soon nods and steps into the library, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Once inside, he dawdles by the nearest bookshelf, clearly at a loss. Jason probably should’ve just let him back out, because this is awkward. Should he keep reading to Dani? Talk to Colin? Ask him why he looks like someone just kicked him and stole his dog?

“You good?” he ventures, figuring he ought to at least attempt to be the adult in the room.

Colin glances at him over his shoulder, smiling tentatively. “Yeah, just bored. Damian’s sleeping, we had a rough patrol last night.”

“We?” Jason repeats, stunned. Bruce isn’t an exemplar of child welfare practices, sure, but letting Damian take other kids on crime-busting playdates? What the hell?

“Oh, I guess you don’t know,” Colin frowns. “I’m….uh, it’s probably easier if I just show you.”

He slides his jacket off, threadbare t-shirt hanging off his skinny frame. Jason tenses, not sure what to expect. When Colin’s arm starts to expand, his eyes widen. By the time his fist is as big around as Jason’s thigh, he thinks his eyebrows have probably disappeared into his hairline.

“Oh.” Jason has no idea how he’s supposed to react to this. Is Colin a meta? He’s pretty sure he would know if Colin was a meta. “How…?”

“Scarecrow,” Colin explains. Jason’s heart sinks. “He experimented on me with synthetic Venom. Batman saved me.”

Dani fusses, twisting her body and scrunching her face up. Jason sympathizes - this conversation is giving him gas, too. “Shit,” he says. Not the most articulate way of expressing his condolences, but Colin’s friends with Damian, so tact can’t be of great importance to him. “I didn’t know.”

Dani starts to cry, and Colin takes a couple steps forward, putting Jason’s hackles up at once. Stop it, he tells himself sternly. He might have fallen down a few pegs, but he’s not pathetic enough to square up against an abused fifth grader. He picks her up, rubbing her back, and then glances over at Colin. The kid’s gone shy, looking down at a point somewhere between Jason’s legs and the floor. Jason feels all the hostility bleed out of him, and he sighs.

“You can sit down.” He gestures to the couch, trying to sound nonthreatening. Dani burps, mouths at his shirt, and then gurgles and kicks her legs again. She leans back against his hold to stare at Colin, and Colin’s face splits into a huge grin. He tucks himself down into the cushions, keeping plenty of space between them, but Jason can sense from the inclination of his body that he wants to be closer. Well, if anyone has a right to be close to Dani, it’s the kid who rescued her in the first place.

“Here,” he offers, turning Dani around in his arms. His heart clenches, and he clamps down on his desire to flee. “You can hold her for a minute, if you want to. She likes you.”

Colin looks at him, eyes shining. “Really?”

Jason nods. “Go ahead. Honestly, you probably know a lot more about this shit than I do.”

Colin takes Dani from him carefully, smiling at her and laughing when she reaches forward to grab at his jacket zipper. A few seconds later, it’s in her mouth, along with most of her fist.

“Should I…?” Colin looks at Jason hesitantly.

“I mean…she’s had worse things in her mouth,” Jason tells him. A ringing endorsement of his child-minding abilities right there. “It’s fine, right? That’s how they build an immune system, or whatever.”

“Well, Alfred washed this for me last night,” Colin admits, looking embarrassed. “So it shouldn’t be too gross.”

Jason leans back against the couch cushions, crossing his arms. “Getting all the perks, huh?”

Colin shrugs, casting his eyes down again. “I like it here.”

Considering where Colin grew up, Jason supposes he can’t blame the kid. Still, he’s not quite wrapping his head around this sweet, genuinely nice kid being buddies with Damian. The demon brat isn’t exactly known for his winning personality, and Jason only knows vaguely how the two of them met, but what he’s heard doesn’t strike him as being particularly conducive to forging the lasting bonds of friendship.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he decides to just ask. “Why’d you call Damian, the night you found her?”

Colin looks surprised. “I...don’t know,” he says, slowly. “I didn’t know who else to call? Damian’s my best friend, and he always knows what to do.”

Jason can’t keep the skeptical look off his face.

“And if he doesn’t, Bat….Bruce, I mean, definitely always knows what to do.”

Jason scrubs a hand over his face. Time to change the fucking subject. “How’d you two get hooked up, anyways?”

Dani turns her head to look at him, still eating Colin’s zipper. Sometimes, Jason gets the bizarre feeling that she can somehow tell when he’s about to blow a gasket. It’s probably a coincidence - she moves around a lot, and Jason has anger issues that flare up every ten minutes, so there’s bound to be some crossover - but it works, because it takes the fight right out of him every time.

“We worked a case together,” Colin says, holding Dani a little more securely against him. “About a year ago, I guess. Kids were disappearing from my orphanage, and from the shelters. I don’t think you were around.”

“I wasn’t,” Jason shakes his head. He and Roy had been busting a trafficking ring in Ibiza, and it had taken Jason over a month to get all the major players. “I heard about it a little, from Dick.”

Dick hadn’t given him too many details at the time - Jason had chalked it up to him having a few other things on his mind, but as Colin fills in the gaps, he starts to suspect Dick just didn’t want him going on a rampage. Which he absolutely would have - he still wants to, God. God. All those poor kids, just a stone’s throw from his old neighborhood. And of course the police had done jack shit - Zsasz is practically Black Mask’s pet, he probably paid them off to look the other way, not that most of them need the excuse - and Bruce was gone, and Jason was gone, and Dick was in over his head, and - fuck, it should never have fallen to Damian and Colin.

He waits for the fury to subside a little, not trusting what will come out of his mouth. Dani hums around her fist, blinking at him, and it helps. “Jesus,” he says, finally. “This fucking town.”

Colin’s mouth twists a little. “Yeah. But you were Robin, right? You probably saw worse things.”

Did he? Jason doesn’t remember. He doubts it, though. He can’t imagine he would’ve been satisfied with Bruce’s way of dealing with it.

“I wouldn’t have pulled my stroke, when I was Robin,” he muses. “Probably why Bruce never gave me a sword.”

No, Jason would’ve bisected the fucker. It still has appeal, though he thinks he would lean towards his favorite Sig rifle if he was taking care of it today. Headshots for the henchmen - anyone who signs on to that kind of operation, even in the most menial capacity, doesn’t deserve to breathe. Kneecaps and crotch shots for the spectators, to make sure they couldn’t get away. Gut shots for the kid-wranglers. And Zsasz....it’s tempting to want to draw it out, but Jason can feel the desire leaving him the longer he thinks about it. His imaginative tortures fade into a simple headshot, and even that isn’t satisfying. Fuck. He just can’t seem to hold onto his rage lately, even when he wants to. It’s all being replaced by some kind of anxiety, some kind of tenderness that aches, burning deep into him every time Dani looks at him, or touches him. Every time he thinks of her. Every time he feels Dick watching him with her, all warmth and affection.

Colin bounces her a little, making her laugh. Jason feels his revenge fantasy slip away.

“What’re you reading her?” Colin nods to the book still laying open in Jason’s lap.

Jason looks at it. “Oh, Twelfth Night. Shakespeare,” he adds, recalling that Colin is eleven, and likely not perusing great literature in his free time. “Figure it’s never too early to start her on the classics.”

Colin grins. “That’s cool,” he says. “Does she like it?”

“Beats me,” Jason shrugs.

“Read some?”

Jason raises his eyebrows.

Colin flushes. “Um. I mean, if you want…”

He decides to humor him. What the hell. “Sure, why not. ‘O spirit of love! How quick and fresh art thou, that, notwithstanding in thy capacity, receiveth as the sea.’”

Dani yawns widely, relinquishing her fist in a long string of drool. Jason laughs, and so does Colin. “Maybe jumping the gun a little,” he admits. “I don’t really know what kids are into these days.”

“Me either,” Colin says. “I think she liked it, though. See, she’s just sleepy.”

Jason feels a lump forming in his throat, and swallows hard against it.

“What does it mean? The part you were reading,” Colin asks.

“Um.” Jason doesn’t really know, he’s not exactly a literary scholar, but he’s always liked to work Shakespeare out on his own, finding meaning in the wordplay and running the metaphors through his mind until they line up in a satisfactory way. He doesn’t know if his interpretation is correct, exactly, but: “So this Duke, a guy called Orsino, is saying that he doesn’t want to be in love anymore. He’s talking about love and how everyone thinks it’s this wonderful thing, but the truth is that it actually just makes people miserable.”

Jason pauses, feeling like he just showed way too much of his hand. “Basically, he’s just complaining,” he finishes, uneasy.

Glancing at Colin out of the corner of his eye, he’s relieved to see that he’s occupied with Dani, and not paying attention to Jason at all. Thank fuck. If it’d been anyone else in the house sitting there, he’d be in for some horrible armchair psychology session, and he’d have to book it out the window and not return for several months.

“I think she wants you,” Colin says, as Dani ramps up her fussing. Jason takes her gratefully, holds her to his chest as she rubs her eyes and grumbles her displeasure at being passed around.

“All right, I hear you,” Jason murmurs, gently tugging her fists away from her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, come on. It’s not so bad.” Like he’s one to talk.

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, ever since pursue me, he thinks, rocking her tiny body into a comfortable position. Colin was only holding her for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and Jason was sitting less than five feet away, but he missed her. God, what is happening to him?

“Damian didn’t want to bring her here, at first,” Colin says quietly. “But I think he’s glad that we did. He really likes her, you know.”

Jason doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. It’s sweet, on some level. And he’s well aware that Damian likes her, going by the amount of time he spends hovering in the hallway outside Jason’s room, not to mention the increasingly expensive toys that keep showing up among her things.

He looks down at her, dozing off. “Well, she’s pretty easy to like.”

Colin nods, looking pleased.

“Damian, on the other hand....”

Colin grins. “He’s not so bad.”

He’s really not. Like hell Jason will ever tell him that, though. “You have bizarre taste, kid.”

Colin blushes, hard, and Jason blinks. Well. That’s interesting, isn’t it? Or it will be, in a few years. He makes a note to ask Dick about it, later.

“Are you gonna adopt her?” Colin asks, bringing Jason’s amused thoughts to a screeching halt.

Automatically, he says, “No way.”

Colin looks wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t,” Jason replies. “I’m the last person who should be a parent, trust me.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.”

Doesn’t feel that way either - the thought floats up, unbidden, uninvited. He can’t. “She deserves better,” Jason says, heavily. “Even if….even I could handle it. She deserves better than this family.”

“But your family is - ”

“A death sentence.” He’s being harsh, but if Colin’s gonna be hanging around, he’ll find out for himself soon enough. “It’s fucking cursed, look. I couldn’t do that to any kid, especially her. You should get out too, while you still can.”

Colin looks angry, which surprises him. His hands are balled into fists, and Jason sees a tremor in them, a bulging that immediately sets off alarm bells in his head.

“Kid,” he says sharply. “Colin. If you’re gonna hulk out, take it outside. Alfred will have an honest-to-God stroke if you do it in here.”

A few deep breaths later, Colin looks normal again. “Sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “You’re wrong, though.”

Jason’s temper flares. “No offense, but I think I would know better than you,” he snaps. Dani grumbles sleepily in his arms, and he sighs out in frustration. “Trust me, okay? She’s better off. It never ends well, not in this family. I’m proof of that.”

But Colin shakes his head. “You don’t know,” he says. “My mom said the same thing, when she dropped me off at the orphanage. She gave the nuns a letter - she said I’d be better off with them than with her.”

Jason stills.

“It didn’t matter,” Colin continues. “Scarecrow still got me. Victor Zsasz still got me. Maybe they would have gotten me with her, too. Maybe I wouldn’t have been that much better off with her, but at least I would’ve been with her.” He sniffles, and Jason holds Dani a little tighter.

“I know she loved me.” His voice cracks. “I just wish...I wish I could’ve stayed with her. I wish she would have known that I never would’ve been better off away from her.”

He looks absolutely miserable, pitched forward and rubbing hard at his eyes. Jason is reminded painfully of how young Colin is, closer to Dani’s age than his own. He remembers being Colin’s age and younger, thinking the same thoughts about his own mother. How fiercely he’d guarded her, chased away the cops and the social workers, doing everything in his power not to be separated from her. Not that it mattered, in the end.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Colin, I’m sorry. For the record, I actually kind of get where you’re coming from.”

Colin looks up at him.

“Wish I didn’t, but. That’s life.”

“You should adopt her,” Colin says again, softly.

Jason shakes his head. “Colin…”

“You’ll think about it.”

He exhales. “Sure, I’ll think about it.” Like he’ll be able to think about anything else after this.

“She needs you,” Colin insists stubbornly.

Jason doesn’t reply. He knows on some level Colin is right - Dani does need him right now. She needs someone, at least, someone who can take care of her and protect her. Someone who isn’t afraid to shed blood to keep her safe. Jason doesn’t relish the thought, but he’s certain this won’t end tidily. Mob cases never do. It’ll be messy, and bloody, and Bruce will have a shit fit, and Dick probably will too, and Jason will go back to Crime Alley and Dani will get shipped off to Witness Protection or something, and damn, does that hurt to think about.

He looks over at Colin, still hunched over on himself, vulnerability written into every line of his posture. He’s desperately in need of a hug, or some kind of affection, validation, maybe. Or that’s just Jason projecting, who the fuck knows. If Dick was here, he would know exactly what to do for him. Jason’s at a loss, unable to separate his young self from the damaged kid sitting next to him.

He adjusts his hold on Dani carefully, laying her down flat along his arm, while he works out what to say. Finally, he settles on, “Damian’s lucky to have you.”

Colin sits up a little straighter. He looks like he’s waiting for more, but he’s shit out of luck, because Jason has no idea what else he needs to hear. No idea what he could say that wouldn’t be completely insincere, anyways. We can be your family, Colin. Like hell. Bruce has enough kids lined up waiting to die for him, he’s not about to encourage another one to be turned into cannon fodder for the man’s principles.

“Uh, yeah,” Jason says, after a moment. “That’s all I got.”

Colin smiles wanly. “Thanks, anyways.”

Jason snorts. “Sure.”

“Can I hug you?”

Jason stares. “Can you…what? Me?”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Colin adds, averting his eyes.

Jason can’t even remember the last time someone hugged him. He thinks Roy might’ve, some eight or nine months ago, after they’d narrowly survived a warehouse explosion. Jason’s whole body had been ringing from the blast, so he doesn’t exactly remember the sensation of it. And before that…?

He imagines Dick’s reaction, if he was here. He’d be disappointed in Jason, that’s for sure. Really, Jay? You can’t hug a child? It’s a fair argument, he has to admit. Jason’s fucked up personal space issues don’t really apply to children, or babies, clearly. Colin’s obviously attention-starved, and Jason’s already holding one kid. What’s another, really.

“Okay,” he relents. “Hit me.”

There’s a shuffling motion next to him, and then Colin is hugging his free arm, leaning his head against Jason’s shoulder. Jason can’t quite contain his surprise - it’s weird, as expected, but it’s not dramatically increasing his desire to bolt through the nearest exit like he’d thought it would. It’s a little funny, actually. He’s pretty sure both Bruce and Damian would lose their shit if they could see him right now. Dick, too, most likely, but to his credit, it would be a happy kind of shit-losing. Damian would probably try to gut him.

Are there cameras in the library? Jason can’t remember. He kind of hopes there aren’t, because if anyone else sees this, he will absolutely never live it down.

***

(dick)

“Wait, I think that’s him.” Dick leans forward to peer at Tim’s screen. He points to the familiar looking figure. “That guy. Do you have a clearer shot?”

Tim skips a few photos ahead, and zooms in. “Him?”

“Yes. That’s the guy. Jason said he recognized him from your surveillance files. He was at the club the night we caught Susie Falcone.”

“The fourth night, was it?” Tim asks, innocently.

“Don’t be mean, Timmy.”

“Just clarifying,” Tim grins. Dick raises an eyebrow. “Okay, okay. I don’t have a ton of intel on this guy, he’s really slippery. According to my informant, he goes by Tiberius - some kind of mercenary, Greek or Albanian national. I doubt that’s his real name.”

Dick nods, studying the photographs. Tim continues, “He came over with Intergang as an enforcer, I think. Might’ve been Reynolds’ personal bodyguard.”

“Could explain how Reynolds got taken out,” Dick says thoughtfully. “He’s on the Falcones’ payroll now, but he’s not family. Might be an easy target.”

Tim opens his mouth, about to reply, when there’s a choked-off sound of fury from the Batcave below them.

“Was that Damian? He’s up already?” Dick asks, glancing down towards Bruce’s computer. He hops over the ramp to see what the fuss is about. Tim follows close behind.

“Everything okay?” Dick asks, approaching the wall of screens. There’s nothing that jumps out at him as being particularly alarming; Bruce is looking at DNA analyses, and Damian is looking at the Manor surveillance, tapping furiously at his ear.

“Todd!” he hisses. “What do you think you’re doing? Colin is my friend!”

“Robin,” Oracle’s voice comes through the speaker. “No names on the comms. And Hood isn’t wearing his earpiece, so you’ll have to tell him in person.” She sounds amused. “Oracle out.”

Damian swears.

“Holy shit,” Tim says faintly. “Look at them.”

The screen that all the Manor surveillance feeds run to is showing just one room - the library, of all places, but Dick vaguely recalls it being some kind of sanctuary to Jason, years and years ago. It makes sense that he’d end up back there, and it makes sense that he’d have Dani with him. What Dick doesn’t expect to see is little Colin Wilkes, all five feet and change of him, snuggled up to Jason’s side and hugging him, wrapped around his arm like a gangly koala. Dick can’t help but notice that Jason’s bicep is about as big around as Colin’s head, which is certainly...something. He’s not quite ready to classify how he feels about that, so he refocuses on the hug itself, which is nothing short of charming.

Damian grinds his teeth audibly. “It’s still going.”

“Oh, man.” Dick can’t help the grin he feels creeping up the sides of his face. “Bruce, are you seeing this?”

“I am,” Bruce says, stiffly. He looks like he’s in pain. Dick fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“What’s wrong with you? Look how sweet they are!” he exclaims, gesturing. It’s adorable.

“It is not sweet,” Damian snarls, whirling on him. “Todd is a corruptive influence, and Colin is young and impressionable! Where is your concern for him?”

Tim coughs, and it sounds a little bit like “jealous”. Surprisingly, this does not diffuse Damian’s indignation.

“I don’t get it,” Dick says, stepping between them quickly to block Damian’s spinning kick. “I thought you and Jason were fine, Damian. You’ve been spending enough time in our - in his room lately. Where’s this coming from?”

“Incredibly, I don’t feel as concerned about Todd recruiting an infant onto the path of lawlessness,” Damian retorts. “Colin lacks paternal guidance in his life, as you know. Todd clearly senses it.”

“Jason is very paternal these days,” Tim agrees.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a hug,” Dick says in exasperation. “No one’s recruiting anyone, Damian. And look, it’s over. Your friend is just a hugger, that’s all.”

“I must agree with Master Richard,” Alfred says from behind them. “Having been the recipient of many such embraces from young Master Colin myself.”

“See? I’ve gotten hugs from him too,” Dick tells Damian. “And I know you have, so don’t bother denying it. He’s probably gearing up the courage to get one from Bruce one of these days.”

Bruce looks slightly alarmed by the prospect. “He is?”

Damian looks conflicted. “He is?”

Dick casts his eyes heavenward. “Colin, I’m so sorry.”

Before he can say anything else, the Cave door opens below them, and Duke’s bike comes shooting in, whipping around into its parking spot in a move that would send Dick flying over the handlebars. Bruce takes about half a second to look impressed, and then clears the main screen to pull up their intel on the Falcone case.

“What’s up, guys,” Duke calls, pulling off his helmet and jogging up the steps. “I’ve got news. Where’s Jason?”

“Being hugged, in the library,” Dick tells him. “You just missed it.”

Duke looks nonplussed. “Damn. Wait, that’s not some kind of weird euphemism, is it? If it is, I don’t want to know.”

“It most certainly is not,” Damian says venomously.

“Cool. I tried to get him on the comm, but he didn’t respond. Should I go get him? He’ll want to hear this.”

“Damian will get him,” Bruce says.

Damian is…already on the elevator. Dick spares a thought for Jason. At least he’s holding Dani, so Damian won’t attack him outright.

“Your news?” Bruce prompts.

“Right,” Duke nods. “I’ve been all over City Hall records, and spent yesterday afternoon getting intel in the East End. I’ve got names and faces of most of the major players in this. They’re trying hard to front some distant nephew of Carmine Falcone as the head of the whole operation, but it wasn’t quite adding up. You said the new Falcone boss is a woman, right?” he asks Tim.

Tim nods affirmatively.

Duke looks triumphant. “Then I know who she is.”

***

#jaydick #in which there is so much plot all to justify the existence of 1 baby #low key this fic is my maternal love letter to colin wilkes #i miss him dc bring him back #my fics #heartlandverse

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passivenovember · 4 years ago

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@liglitterbug asked:

Has anyone asked for 53? (crawling through your window to go get ice cream) yet? Because that screams Harringrove to me and I would LOVE to see your take on it, please! (if you have time/inspiration) <3

a Friend for the End of the World.

Billy’s, like. Halfway through Little Women when Max knocks on his door, and. Okay. It’s not like he slammed his way through the house with a fire itching under his skin and believed for even a second, that.

The world could be his. Just for while.

He settles roughly, at first, into the Alcott novel. Like a brick hitting the bottom of the sea--slowly, heavy and thick with the inertia of words that ignite something that feels.

Pink.

Inside his belly. Billy doesn’t have the wherewithal to make sense of it so he, just. Clamps his eyebrows around the liquid sunshine in his veins and loses himself in the story.

After Starcourt the world ends, but.

It doesn’t sound like the poems said it would. The bang and the whimper and the conclusion that, after things catch on fire and smoke rises with the sun, silence will fall over the Earth.

Billy remembers waiting for Hawkins to sleep.

Watching Max and Mrs. Byers and. Steve. Landslide all around them to fix what had been swept away by a misjudgment in the Earth’s ability to keep itself from cracking open.

And Billy, he feels like an exposed wire. The center of the universe molding itself around the breath before the curtain falls and the audience leaves, and.

He waits for night to fall.

It never does. The overture is played out of tune, again and again, and the world turns faster than before, the sounds leak from everywhere. All at once, and.

Billy feels. Doesn’t know how to...

It’s never as simple as asking for silence. For peace. When his mind makes too much noise, or. When he can’t get the sound of Neil coughing up smoke to stop bouncing off the walls.

The ambiance that comes with. Sharing space, sharing your life with someone, used to be Billy’s favorite in all the world. Back when the incandescence of his mother folding laundry could be heard through the crack in his door while pirate ships bled past the boundary of the page and took him somewhere new.

Billy likes to think of his life as intermissions between lovers. Before Starcourt he was asleep and now. He’s never waking up again.

Max reading to El, or.

Susan making dinner.

Even Neil flipping through the channels, it. Reminds him of burning cities.

Billy wears earmuffs. Everywhere. The ones that block out the sounds of the earth crying, but. Do nothing at all for the reprise burying itself in his bones.

Steve brought them to the hospital when Billy wouldn’t stop asking about the end of the world.

So Max knocks on the door.

And Billy thought he made himself clear. With the nonverbal shit, like. Slamming the front door open and brushing past the dinner table and slamming his door shut.

Locking himself in. He thought it was crystal clear, that. You can’t keep shoveling dirt into the grave without stopping to pray for rain. She pounds on the door again but it’s too loud. Always too much.

“What, Max?” And his voice is softer, these days. To balance out the symphony playing all around him.

“Steve’s here.” She says, and.

The earmuffs don’t actually block anything out. Billy can hear the battery die in the car down the street, and. He can hear Max shuffling on the other side of the door one-two-three, one-two-one, like a waltz. A tiny dancer.

She has the most. Distinct footprints in the sand. Billy held onto that when he was bleeding on the floor.

He pads over to the door and tugs it open, wincing at the sharp sting of.

Soundsoundsound

Hammering against the walls in his head. Billy squints, shielding his eyes. To block the noise as if it were rain.

“Tell him I’m not home.”

“Your car’s in the driveway, dumb dumb.”

“Well, tell him I’m busy.” Billy moves to close the door, but. Max sticks her foot in the jam.

Folds her arms and gives him this look, like. He’s supposed to have a big realization about something. About the way he’s acting. Hiding in his room all the time with the blinds pulled taught against the sun.

You’re acting weird.

He knows. He thinks it’s okay.

Billy shrugs like. Spit it the fuck out. And Max rolls her eyes. Billy can hear the shift of muscle, he can--

“Too busy to see Steve?” She says.

And okay.

Billy picks up on why that might be weird. He shrugs again--there’s a throbbing, like. The beat of a drum. Just outside, on the lawn, or right at the back of his skull.

Billy can’t tell and he doesn’t want to know, so.

The door falls shut once more.

Being with Steve is like getting the instruments to play a song instead of just. Wailing out of tune for the audience to throw tomatoes.

He makes everything quiet. Just by running his fingers through Billy’s hair the world is made new. Starts over with a whimper instead of the rest, but.

Sometimes Billy can’t breathe.

Or his eyes will close when they’re wide open, and he can’t see anything but snow twirling against a gray sky, or like.

Veins turning black and smoky with rot. Disease and Ice. Barren fields the end--

Steve says the Earth has healed itself once more. That the cracks have been mended, and the ground isn’t coming apart under their feet.

So it’s summer.

That’s what Steve says. “It’s summer, baby.” let’s go to the lake.

Billy looks up from his book. Fifty pages left in Little Women--at least an entire afternoon, once he picks up the second, and. “You want to go to the lake?”

Steve sort of. Rolls onto his side, next to Billy on the quilt Mrs. Harrington made when he was in the hospital. He looks up to the sky, the clouds and the sun.

Steve has a daisy between his fingers. Billy doesn’t know where it came from, but then Steve is smiling. All soft, like. A stretch of grass just before sunset. He sticks the daisy between the pages of Billy’s book, and. Closes it., takes it away. He sits criss-cross-applesauce until his knees are pressed against Billy’s leg.

Steve tugs the headphones off, so.

The sun hits Billy. Burns every part of him.

“You seem like you need water.” Steve says.

And he is the only person who makes the Earth contract, So Billy tucks his hair behind his ears with shaky fingers. Keeps his hands there, holding his own face until things quiet down.

He breathes in, sharp and then slow, when the tears start to fall. When Steve reminds him to be gentle with yourself, baby. That’s it.

It takes five minutes for Billy to figure it out.

He needs water, like. A flower whose roots have gone frail. Or a boy who longs for home. Billy opens his eyes to Steve watching him, counting breaths on the watch he had made special.

For Billy, and his.

Bullshit. The panic attacks and the sensory bullshit, and. It’s summer. Billy feels the air get choked from his lungs when Steve takes his pulse, because.

“You go.” He whispers.

Steve looks up from the watch and then back down again. “You still have ten more breaths, come on.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ten more big ones, okay. Just to be safe.”

“Steve, I’m fine.” Billy smacks the watch down. Away, so. He can. Think. Billy scrubs at his face just the wrong side of too hard. Too abrasive, and there’s a drum beating somewhere down the hill when Steve tries to grab his wrist.

Again, to. Play nurse Maid. Steve kisses his palm once--twice, and.

“It’s summer.” Billy says.

Steve winks. “Yeah, it’s beautiful.”

It. Is, Billy thinks. With the smell of Lilac and Honeysuckle. Afternoons that give way to skies full of fireflies and Steve’s hair turning blonde in the afternoon light, it looks. Like a work art, like. A page from a book.

His favorite in all the world. Billy tugs his hand away from Steve’s lips, tucks his hair behind his ears again, and. Steve looks worried.

Always worried, like. He’s waiting Billy will snap in two.

“I want you to go to the lake.” He says. Because he’s tired of seeing that look.

Steve blinks wide, owlish eyes at him. “I want us to go, Bills, that’s why--”

Billy shakes his head. Suddenly the drum falls. Silent. Steve sits frozen, suspended in time and space while the symphonies play out of tune.

“You aren’t my doctor.” Billy says.

“I know--”

“And you aren’t my therapist.”

He expects Steve to. Say something, or stop looking like the ground is splitting open between them, when Billy charges on.

“Or my housekeeper, or any of that shit, Steve. You’re. A twenty year old boy, you should be. Out with your friends for the fourth of July not taking care of your invalid partner who can’t make it through the day without breaking down in tears.”

“I don’t want to be with anyone else.” Steve says, and.

It means now. And it means always.

Billy stands to grab his book.

He leaves his earmuffs on the blanket in the grass.

Thinks about calling and. Begging Steve to bring them over, drop them off because his head is spiraling rock formations and earthquakes let loose in the heartland.

After dinner it hurts.

When the fireworks start to explode. Bright light and heat burning a wound into his chest, or a breaking his bones to crumbling dust. Each explosion is like child birth and pulled teeth and gunshot wounds playing a libretto behind his right eyebrow. He tries to read but the snow falls all around him--

“Hey dipshit, we’re going to watch the--”

Billy doesn’t try to hide the tears, and.

Max doesn’t bring them up. She presses an ice pack to his forehead and wonders if. She should call Steve. Call him home.

Billy wants to say yes.

Wants to call Steve himself, but. “Go have fun, kid.”

And the wound only grows.

He has four pillows on his head when the window slides open. That’s why he doesn’t hear the scattered footfall until there’s a weight on his bed, and a pair of hands rubbing his back.

One hot, one cold.

He frowns. “Hands are cold as dick.”

Steve chuckles, fingers digging into the muscle of Billy’s neck in a way that has him soft. Huffing against the sheets. “Sorry, I brought Ice cream.”

Billy peeks out from under his fortress to Steve peppering kisses along the base of his skull.

“What time is it?” He grumbles.

“8:30. Go to sleep.” Steve muffles against Billy’s hair, and.

“How come you’re here?”

Steve holds out the earmuffs, cherub face scruffy and apologetic and so, so beautiful. “Sorry it took so long, I wanted to give you space, you seemed like. You needed space.”

He pulls the blanket up around Billy’s shoulders, even as he worms around to sit up. Get a better look, and. Apologize.

“Look, Stevie--”

“You shouldn’t be sitting with a migraine like that,” He says firmly. “Doc says three glasses of water, two Tylenol, and--”

“Rest, yeah, I.” Billy feels like smiling. For the first time in days, he. Wants to smile. “Thank you.”

Steve nods. Like he’s disappointed. Eyebrows wrinkling as he fiddles with the cracked leather headband.

Billy looks at the pint of cherry crunch leaking a puddle onto the mattress. “So you brought ice cream, huh?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, I mean. What else do you bring after a break up?”

And.

Billy feels like shit. “Steve I didn’t mean that--”

“I know.” He says. Soft, like a confession. “I’ll always dream of you, you know that?” Billy’s heart kicks into overdrive when Steve leans forward, slipping the earmuffs against his head, and.

Putting the world to sleep.

#harringrove #aah I wrote this in literally two hours #I love u sm cherr #Happy new year!#tw: sensory overload

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hope-faith-love-abide · 4 years ago

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I haven’t been keeping up with Heartland season 14 updates the past few months, but I decided to catch up on some of it since the premiere date is coming up and the teaser trailer was released recently. And I noticed some interesting speculation about what might happen in the new season, and I have...a lot of thoughts about it, haha. I think I need to write it out in order to really sort out my thoughts and feelings on it, but I think it might get kinda long since it’s pretty major, so I’m going to put it under a cut.

[NOTE: This post was written approximately a week or so ago, and I’ve been just sitting on it trying to decide if I wanna post or not. But having watched the full trailer for Season 14 now...I’m like 95% certain that this seems to be the route that the season is going. Still have about 5% doubt because trailers can be misleading and I could just be reading into it. We won’t really know for sure until we see the first episode, and I’m so torn between being somewhat excited just because I want to know for certain and nervous because I know I will still be sad if it’s true.

Either way, I wanted to get my thoughts down before the season premieres so here it is I guess lol]

So...it’s actually possible that Ty might die/be dead when this season begins? Which is utterly bizarre to think about because I never would have considered this to be an actual possible situation for the show. Even when there was that summary that leaked earlier this year, I still didn’t think it was a real possibility. I thought for certain that was fake, because this is Heartland. It’s one thing for a side character to disappear from the show or to be killed off, but a main character? A main character can be hurt, injured, and on the verge of death, but they won’t actually die. Especially not a character who is in one of the two major ships on the show.

Until now?

Of course, if this does happen, I don’t think it’s something anyone on the show wanted, not even the writers. In an ideal world where every actor wanted to be in every episode of the show, I imagine they’d be perfectly happy continuing to write that story.

But in cases where an actor no longer wants to be a main character on the show -- well, obviously I can’t say definitively that this is the case, because as far as I know he has never specifically said this in an interview, but from an outsider’s/fan’s perspective, it feels like that is a possibility. I don’t know the reasons behind it though, and I’m not going to go that far into speculation.

But let’s go with this scenario hypothetically. Because it does sometimes happen with television shows, where an actor for one reason or another no longer will be part of a show.

What do you do with that character?

The character could be recast, I suppose, but I don’t think that would work in a show like Heartland. How would we explain in-universe why Ty suddenly looks different when everyone else is still the same? Even if you can find an actor that looks similar enough, we know what Ty looks like after 13 seasons, and I don’t think anyone would be fooled into thinking it’s the same guy. I guess it could be explained with the trope that he got into such a bad accident that they had to reconstruct his face, but that feels cheap and too much like a soap opera.

So that’s a no.

The character could be written out in other ways. Ty could just be off screen somewhere...all the time. He’s at the clinic, he’s spending the day with Lyndy, he’s at a vet conference, he’s gone back to save wolves from poachers again, he’s gone back to Mongolia for the third/fourth/fifth/ten billionth time.

That, honestly, would be frustrating. It’s maybe the least painful short term option, but long term, it’s not very enjoyable. It’s like when important side characters suddenly disappear from the show, occasionally mentioned but never seen on screen again, only 10 times worse.

Or he could be written off by...y’know, breaking up him and Amy. Which, frankly, is the absolute worst option in my opinion. It would immediately, retroactively, destroy the entire show, past, present, and future. Ty and Amy aren’t the only important part of the show, but they are a major part of it. The show has spent 13 seasons building up this relationship (with obvious ups and downs throughout, but I’m not focused on analyzing their whole relationship in this post), so to suddenly turn around and have them divorce would be an absolute trainwreck.

What would even be the reason? Even with some of my disagreements in the writing of certain decisions the characters have made (*coughtheMongoliaplotcough*), I don’t think those are reasons enough for these two characters to break up over it. So something new would have to be invented, and it would likely be something completely ridiculous and out-of-character for them both and also likely ruin their character development from past seasons.

Which leads us to yet another option: Ty dying. A year ago this was something I never would have considered for the actual show (or any of those other options, frankly). It could be interesting to explore in a fanfic, but on the show? No way.

But...things change. Reality sometimes gets in the way of a television show’s ideal storyline, which is one of the difficulties of the medium, especially a live action one. And just because one actor hypothetically doesn’t want to be on the show anymore doesn’t mean it should be derailed for all the other actors and crew who are on board.

So you get rid of the character. It isn’t hard to do. Probably the hardest part will be the very first episode when it’s revealed to the audience. How did it happen? Did it happen before the season begins, or does it happen in the first episode? Or if it happened before, do we get any flashbacks?

Is it due to complications from the gunshot at the end of season 13? A freak car/motorcycle accident? An accident during a vet call? Depending on what it is and the context of it, it can be a strong final note on the kind of person Ty has become. If during a vet call/because of an animal, it happens while he’s doing what he loves, taking care of animals. If from the end of S13, it’s from him protecting his wife. If a car accident, maybe he was going to pick up Lyndy to spend time with her after leaving a vet call, because he’s a loving father. All of those are inline with Ty’s character and still support the growth that he’s had from the first episode to now.

And then there’s all the story potential and character growth that it opens up for all the other characters. Because this is something that majorly impacts the entire family. And the description of season 14 that was put out does talk about a “life-changing challenge,” particularly for Amy for obvious reasons.

How does she deal with losing her husband? They’ve been together for so long, not just as romantic interests but as best friends. What does her life look like without him in it? How does this affect her work? Is her work with horses a comfort for her, or does it remind her too much of him? How does she guide Lyndy through this?

And then the rest of the family. How does Jack deal with his loss? Considering Ty became like a son to him and “officially” joins the family when he marries Amy, how does it affect Jack to lose him? Especially if it was in something like a car accident, similar to Marion. How does it affect Jack and Lisa’s relationship?

Not to mention Lily, and Lou, and Georgie, and Tim, and Caleb, and Scott, and Cass. Ty was a huge part of all their lives, so this will affect them in major ways too.

Again, it’s not ideal. But I do feel like this option provides the best story opportunities without ruining the characters in the process the way certain other choices would.

And, of course, this is all purely speculation. We won’t really know what’s going to happen until the season actually airs, and it’s entirely possible that the “life-changing challenge” will be something completely different, and Ty will be fine. And if so, that’s okay with me.

But if Ty is gone...I think I could learn to be okay with it. Though it does still depend on how they handle it. Like if everyone’s sad about it for one or two episodes, but then everyone immediately moves on and everything’s fine, then I wouldn’t be happy with that. We don’t need a whole season of everyone crying all the time, but we also don’t need this to be something that’s swept under the rug. We, the audience, will need time to grieve along with the characters. Because this is a main character that we could be losing here, not just a minor side character like Mr. Hanley for example. So I hope we get to see all of the characters going through the stages of grief and processing their loss in their own ways throughout the season.

Anyway, it was nice to write through my thoughts on this. It’s kinda funny thinking about how not that long ago, I would’ve been completely 100% against this idea ever happening in the show, but now I’m like almost on-board with it. Maybe it’s the effect of 2020 or something lol

#brigette's rambles #heartland

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kuriboo · 4 years ago

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Hugsaku 2021

Day 1 - Temperature | Locked in a room and you can’t leave until you hug

Here’s an actual day 1 entry using day 1 prompts... one is a 2021 prompt, and one is a 2019 prompt! This is all one story using prompts from each day for each part, but this isn’t the first part. The first part sort of sets the scene... Yusaku ends up in Heartland with no idea of how he got there or how to get home, and Yuma commits to helping Yusaku get home.

I’m also posting these on ao3; I’ll post a link in the notes! I hope you enjoy!

Yuma wasn't exaggerating when he described this to be a sleepover. The second they reached his house, Yuma was already pulling Yusaku into his bedroom. Yuma already had a sleeping bag for guests stashed in his room, apparently, and he opened it up and laid it out with enough ease that Yusaku was pretty sure that Yuma had guests over overnight constantly. This suspicion would later be confirmed by how little Yuma’s family cared that Yuma had brought someone to stay overnight without asking.

The entire time, Yuma rarely ever stopped talking.

“-and she doesn't really like dueling, either. She gets so mad when she knows I've been dueling. So I bet you two will get along great!"

“Uh huh.” Yusaku wasn't so sure he’d get along well with Yuma’s older sister just because they had one thing in common, but he didn't really feel like arguing against it.

Yuma made sure Yusaku had something to eat for dinner and soon the two of them were getting ready for bed. Yusaku obviously had no pajamas with him, and apparently just sleeping in his clothes wasn't an option, so Yuma got his sister to lend Yusaku some pajamas. This was unideal in every way but Yuna was smaller than Yusaku so there was no other choice.

"It'd be fun to stay up all night talking , but you should probably rest so we can figure out how to get you home. Plus, Grandma always makes sure I'm actually asleep during the night, and I really don't want to get in trouble again."

That was fine by Yusaku. He wasn't used to actually resting much, but talking all night with anyone was really unappealing. Yusaku had an easier time falling asleep than he thought he would. He slept dreamlessly that night.

He woke up feeling worse than he felt before falling asleep. His whole body ached worse than sleeping on the floor would cause. His throat was sore and he had a horrible headache. And he was freezing.

Yusaku curled up as much as he could in the sleeping bag to try to warm up, but he felt like care was outside in the middle of a snowstorm.

"Are you okay?" Yuma peeked over at Yusaku from his bed. "You look really pale."

Yusaku shook his head. "I'm fine." He tried to get up from the sleeping bag, but just sitting up knocked the wind out of him. He was drenched in sweat. Catching his breath felt impossible.

Yuma frowned. "I don't believe you." He jumped out of bed with an ease Yusaku envied. "I'll be right back.” While Yuma was gone, Yusaku took a slow, deep breath. That helped but he was still freezing. He'd at least be warmer in his school uniform, but he didn't see his clothes anywhere. Not in Yuma’s room, anyway. Yuma said he'd be right back, so Yusaku figured he might as well wait where he was.

He didn't have to wait long. "Grandma says your clothes will be clean soon,” Yuma said as he reentered the room. He was holding something in his hand Yusaku recognized as a thermometer. “She also says you better take your temperature.”

Yusaku took the thermometer Yuma handed him and shoved it in his ear to take his temperature. Then he had to wait to hear a beep. When the thermometer beeped, he took it out and read the number it said out loud. He couldn't remember off the top of his head what the number was supposed to be, but this was probably close, right?

The look on Yuma’s face suggested that his internal body temperature was possibly supposed to be a different number. He took the thermometer back from Yusaku, and left his bedroom at top speed. He was gone longer this time. When Yuma returned, he brought more things with him: a couple of blankets, a mug full of soup.

“So, you're under strict orders to rest until you feel better. At least until your fever goes down, anyway. You looked cold, so I grabbed blankets. That's my sleeping bag for warmer weather... my warmer sleeping bag's been packed away for months. I'm not sure where we put it... Also, my grandma made you soup. She wasn't some what you like or what you can or can't have so she made you noodle soup? If you need something else she can make it but she won't let you get away with not eating."

Bundled up under the blankets, Yusaku felt a litle warner, which made a world of difference, but he was still pretty cold. The soup was good, though. Easy on the stomach and refreshing. After he finished it, Yuma replaced the soup mug with a glass of water and sat on the floor next to Yusaku.

“We’ll figure out how to get you home when you're better," Yuma told him. "I promise."

Yusaku nodded. As much as he wanted to get out of here and back to his apartment, he was starting to accept the fact that he wouldn't make it far outside Yuma’s house. He could hear Kolter in his head telling him to take the day off and rest for once.

“Astral still wants to know how you resisted the Number," Yuma went on. “And I'm kinda curious, too, since no one’s ever given up a Number to us without dueling for it before? Astral's current theory is that you're from another world, or something. Astral's from another world, you know. You don't look weird, like Astral does, but I guess it's still possible.”

("Human beings are the ones that look odd to me, Yuma.")

Yusaku's headache got worse, like someone was pounding on his head with a hammer. Was that what happened? Was Yusaku somehow sent to another world? It didn't seem all that different from the world he knew, but appearances could be deceiving.

"I don't know," was all Yusaku could say. "You said that card was trying to possess me? I felt strange after I picked the card up. Heavy and angry over...” Anger was something Yusaku was familiar with, it had been lurking just under the surface for years, but it always had a purpose, a reason. The Number in his hand, Yuma warning him not to pick it up, Yusaku wasn't sure why he had felt so angry then. He’d felt a strong desire to keep the card. “It felt like the card wanted me to keep it." But Yusaku only dueled for good reason. "But I don't like dueling. If I needed to duel people to keep it, I didn't want it. Now I want it even less." Getting possessed by a card was far from ideal.

"Well, Astral say for now we won't throw out that theory,” Yuma said, "For all we know , maybe it's just because you don't wanna duel. But we shouldn't worry about it right now. We gotta get you healthy first."

As adamant as Yuma was that Yusalav needed to rest, he sure had no intention of letting Yusaku actually rest. He kept flitting from one topic to the next. He tried to ask Yusaku about why he didn't like to duel. But Yusaku refused to answer, and apparently Astral ended up telling Yuma to drop it. Yuma asked Yusaku about his school and home, complained about a test he'd had to take the other day, and rambled about his friends. In the middle of talking about his friends, Yuma stopped talking for the first time in a while. Yusaku had begun to wonder if Yuma actually needed to breathe while talking or not. In some ways, Yuma reminded Yusaku of what a younger Shima might be like.

Yuma reached up to hold his perdent in his hands " My dad gave me this key. It's what connects Astral and me now, but before we met it always helped me when I

wasn't feeling so hot.” Yuma took the pendant, the key, off from around his neck and placed it on the blanket next to Yusaku. " Maybe it can help you, too.”

Yusaku spent a long time laying there , listening to Yuma talk. Once in a while the pain in his head would throb. He never complained, but Yuma seemed to notice each time and would push Yusaku’s cup of water closer to him with a frown.

(“Yuma, something strange is going on. Have you noticed it?")

Yusaku didn't even remember falling asleep. But the next thing he knew, he was waking up. Yuma’s face was the only thing in his field of vision between him and the ceiling.

"Hey,Yusaku, guess what?” Yuma was grinning. He held a thermometer in front of Yusaku’s face so he could see the reading; it was a different thermometer than before, it looked like it worked on the forehead. "Your fever's gone!"

Yusaku blinked, trying to stay awake. He did feel better than before. That headache was still there, but the rest of his aches and pains were gone, and he no longer felt like he was freezing to death.

“Good, Now I can figure out how to get home."

“Before we start that, though, there's one little test we gotta do to make sure you're really better," Yuma said.

"And what's that?" Yusaku asked.

“The hug test!" Yuma spread his arms wide. “If you're feeling better, then you're feeling up for a hug!"

"And if I refuse?"

“Then you have to stay here all day.” Yuma stuck his tongue out. "I won't let you leave.”

Sometimes Yuma reminded Yusaku of Shima, but at other times like this, he reminded Yusaku more of Ai. "...Fine."

As Yusaku stood up, Yuma held his arms wide open to pull Yusaku into a big hug. Yusaku awkwardly rested his arms loosely around Yuma’s shoulders.

#hugsaku #hugsaku2021 #yugioh zexal #yugioh vrains #tater writes

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palmtreepalmtree · 5 years ago

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Alright, friends and enemies. I’m back with the most recent edition of The Worst Movie on Netflix Right Now™.

Tonight, we’re gonna talk about a little movie called Roped.

I’d love to say that you can learn everything you need to know about this movie from its one-sheet, but naw. I mean, you look up you see a cowboy and a cowgirl kissin’ in the rain. Nothing like a little ranching love, right?

Yeah, no. The premise of this movie is that a rodeo rolls into a small Northern California town where it immediately faces opposition from the animal-rights progressives who don’t want that kind of cruelty-for-entertainment in their town.

The main characters are young rodeo rider Colton, played by legitimate hottie Josh Swickard, and pre-frosh at UC Santa Cruz Tracy, played by....

...Lauren Swickard? Yeah. Looks like the two stars of this little film got married last year. She was originally credited on the production as ‘Lorynn York’, but she’s making a change. And you know, what? Good on you, Lauren. You’re a good looking couple and I wish you both many happy returns.

And now I’m going to insult your very fine work in this here production of Roped.

So Tracy wants to be a lawyer and is entering a 6-year program at UC Santa Cruz to get her law degree fast (Is this even a thing? Never heard of it). But in her last summer in her small hometown (somewhere in Sonoma, I believe), the rodeo has come into town. Only thing is her town councilman dad (played by Casper Van Dien, helllllloooo daddy), is a passionate vegetarian and thinks the rodeo should leave.

That’s it. That’s the conflict. It’s a cheap-ass reverse version of Footloose, where the preacher’s councilman’s daughter just wants to go to the rodeo and eat a damn cheeseburger but her father won’t let her because of his values.

I gotta tell you folks, the biggest problem with this movie is that it’s fucking boring. There is no meaningful conflict here. Yeah, her dad gets mad when he catches her doing various shocking things like sneaking in a half hour past her 12:30 curfew. But Tracy and Colton are both adults and there is nothing stopping them from having a summer fling.

A summer fling that involves nothing more than consensual kissing---but only once Tracy has ended things with her asshole high school boyfriend. He’s careful to make sure not to kiss her before then. Because that would be morally wrong. “Love is worth the risk”? What fucking risk? Everything in this movie is set up to be so perfectly honorable and polite that there’s nothing interesting going on. The stakes are so low, I started to wonder if this was a movie or just a Ken Burns’ documentary about America’s heartland.

But then I remembered. Oh yeah. If this was a documentary, there would be a hell of a lot more Jesus in this movie.

And that’s the thing that just really sucks about Roped. It’s bullshit. It presents a world in which the animal-loving townspeople are so closed-minded they can’t see the beauty and value of the rodeo. They’ve lost touch with the history of the rodeo. And they don’t know rodeo people, because if they did, they would understand how well rodeo people value the animals and how well treated and cared for the animals are.

Now look, I don’t know shit about animal treatment and the rodeo. I’m not wading into that business here. But I have been to two rodeos in the last ten years, including a fairly recent one in Yuma, Arizona. And if there is one thing this movie gets plain wrong is that no one at this fictional rodeo ever talks about Jesus. And that matters.

Consider how a Christian movie review site describes the themes in Roped:

“ROPED has a strong moral worldview where the rodeo cowboys overcome the Romantic, politically correct, progressive, environmentalist worldview of the townspeople led by Tracy’s vegetarian father. The cowboys show the closed-minded progressives how the cowboys actually take care of and love the rodeo animals. The movie also extols family and thankfulness.”

And you know what? That’s an accurate description of the film.

But if the politically correct progressives are the closed-minded ones, does that mean the rodeo cowboys are open and accepting of all peoples? Is that what we’re supposed to take away here?

If so, that’s a fucking fantasy. And a delusional one at best.

I mentioned having been to a rodeo recently, because the one I attended opened with the emcee announcing to the crowd that there are people in this country who want to take away religious freedom and take away their right to worship god, but there at the rodeo, they would never stop worshiping our lord and savior Jesus Christ, and god bless the rodeo and god bless the United States of America. The crowd uproariously applauded.

Now I have no problem with opening an event with an invocation or prayer. It can be a meaningful and thoughtful moment. It can invite all people into a moment of welcoming and thoughtfulness. But it’s quite another to begin an event with a declaration that your right to worship Jesus is under attack, and to equate loving god with being a patriot. As an atheist and a Jewish person who does not accept Jesus into my heart, I felt so uncomfortable, I felt like I should leave.

And that’s the problem with so many of these small town fantasy movies. They present these smalls towns as loving and caring communities. People who look out for each other in a way that people don’t do in the big city. People connected by bonds to the land and this small town life. And sometimes they mention God.

But they don’t talk about Jesus. Not the way real people in the United States talk about Jesus. So often, real people in these small towns talk about Jesus in a way that excludes all others from that warm circle of welcoming that they feel so proud of.

This is not everyone. It’s not. I don’t want anyone to walk away from this post thinking that I dislike Christians. I do not. I actually think there can be something valuable in any religion and especially in the communities built around them. But those communities have to be open to all and they have to be respectful of those who are different.

And for this movie to thematically accuse its progressives of being closed-minded without fully and accurately representing the way that rodeo culture can also be closed-minded makes this film doubly reprehensible. Not only is it boring and bad, its moral superiority is unearned bullshit. And for that, it is The Worst Movie on Netflix Right Now™.

But hey, at least Christian film reviewers and profane atheist film reviewers can agree on some things:

That said, ROPED is a lackluster romantic drama that doesn’t evoke any emotion in the audience other than making viewers want to watch something else.

Giiiiiiiiiiiirl, same.

#the worst movie on netflix right now #ptpt reviews #moral superiority is fucking useless

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notapaladin · 3 years ago

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so say you’ll stay with me tonight (redux)

Hey, it’s ANOTHER fic I couldn’t leave alone because I wasn’t satisfied! This one fits the vibe I was going for better and is also like 2k words longer. In which Acatl has a bad day, but Teomitl walks him home and his night is so much better.

Original version here.

Also on AO3.

Tizoc is—regrettably—still Emperor today. Acatl’s trying very hard not to let it bother him, but it’s hard not to when the man has summoned all three High Priests and the master engineers to discuss his plans for the grand new renovation of the Great Temple currently underway. The renovation which, yes, is likely necessary, but not now. Not yet. It’s only been a year and a half since the plague. He meets Acamapichtli and Quenami’s gazes sidelong and knows they know it too.

Not that they say anything, of course. Cowards. Cowards and fools. Acatl shifts on his mat, calves aching, and grinds his teeth. (He wishes he were braver.)

They’re arrayed around a series of blueprints, some of them dating back to the very first iteration of the Great Temple. Wards and glyphs have been drawn in the corners of the later ones—the High Priests’ predecessors having planned ahead for their successors—but the oldest ones have no such guidelines. If those are damaged, they’ll have to use their best judgement. Or, more likely, the contents of the Temple archives which Quenami keeps under wards so heavy they give Acatl a nosebleed. The engineers don’t care about any of that; their job is solely to satisfy the Revered Speaker. One of them is currently leaning over a rendition of the current temple, gesturing to make his point. “Of course, my lord, if you wish the most dazzling effect for the end pieces it would be best to place the support beams for the underlying structure here and here, but...”

Tizoc’s eyes narrow. “But?”

“Ah. It may be less structurally sound. Not that it would collapse immediately, you understand, but in ten or fifteen years’ time...”

“Bah! I’ll handle it then. We can always remake it.”

Or you’ll leave it for your successor to handle? You’ll make Teomitl deal with this? His jaw tightens.

“As you wish, my lord. Now, that will require the scaffolding poles to be driven into the previous layer—yes, Acatl-tzin?”

He must have made an involuntary noise. Swallowing back the first three or four protestations that come to mind (there are so many wards written and carved into that layer which would have to be dismantled completely and the gods only know if they’re dependent on older ones, if even a single brick of Coyolxauhqui’s prison is exposed to moonlight all the hearts’ blood in the world won’t keep them safe), he says...

Nothing. He says nothing. Tizoc—he won’t distinguish the man with a -tzin, not anymore, not after what he did to Tlaloc’s clergy—is studying him like a particularly disgusting bug, and he thinks of his own priests and loses all his nerve. He shakes his head silently.

The engineers continue. Quenami, naturally, has plenty of suggestions. Yes, those dimensions for the new foundation are pleasing. Yes, of course there will be no problem procuring the limestone and basalt. Yes, it will be easy for us (this with a gloating look at Acamapichtli and Acatl that makes the High Priest of Tlaloc’s eyes go dark and furious and makes Acatl himself entertain vivid fantasies of strangulation) to weave the wards anew. There will be nothing to fear. All will know and glory to the name of Tizoc-tzin, who made the Temple great again.

And Tizoc preens. He knows nothing of wards or of magic beyond the most basic things they teach all noblemen’s children in the calmecac, and so he knows nothing of why everything he’s proposing is immensely dangerous for the safety of their world. He has never descended into the depths of the Temple to stand atop Coyolxauhqui’s prison and feel her hatred, her rage. He doesn’t care. He simply wants it expanded now, before anyone can somehow steal his glory—not that he says that, of course, but it shines greasily through in every word. Acatl tries very hard to let his voice wash over him without picking out specifics. That way lies only impotent fury, and they simply aren’t stable enough yet that he can risk drawing Tizoc’s ire. He may have Teomitl’s fondest regard, but Teomitl is still only Master of the House of Darts. Soon, he thinks. Soon.

“My lord, of course we can redo the steps down to the center as well, but...”

“Out with it.”

“Will we have enough sacrifices to remake the wards on them? They will need to be incised into the stone—”

Tizoc’s voice rises to a pitch that reminds him of a peccary with a chest cold. “You dare ask me that? Have we not won great victories? Have we not brought back dozens, hundreds of sacrifices already? Do you doubt the strength and valor of our armies?”

...Not soon enough.

He shifts again, allowing himself a brief grimace at the ache in his back and thighs. They’ve never been the same since his sojourn in the Heartlands. Every day he looks at Tizoc and thinks, I can’t believe I fought Itzpapalotl for your sake. But he did, and now they have a Revered Speaker who leads their warriors to be slaughtered and calls ir victory. He doubts whether Tizoc’s ever personally captured a prisoner in his life.

Teomitl could bring back more than enough captives, he thinks, if you only got out of his way and let him lead your army the way he’s supposed to. Between Teomitl and Neutemoc, he’s started to gain some secondhand knowledge of battle strategy, enough to understand that the relative failures of the campaigns under Tizoc’s reign are due in large part to the man’s own mix of paranoid micromanagement and reckless overconfidence. Teomitl’s not at all shy in voicing his opinions on it.

The engineer is sweating now. Rumors buzz like flies in the palace, and they say that the last person who publicly gainsaid the Revered Speaker simply disappeared. No official investigation was made, but that man’s widow had nevertheless been brave enough to contact Acatl. He didn’t find any magical residue, but of course that didn’t rule out foul play. They’d both known who the culprit was anyway. But this man is smarter or more cowardly, and so he lowers his head and says, “Never, my lord. They still sing of your latest campaign in the streets. It is merely that the reconsecration of the Great Temple is vital, and I wished to know whether you desired extra protection for the boundaries.”

If Tizoc was an intelligent man, he would say yes. The boundaries are still weak, terribly weak, due simply to his presence. Though they’ve been sewn up—thank the gods for Mihmatini—they’re far from impermeable. Acatl can feel them wiggle like a loose tooth if he presses too hard. And the Great Temple is their best and largest anchor with such a weak Revered Speaker on the throne. Until Teomitl is crowned, they need all the help they can get to keep the stars in the sky and She of the Silver Bells in chains.

Tizoc is not an intelligent man. He scoffs, shaking his head in a manner horribly reminiscent of Teomitl at his most arrogant. Except this is worse, because Teomitl has good qualities to make up for it. Tizoc has none. “That won’t be necessary. My High Priests will have it well in hand, won’t you?”

Quenami takes it upon himself to speak for them all. “Of course, my lord.”

Acatl remains silent. He can’t bear to look at Quenami just yet or he might snap, but when he turns his head he catches Acamapichtli’s eye and realizes he knows that expression. It’s the same one he almost certainly has on his own face. How dare he? After what Tizoc did to your clergy, and what he’s doing to the boundaries, he has the nerve to make our jobs even harder? And it will certainly be their jobs, because if Quenami bestirs himself for anything short of Coyolxauhqui physically manifesting on the Temple steps, Acatl will eat his own sandals. Without chili sauce.

Tizoc waves a hand. “You see? Proceed.”

The two engineers exchange looks before the man dubbed unofficial spokesman nods. “As you wish, my lord.”

It’s late by the time they get out of that meeting, and all he can think is that he does not want to spend one more second within the palace walls. He wants his own house, and his own mat, and his—

Well. He wants Teomitl. In general he doesn’t want to be alone, but in specific he wants Teomitl—wants to wrap his arms around him, hold him close, kiss that soft and smiling mouth. They haven’t made any promises or put words on what they are to each other. Teomitl’s optimism so far hasn’t extended itself to that, and Acatl isn’t sure he can be the first one to say it. But he knows his own heart well enough to tell how he feels. How he’s been feeling ever since that first day months ago, when Teomitl had turned back from that view of the city on his temple steps and smiled at him.

(Not, admittedly, that he’d said anything. Not then. It had taken them weeks of meeting for meals, of watching Teomitl patch up his relationship with Mihmatini, of nearly giving up—for surely he had no right to come between them. Of staring at his mouth and wondering what it might be like to kiss it. Had it not been for Teomitl showing up at his door the night before he left for his next campaign, he might still be wondering.)

His—lover? He supposes that’s the best word—is somewhere in the palace, but Acatl hasn’t seen him all day. This mess with the Great Temple has taken up all his time. He’s seriously debating the idea of going to look for him. Of finding him wherever he’s been spending his time, pulling him aside, telling him...

I want you.

I missed you.

Come home with me.

That idea makes his face heat. They’ve stolen plenty of time together, but never has Teomitl spent the night at his house. (He doesn’t count that time after Axayacatl’s death. He’d been asleep for that, and also still so deep in denial that he wouldn’t have been able to find his way out with a tall ladder and a map.) To do that now would be...well. His eyes have been opened, and he’s fairly sure they wouldn’t be spending too much time sleeping.

“Acatl!”

He jolts; he’s been so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear those impatient, beloved footfalls approaching from behind. The hallway is empty, so he doesn’t have that excuse either. Something in his heart clicks and settles into warm contentment as he turns around. “Teomitl,” he says, and adds—because it’s the truth—“I was just thinking about you.”

Teomitl doesn’t quite blush, but his smile goes measurably warmer around the edges. He looks good all in red and white, with gold earflares and a simple gold lip plug that draws Acatl’s eye to the curve of his lower lip. He’s loosened his hair and taken out the feather ornaments, so he must have finished his own work. “And I was just looking for you. Are you all done for the day?”

“...Unless some emergency beckons, yes.” He really hopes it doesn’t. Duality, just give him one night.

“I’m glad.” And Teomitl draws closer, slowing his pace to match. “Heading home?”

He nods, and then takes a breath. There’s no reason for him to be nervous, but asking for it while knowing what he wants makes his heart beat a little faster anyway. “Walk with me?”

Teomitl beams, and somehow he falls even deeper in love. “Of course.”

They’re quiet for a while. He knows he could break the silence; now that he’s fallen into the habit of speaking his feelings out loud with Teomitl, his lover always has an understanding ear to lend when he needs to unleash his frustrations. It had been a pleasant surprise to curse Quenami’s name and have Teomitl spare no vitriol in his own assessment of the man’s character. But it feels good just to walk side by side with him, and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. Besides, walls in the palace always have ears, and he’s sure it would get back to Tizoc somehow. Instead he focuses on the warmth of Teomitl’s body next to his, almost close enough to touch. The scent of lingering copal incense and sun-warmed skin reaches him and he thinks, Oh, this is nice. (It could be nicer. They could be holding hands. But they have to be discreet, still, and so he can’t risk it.)

(Gods, he wants to see Teomitl crowned.)

It’s not until they leave the palace that Teomitl says, “So. Tizoc’s still going ahead with his...refurbishment.”

Acatl grimaces. “Indeed.”

“Didn’t listen to any of the reasons why he shouldn’t.”

He bites his lip. “I...”

Teomitl turns to look at him, frowning, but then understanding dawns. “...I see.” He looks like he wants to say something else—probably something angry—but all he does is sigh and shake his head. “I tried too, and he brushed me aside. He’s only thinking of his legacy and not what it might do to us. It’s probably for the best that you didn’t say anything; he’d think we were conspiring against him.”

Acatl considers this. Looks at him.

Teomitl looks mildly offended. “I did say I’d give him time.”

“You did.” And he slides his fingers against the back of Teomitl’s hand to show he’s not upset, nor holding a grudge. After all, he’d meant it when he’d said there was no need for apologies between them. It has the desired effect, because Teomitl’s eyes grow warm and bright.

And then he leans in and murmurs, “Unless you’d rather I not.”

“Teomitl,” he huffs, but he can’t be mad. Teomitl’s wearing the half-grin that means he’s not entirely serious—that says yes, he might still kill his own brother on Acatl’s orders, but it’s far more important to him that Acatl has asked him not to. Acatl trusts that now. “Please don’t.” After a moment’s thought he adds, “At least warn me and Mihmatini first when you do.”

Now Teomitl’s really smiling, though it’s somewhat rueful. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. You know that.”

“I do.” He angles himself as he walks so that their arms brush and lets the tenderness he feels color his voice. I know you, my heart. And he’s suddenly more than mildly annoyed that they’re still in the Sacred Precinct, because the way Teomitl is looking at him with soft, shining eyes desperately makes him wish he could kiss him right here. If he were braver, he thinks he might even risk it; he knows where the shadows of the temple gates will hide them from prying eyes, and he knows how sweetly Teomitl presses against him when he’s pleased.

Though he says nothing, it must show on his face, because Teomitl takes advantage of the camouflage provided by their billowing cloaks to firmly lace their fingers together. His voice lowers, rich with promise. “We should fetch dinner before we reach your place. Unless you want to cook? I hope you do; we’ll need our energy.”

He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s blushing. “I. Um.”

“Well?”

“...I leave a pot of stew on the hearth in the morning.” It’s a habit he’s gotten into since Tizoc’s begun these building preparations; they often go long enough that he’s ravenous by the time they’re over, and utterly unwilling to expend any more brainpower on exactly how to fill his stomach. It’s hard to overcook stew, after all. “Though I don’t know if it will be to your taste—”

Teomitl holds up a hand to stop him. “Acatl. You know my feelings on your cooking.”

He snorts, shaking his head. They’ve had this conversation before. “I still think you flatter me far too much.”

Teomitl pokes his side teasingly. “And I think you underestimate the effects of a meal made with care and devotion by a man I trust above all others in the Empire.” Acatl’s heart skips a beat, so of course the moment’s ruined when he follows it up with, “I’d eat what you made if it came out as charcoal.”

“Well, hopefully this won’t be that bad.” Honesty compels him to add, “It may be a bit spicy. I wasn’t expecting company when I put it all together.”

Teomitl huffs, “I can handle spice!”

He makes a mental note to serve plenty of flatbread on the side.

It’s not far to his home, and the stew—mostly beans and corn, with a long-simmering and very tough haunch of dog from an earlier sacrifice thrown in to cook until tender—is just about done when he takes it off the fire. Teomitl clearly wants to help, but after a moment’s searching forces him to realize he has no idea where Acatl keeps anything, he takes himself out to the courtyard with a terribly put-upon sigh. It’s adorable. Acatl wants to kiss his cheek.

So when he sets down their bowls, he does. Teomitl promptly blushes, which is so endearing that Acatl has to kiss him again. On the mouth this time, which turns long and lingering before Teomitl slowly pulls away. “Mmhm. Not that I’m complaining, but what prompted this?”

He really only needs one hand to eat, so he’s free to settle the other at Teomitl’s waist and revel in the way the man nestles against his side. (It’s no longer surprising that Teomitl is so tactile, but it will always—always—be delightful.) “I missed you.”

Because he had. Every time Tizoc had opened his mouth, he’d thought you are unworthy of your crown. Every time Quenami had worn that supercilious smirk of his, he’d thought Teomitl would never let you get away with that. He’d felt himself alone, and he’d wanted his lover by his side. Now that he is, there’s something going soft and warm in Acatl’s chest. They’d definitely be kissing again if it wasn’t for the stew, which he knows won’t be nearly as good cold.

Teomitl presses a kiss to his cheek, which makes him blush in turn, but then he’s applying himself to his dinner. Acatl waits as he takes the first spoonful.

To give him credit, his beloved doesn’t flinch. But he does turn red, and when Acatl hands him a piece of plain flatbread he shoves it into his mouth as though his life depends on it. When he can talk again, his voice is a little rough. “That’s—not bad.” And then, ruefully, “I should have expected that.”

“Mm.” He thinks briefly of seeing whether there’s anything else he could serve, but he knows Teomitl will turn it down. Even now, his lover thinks his own limits are mere suggestions.

It’s a quiet meal. Teomitl settles more firmly against him as they eat, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, and the promise of it makes him shiver. I won’t be suggesting he go home tonight, he thinks, and knows it for the truth. The silence between them feels good—feels comfortable—but though he doesn’t want to spoil it, there’s something he knows he has to say.

The sun is setting, bathing them in twilight. Their bowls are scraped clean, even Teomitl’s. (With the aid, Acatl can’t help but notice, of several cups of water and all of the flatbread.) Teomitl himself is resting his head on his shoulder, looking utterly content with his lot in life. Warm, callused fingers are tracing slow circles on his thigh. Even the air feels peaceful, with just enough of a breeze to keep them cool but not enough to raise the dust. Acatl takes a deep breath and realizes he’s not afraid. Maybe he should be—maybe this is too much, he’s moving too quickly—but he isn’t. Not with his man by his side. Haven’t they come this far?

“I love you,” he whispers, and it comes out so quietly that at first he doesn’t think Teomitl’s heard him. But then it must sink in, because Teomitl’s muscles tense, his eyes widen, and Acatl has a miniature eternity to think Oh, fuck. He’s wrong. This is too fast. Teomitl isn’t that serious about him. Hastily, he opens his mouth, scrambling to take it back.

Then Teomitl smiles, soft as the dawn, and breathes, “I love you, too.”

Oh. Oh, thank the Duality.

Teomitl turns towards him and they’re kissing again, and this time it’s much less sweet. There is some restraint—while Teomitl’s not precisely shy, he’s well aware of Acatl’s vows and has never pressed them—but it’s the easiest and most natural thing in the world to be tumbled backwards on the mat, to have strong hands buried in his hair, to feel the heat and the faintest suggestion of teeth in each press of Teomitl’s mouth down his throat. And yet, for all that, there’s still a gentleness to it, because he’s loved. And better than that, he’s respected. If he asked Teomitl to stop, he knows he would.

He doesn’t think he’s going to ask Teomitl to stop. He arches into another kiss, letting his head fall back, and breathes, “We should...nnh...” Words fail him, because there’s a featherlight press of lips to his collarbone and it’s a lovely little spark of pleasure.

“Mm?”

He shivers in anticipation at the warmth in his lover’s eyes. No, there’s no hesitation in his mind anymore. “Let’s go inside.” He swallows. “If you want to continue this.”

Teomitl jerks back a little to look at him. For an instant he looks surprised, but then the smile on his face turns teasing. “Oh, I do. But it’s getting late, and you should sleep.”

He’s suddenly very, very aware of his lover’s weight on him—of the way they’re touching, pressed together from very nearly the waist downwards, and how the building heat in his blood is moving with purpose. He shifts, rolling his hips a fraction, and feels Teomitl twitch in response. “I’m not that tired.”

Teomitl grins, all wicked hope. “Want me to help you with that?”

He sucks in a breath. I took vows is his first thought. But it’s followed fast by a second, stronger one—I don’t care. So instead of answering in words, he pulls Teomitl into a hungry, searing kiss.

He’s honestly not entirely clear on how they manage to get inside. While he’d be glad to kiss Teomitl forever, his lover is the sort of impatient man who comes up with plans; they’re barely on his sleeping mat before Teomitl’s scattering their cloaks and working at the knots to their loincloths, letting his hands roam shamelessly over every inch of bare skin. Acatl’s not idle; though he might kill something for a light so he could at least see the unveiled glory that is his naked lover, he’s free to map out the lay of the land with his palms.

And gods, but Teomitl melts into each touch. If he were the jaguar Acatl sometimes thinks of him as, he might even be purring. Experimentally he draws his nails down Teomitl’s back, and is rewarded when he moans into their kiss. “Mmm...”

Then there are warm, callused fingers trailing down his chest and he can’t quite muster up the ability to feel smug anymore when they find one nipple and start toying with it. “Oh, gods,” he gasps—he hadn’t thought he’d be sensitive there, but Teomitl is very effectively proving him wrong. He’s been half-hard since the moment his loincloth hit the floor, and Teomitl’s hands are getting him the rest of the way there. It’s even better when Teomitl moves to straddle him, half so they can grind against each other and half so his free hand can skate down the plane of his stomach.

Their eyes meet, and Acatl feels himself flush at the look in Teomitl’s eyes, the one that says without words that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “You feel perfect.”

“Flatterer...mmm...” That one hand is sliding lower, shameless, and he wriggles a little to press their cocks together. He wishes again for light, but smoothing his hands over the solid muscles of his lover’s back and down over his frankly glorious ass will have to do. Teomitl must enjoy it, because his whole body trembles—and then Acatl’s being kissed, long and slow, and he arches with an utterly wanton groan.

“You are incredible,” Teomitl breathes when they pull apart. “Tell me how you want me to please you.” Acatl has to blush a little at that—it’s hardly as though Teomitl ought to need instruction, when he’s so hard against him and surely that presents a few obvious ideas—but well, he is asking. He’s owed an answer.

Still, saying it out loud makes him squirm. His skin feels like it’s on fire as he mutters, “...Touch me.” He rolls his hips, and his lover’s eyes spark fire. He doesn’t need to say anything else; Teomitl takes him in hand, and the friction that had been merely good builds into something he can fall into, something that sends pleasure coiling through his veins.

“Like this?” Teomitl’s setting a steady pace, fingers rippling; he needs his other hand to brace himself on the mat, bringing him in range to punctuate his words with a hungry mouth on Acatl’s collarbone. It scatters Acatl’s thoughts to the four winds; helpless, he scratches down Teomitl’s back again, and this time the vibrations of his lover’s moan sinks into his skin.

More, he thinks, and yes. He barely recognizes his own voice when it leaves his mouth. “Nngh, yes—no, wait, wait, I want to—” It’s not a want but a physical need, bone-deep, that has him working his hand between them to wrap around both their cocks at once. Teomitl’s roughly the same size but a little thicker, all rock-hard heat under his palm, and when he squeezes it pulls the most amazingly wrecked noise out of him.

“Oh,” Teomitl gasps. In the darkness, his eyes are wide with stunned hunger; his hips shudder, rocking in unconscious little circles like he’s not sure whether he should be letting Acatl set the pace or not.

“Like this,” he pants. All that stroking had been pleasurable, yes, but he needs to feel it properly when Teomitl falls apart against him, under his hand, sliding past his own cock with each thrust. He wonders, briefly, how it would feel with Teomitl inside him—but then Teomitl’s hand leaves his shaft to slide lower, and the first purposeful caress to his balls makes him whine.

Teomitl’s smug, “Hah,” comes out as more of a gasp than anything else. Even the attempt at a self-satisfied smirk is erased in the next instant because Acatl leans in to nip at his throat and grinds his hips up, a firm stroke making their cocks pulse in his grip, and his head falls back with a shaky cry. “Gods, keep doing that—”

Acatl hums against his lover’s skin. “Is this how you like it?” he breathes. There aren’t words for the feelings coursing through him, lust and the mounting lightning of his own pleasure mingling with a fierce joy that he’s the one doing this for Teomitl, that it’s his mouth and hands that are pulling such sweet sounds from his lover. A little more, he thinks. A little more. I need to see your face.

He gets his wish a moment later; no doubt Teomitl has a warrior’s stamina, but it can’t last against the way Acatl’s handling him. He gets increasingly vocal as he nears his peak, wordless cries ringing in the night air as Acatl bites at his shoulder. When he mouths a red mark into the thin skin at his collarbone, Teomitl nearly sobs. “Yes—yes, gods, Acatl—” Then he’s coming, hard and fast and all at once, spilling himself over their hands and bodies, and his voice cracks into a desperate keen.

It’s perfect. He’s still unfulfilled, but he almost doesn’t care. Almost. After a moment where Teomitl’s catching his breath and he thinks he might have to seek his own pleasure, his lover is grinning hot and hungrily down at him and oh gods, now that he’s not distracted by what Acatl’s doing with him he proves merciless. He settles back on his haunches, freeing both hands to squeeze and stroke and pump Acatl’s throbbing flesh, and all Acatl can do is take it. “Nnnh, Teomitl, please...”

“That’s it,” Teomitl breathes, and if it wasn’t so awestruck it would be a royal order. It feels like a royal order, like the words of the gods themselves when he growls, “Come for me, Acatl-tzin.”

He does. He can’t do anything else. It’s shattering knife-edge pleasure that pulls all his thoughts out of his head; for a small eternity, he can’t even feel his own limbs, lost in the white-hot spasms of his own release. Awareness filters back in slowly; there’s Teomitl slowly petting his thighs, there’s his hands settling at his lover’s hips. And there, shining in the darkness, is Teomitl’s tender gaze.

“...Duality,” he manages breathlessly. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thank You. Thank You for this gift.

“We made a mess,” Teomitl murmurs. With a downright wicked smirk, he drags his fingers through it and slowly licks them clean.

Spent as he is, it still makes Acatl’s cock twitch. He has to close his eyes lest he do something that...well, something that seems like a very good idea, to be honest, but his body is letting him know he’d regret it later. He’s not that young anymore. “Teomitl.”

“You taste good.” It’s almost—almost—innocent, but then Teomitl does it again and that’s not innocent at all.

He draws in a shuddering breath. “I need to recover, damn you. Give me a moment before you do things like that!”

“I just wanted to clean us up, but you’re right.” Teomitl kisses him again, slowly, and he can taste himself on his lips. “I won’t tease, love.”

Love. He smiles at that, feeling his face warm. “You’d better not, after being so concerned about my sleep schedule.” It comes out as more of a mumble than anything else; he’s forgotten how draining orgasms can be, especially on a full stomach after a long day. Sleep really is sounding very tempting.

“Mmm.” It’s a warm, utterly contented hum. Even when Teomitl pulls away to clean them both up properly with a cotton towel, he doesn’t go far; indeed, the cleanup itself is slow and tender and interspersed with long, gentle kisses.

Acatl responds as best he can, but he really is very tired. When Teomitl slides his arms around him, it’s all he can do to nuzzle into his chest. “Mmhm.” He feels boneless. Weightless. Teomitl is stroking his hair, and he never wants it to stop. “Teomitl...”

Teomitl’s arms loosen. “I...” he begins.

He knows what Teomitl’s going to say—I should go, I shouldn’t be here in the morning. He knows it would be a good and prudent idea. He also knows he’s not going to let that happen. Not after the night they’ve shared; not after the love they’ve shared. “Stay,” he says.

Teomitl stays.

#acatl #teomitl #teocatl #quenami #tizoc #not work safe #obsidian and blood #paladin writes stuff

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cursewoodrecap · 4 years ago

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Session 22: Five-Dimensional Man-Go

This is a session I’ve been looking forward to for quite some time. I get to introduce three of my favorite characters in the entire campaign.

In the real world it’s been a while, but this was the session we officially welcomed a new chaos goblin player to the table. And damn, am I glad we did.

Valeria goes to Hoeska’s armor smiths for some upgrades, and accidentally kicks off a goth fashion montage. Her new armor has gorgeous black detailing with purple rose accents, accessorized with a brand-new Shusva-skin bag with matching claw clasp. Gral picks up a fancy Shusva-leather cloak and belt. Shoshana, realizing that a vampire’s castle is basically a Hot Topic, gets some fishnet arm warmers to accompany her fang necklace. We also get some healing potions and hope they aren’t made from lost souls or anything.

Valeria resummons Aethis, who pops back into existence in a burst of glitter that’s entirely incongruous with the local grim aesthetic. Apparently celestial gators are only mildly inconvenienced by fatalities.

As we hitch up the horses to get back on the road, we find out Ser Boris is also preparing to head out. “Woods full of many nasty creatures. Must keep hunting! Maybe I find way down to Barroch, I have heard monsters are attacking workers there.”

Gral perks up at the name of his people’s capitol. “I’m sure the orcs will treat you well. What kind of monsters are they dealing with?”

“Wolves, bears, maybe werewolf? I will find out when I get there! Cursebreakers do not have much of working relationship with orcs, so info is scattered. That is why I must investigate!”

While he heads south into orc territory, we’re gonna go north toward Sturmhearst to look into all the Key nonsense Professor Bjork told us is goin’ down. It’ll be a long trip; it’s on the coast, and we’re well into the heartland of the wood. As we get closer, we’re gonna have to look for new maps, too – the patchwork of safe zones and Curse disasters changes rapidly, and the roads that were passable a month ago might be deathtraps today.

We trek for several blessedly uneventful days. One night, in a region where a sizable number of halflings have settled, we have the fortune of seeing an inn on the horizon as night starts to fall. A sign proclaims the Fusilier’s Rest, a combination winery and inn located on a lush vineyard. Valeria’s kind of suspicious of anything too plant-based right now, but the rest of us totally want a winery tour.

We hitch up our wagon next to a post labeled Valet Parking. Aethis parks themself in the stables. Looking at the place, with its rather low doorframe and quaintly painted décor, we suspect Demish wine snootery instead of weird plant cults.

We duck through the door and take in the scene. It’s on the upscale end of totally normal, with locals sitting around eating and a huge pot of Demish onion soup bubbling on the hearth. The old halfling bartender is wearing pieces of a worn but well-cared-for blue-and-gold uniform. Two polished old pistols hang within reach on the wall, along with a pristine old Fusille musket in a place of honor behind the bar. Shiny medals in a handmade case are proudly displayed atop the bar.

As is D&D protocol, we look around for any notably wacky characters. We find them in the corner: an old man with unkempt white hair and multi-lensed, colorful glasses, engrossed in a game of Man-go against a young human doctor. We know he’s a doctor, because he’s got a stubby-beaked Sturmhearst mask pushed up to expose a tired but friendly face. His coat might once have been a lab coat, but it’s since been patched and sutured together so many times that it’s probably done a full ship-of-Theseus. His right arm is in a makeshift sling, and he’s nursing a small glass of Kevan vodka; probably the closest thing they have to rotgut moonshine in a wine-snob place like this.

We’re like, neat. Let’s eat soup.

Valeria orders a local vineyard wine and chats with the bartender about it. “The man who runs it is a madman; he thinks he can grow good wine grapes in Valdia. But he pays my sister well, she does her best.”

“Oh, don’t listen to René, his sister does marvelous work! No halfling will admit that wine grown outside Demionde will be more than spoiled grape juice,” teases one of the local barflies.

Gral asks Valeria who’s winning the Man-go game. The old man is rambling pleasantly, barely paying attention, and he is absolutely crushing the young doctor. The doctor looks like he’s totally aware he’s being taken to the cleaners, but he’s gonna let the old guy have his fun. As the game draws to a close, the younger man smiles ruefully and hands over a few coins. Meanwhile, the old fella, his eyes magnified to mismatched sizes by his funky glasses, spots our most conspicuous party member.

“Kyr! How’s the wine?” he calls, beckoning her over.

“Quite good actually!” Valeria chirps. “Was that the Kiloni maneuver?”

“Yes, or a variant I picked up somewhere! The Killam maneuver…kilometer…kilowatt? Something of the sort.”

Valeria very much wants to play him, and the old guy’s defeated opponent is happy to trade her his spot. The young man’s propped up leg hits the ground with a suspiciously loud clunk as he vacates his chair for her.

The old man peers up at her, bright-eyed even behind multiple layers of glass. “So what brings a Knight of the Rose here?”

“We’re headed to Sturmhearst, actually!”

“I see! I’ve heard the roads between here and there are pretty tricky to travel, you know.”

“No kidding. Do you have an updated map?”

He snaps his fingers. “No, but I just came from there! I’ve got an old map and I can easily update it for you kids. René is on night watch, I’ll leave it with him so you don’t have to stay up waiting for me to finish it. I know a route that’ll get you there lickety-split and safe as trousers! Now let me guess, you played at the clubs in Aurentium? You have the look about you.”

“Not the clubs, precisely…”

“Ah! Street rules, then!”

Valeria, who played Man-go against literally everyone who would have her, shrugs. “Maybe?”

“René, we’ll need some cups and a dumb hat!” the old man calls.

The young doctor wanders over to the bar and gets a refill, settling down next to Shoshana. “Hey, wanna bet on their game? The old guy’s pretty sharp.”

Shoshana laughs. “Oh, my friend is definitely gonna lose. I’ll put a silver on her, though, out of loyalty.”

It’s an odd game to spectate. Valeria falls behind early on; an insight check shows he’s not cheating, he’s just VERY good. Oh, and also Valeria’s assuming an entirely different set of house rules than this guy, and it’s tripping her up. Wait, are we doing street style, or dock style? Anyway, Valeria’s wearing the dumb hat now. At one point they both spit on the board.

“Y’know, I’ve never seen anyone from Sturmhearst take the mask off,” Shoshana says to her new drinking buddy, watching the game with confusion.

“On the clock, it’d be a safety hazard! But off the clock, eh, it’s fine. Some people get more elitist than me about it, I’m a hometown Valdian through and through.”

(You’re from Joisey, I’m from Joisey! What exit?)

“I haven’t actually been to the university since the Curse started, but I’m heading back to research some stuff I found out up in the Grammelsmarsh swamps. Some real disconcerting stuff regarding undead, and the like. The locals refer to it as the Wailing Wight.”

Shoshana gives him a once-over, rolling a decent Perception. He’s scruffy, though that could mostly be from hard travel, and definitely looks like he’s had a rough time of it. His arm’s in a sling and the little exposed skin Shoshana can see has more than its share of nicks and scars. His gait when he walked over was slightly uneven, one leg making a suspiciously heavy thunk against the wooden floor. Over his shoulder, he’s carrying a long, heavy case sealed with tar for waterproofing.

Hold up. She points to the case. “Do you have an alive guy in there?”

“…Uh.”

“You hesitated, and that’s not great.”

“Uh…no. No, I do not have an alive guy in here,” he says awkwardly.

“Okay, because the last time there was a weird bag, there was a whole-ass dude in there, and it turned into a whole thing.”

“N-no, no no no, there’s no person in the case,” he protests, not quite meeting Shoshana’s judgy cat eyes. He definitely doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, even though the case has started gently twitching.

Meanwhile, old Man-Go man has proved himself quite fluent in Draco-Aquilian, though with an unmistakable mammalian accent. Gral butts into the lively conversation when it winds back to Valdian. “It seems like you’re rather well traveled. What is your profession?”

“Oh, y’know, I go here and there. I’ve been around. There’s so much to see out there!”

Valeria smiles. “I can’t fault you there. Anything in particular you’re looking for?

“I go wherever the winds take me, mostly,” he says, as if Cursewood travel isn’t the most dangerous hobby since they invented pyromancer cookoffs.

Valeria, impressively, only loses the game by a little. The old man jovially shakes her hand and promises to go get started on that map to Sturmhearst for us, springing to his feet with surprising deftness for his age and bustling up toward his room.

Gral and Shoshana, meanwhile, are busy makin’ friends with the doctor guy. “What swamp were you fighting undead in?”

“The Grammelsmarsh? It’s downriver of Mornheim.”

“Ohhh! We heard some, uh, adventurers did a purifying ritual on the river. It might help your situation?”

“That’s great, but…I dunno. Once you mix in swamp gas, things get a lot more interesting.”

“The explosions kind of interesting?”

“…Sometimes.”

The players have noticed that our doctor friend here is, like…not an NPC, there’s another guy at the table (the same player as Isadora! :D), so we start sizing each other up as travel companions.

“You seem like a pretty decent guy,” Gral says, immediately insight checking.

“I mean, you guys seem on the up-and-up too?”

Shoshana winks at him. “Well, I’m not that up-and-up but these two are very diplomatic and important.”

“If you’re also headed up to Sturmhearst, it might make sense for us to travel together? I’m not very quiet,” he admits, knocking on his knee with a clang, “but if you-“

“Hello!” Valeria, hearing clanking, has clanked over loudly to join. “Kyr Valeria Argent, at your service!”

“Uh, hi! I’m Vigdor. I’m a doctor! I mean, you knew that, with the, uh-“ He points to his bird mask. “If you need any balms or salves – I mean, I’m mostly a surgeon, but I know some herbology.”

Is that so! We chat about Dr. Ulmus and Dr. Kjeller. Everyone loves Dr Kjeller!

“I’ve heard of Dr. Kjeller! I haven’t met the guy, but he’s the leading expert on troll physiology. Getting him to come lecture hasn’t worked out so far.”

We ask René the innkeeper about any local threats. Apparently this town’s gotten lucky; the biggest threats recently have just been bandits and one overaggressive badger.

“Oh yeah, one of my cats fought one of those, it went badly,” Shoshana remembers. “For the badger, I mean. I have weird cats.”

(The inn also has cat. His name is Jean Clawed.)

Eventually we all head upstairs. As the night bears on, the girls fall asleep, presumably after painting each other’s toe claws and gossiping. Gral’s still awake, practicing his lute in the rare luxury of a single room, when he pauses. Something doesn’t sound right.

Putting his lute aside, he listens cautiously at the window and feels a deep dread grow in his stomach. The faint scent of ozone drifts in the air. The crickets and night birds have gone dead silent, and in the unsettling quiet he can hear the terrible growling, piping sound he’s heard twice before: once in a house in a hole, and once as Bullbreaker’s expedition faced its destruction.

With great urgency and no volume control, Gral sends a Message to a sleeping Shoshana: “RED ALERT, KEY SHIT’S HERE.” Shoshana wakes up and kicks Valeria.

Gral then sends a Message to our new friend Vigdor, more calmly. “If you have weapons, get them now. Something is happening, it’s going to be dangerous.”

The early warning lets Vigdor and Valeria armor up, Shoshana helping Valeria buckle on the heavy pieces in a hurry. Meanwhile, Gral sprints downstairs, casting Mirror Image as he goes.

René the innkeeper is cleaning his fusille with practiced precision, humming an old marching song. Gral can hear something moving in the kitchen behind the old halfling, so he pops another stealthy Message cantrip. “This is the orc from earlier. I think something bad is in the kitchen – I’ve heard that noise before. Hold on tight to that musket, I’m going in.”

“The back door is locked, I would have heard someone come in,” the old soldier whispers back.

“These things don’t use doors,” Gral hisses.

A 17 Persuasion convinces René, who loads a bullet into his musket. “Where are those friends of yours?”

A heavy clank from upstairs answers that question, as Vigdor and Valeria thud toward the stairs. Gral scopes out the room and sees, on the bar, a big leather map case. The map from the Man-Go guy! Then he peers into the kitchen and, yup, that’s a fleshhound, all right.

Everyone else upstairs bursts into the hall just as a second fleshhound emerges into existence next to them. Shoshana, without hesitation, hits it with a gout of flame. Its strange ethereal flesh solidifies for a moment, but then it shakes itself and charges forward, its displacement energy restored.

Meanwhile, the one downstairs doesn’t aim for Gral or René, trying to run past them. Gral plays a discordant note on his lute, using his Minor Key at the opposite frequency to its vibration and preventing it from displacing, before he strikes. A spectral, scarred orc swings a warhammer down on the creature, Thrice-Burned’s ghost getting some payback as Gral’s blade strikes true.

René takes a shot with his musket and crit-fails, understandably freaked out by the writhing mass of teleporting tentacles, the wild shot careening directly into Gral. Luckily, it only pops a Mirror Image, but everyone upstairs hears a frustrated yell of “NO. FRIEND! ME FRIEND!”

Vigdor dashes past Valeria to the stairs, his previously-motionless arm reaching out of its sling to slap her on the armor with a resounding clash of metal. A silver Jotunn rune glows through the cloth of his sleeve, and she feels Protection from Good and Evil snap into place over her. She takes the cue and stabs the hound, rose vines bursting from her trident and stabbing their long thorns into its oddly flickering flesh.

The pupils on the Eyegis snap to the space behind the beast. Our normal eyes see nothing, but the Key-aligned shield’s eyes see a magical gate, faintly connected to the hound.

As a member of the Order of the Rose, Valeria’s trained to deal with fiendish incursions. This isn’t a portal to the Hells, but she thinks it might get closed similarly. As she charges forward to deal with it, everything seems to move twice as fast as it should: the Key’s spatial distortion has made certain areas the opposite of difficult terrain, where you can move double your speed. Nyoom!

Shoshana zaps it with lightning and heads downstairs to help Gral, who’s being slapped by tentacles. The zapped one flees toward the portal, but Valeria Sentinels and stabs it to death. The downstairs hound gets its tentacles into the real Gral.

Vigdor moves to Gral’s aid, ripping away the last of his sling and clamping a large circular blade to his forearm. With the pull of a ripcord, it loudly whirs into motion. As the Buzzing Butcher slams into the displacer hound with a gory squelch, he asks about sneak attack, like a rogue!

A very, very loud rogue.

Gral breaks away from the hound’s tentacles and looks around. Through the windows, more fleshhounds have appeared outside. The space outside is warped – leaving this inn is going to be very difficult while all this nonsense is going on. The lights of the vineyard seem miles away.

However, Gral realizes, the hound responded to the sound of his lute. And when he used his Minor Key he caught a glimpse of the portal it came through. He begins to play again, using the Minor Key to try to take control of it. The GM allows him to burn a 3rd level spell slot for a colossal roll of 33. He moves the portal inside a wall, to temporarily block anything coming through.

René takes a shot at the remaining hound and misses.

Valeria, upstairs, draws her chained sword and spends a 1st level slot to try to close the portal, the same way paladins close Infernal gateways. The chains of Rack extend from the sword and stitch the portal shut.

(Gral and Valeria each gain inspiration for using Portal Trixx!)

A Thing Occurs at initiative 0, and we hear strange piping coming from the stables. We’re kind of occupied, so we trust Aethis to bite anything that bothers the horses.

Shoshana sprints down the stairs and to the bar. Aw, there’s another flesh hound coming in from the kitchen. Her Chill Touch misses, and the new monster slaps Gral.

Vigdor nyooms through a Zoom, which makes some Really Weird doppler effects happen with his clanky leg and his buzzy arm. He slides across the bar like an action hero and slams his saw down, missing the hound and showering the room in a hail of splinters.

Valeria is still upstairs, and it is LOUD downstairs. She’s gonna dash to get the heck down there and rejoin the festivities.

Gral Phantasmal Forces the new fleshhound, and in its mind, horrible liquid tendrils emerge from the soup pot and constrict around it. The soup rises to the defense of the Fusilier’s Rest!

René gets his wits about him and takes a pistol shot at the nearer fleshhound, tagging it with a bullet and keeping it in place. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. OUR POLICY IS NO PETS! I will not make an exception for you, you do NOT seem particularly polite!”

The fleshhound grabs the map case off the bar and starts to run for it. René hits it with the butt of his rifle. The second hound can’t attack Vigdor since it’s too busy convincing itself soup isn’t dangerous, so Vigdor’s free to draw his pistol and unload a Sneak Attack bullet into the fleeing hound’s back.

René reloads his musket. It’s been a long time since he’s done it under fire, but the Royal Fusilier Corps of Demionde does not half-ass their training.

The portal the hound’s heading for bisects a wall now, so it might be hard for the hound to get through. Before it can worry about that, though, it comes face to face with Valeria, who’s ready to rumble. She kills it, dropping the map to the ground, and skitters through the Zoomy Zone to try to trident the second hound. It displaces out of the way.

Gral seizes control of another portal, and this time decides to use it to see what’s going on. He tries to hop out to the stables, where that weird noise is coming from. He enters a weird nether space full of the flickering bodies of fleshhounds, writhing and blinking, which the DM calls the Threshold. Gral accepts psychic damage to see what’s going on, and the patterns become clearer as the Key takes hold temporarily in his brain. These portals all connect to each other and the Threshold at the same time. Whatever’s out in the stables, making that eerie piping noise, is tied to the portals – it can’t fully exist in our realm. So if you close all the portals, it’ll force that thing to leave; if you drive it away, the portals will close. Either way, the Key’s influence on this place will fade.

Oh, and that thing out in the stables? It’s the Lurke r again.

Gral’s old enemy wrests control of the portal back from Gral, who stumbles back out into the inn, reeling from the sudden whammy of Key taint.

Shosha shoots lightning at the nearest hound, which retaliates by leaping through her, disrupting her matter with its own. It’s a highly unpleasant experience. A new hound jumps out of the portal next to Valeria. As Vigdor, Shoshana, and René all attack, Gral shuts another portal with his lute’s magic. “Guys, there’s something horrible in the stables!” he shouts. “If we bust enough portals it’ll go away!”

The Lurker continues to make mysterious dice rolls, but apparently it’s rolling poorly, so we don’t quite find out what it’s up to. It peers through one of the last few portals, only visible to Gral and the Eyegis. It’s hard to get a good look at, fifth-dimensional as it is, but it’s weirdly humanoid, actually? It’s surrounded by floating lanterns and holding some sort of pipe or flute.

(The DM notes that Jean Clawed is awake and doesn’t see why any of this is his business. He’s capable of using the portals; he’s not Key tainted, that’s just how cats are.)

We exchange blows with the remaining hounds, Chromatic Orbs flying and chainsaws buzzing. René bayonets a hound to death, for the honor of all NPCs.

Gral powerslides on his knees across the Zoomy Zone, playing a complicated riff, woobling himself right through the fireplace into the kitchen. He spends another level 3 spell slot to get the portal to dance itself shut. “And that was Through the Fire and Flames!”

René reloads his gun. Shoshana blasts the hound with fire, so Vigdor’s action goes off and he chainsaws it to death, the body and spine getting caught in the spinning chain. FATALITY.

The searing light of Shoshana’s fire casts sharp shadows on the walls of the inn, which begin to writhe and re-form, swirling together into a lithe, snarling feline shape that springs toward the Lurker. It pounces with an odd, broken yowl that’s incredibly familiar – although Valeria and Gral have only ever heard it once, from underneath an overturned laundry basket.

Vigdor, who’s never met a flesh-hound OR a cursecat before, makes an arcana check to figure out what in the seven hells is going on. It seems some sort of entity is thinning the barriers between realities? Its very essence seems to be intermingled with portal; it cannot fully leave the portal or exist in this realm. Like a malevolent, sentient pair of curtains.

He’s like okay, curtains sound like something I can chainsaw. It’s curtains for you, see? (Fun fact: if he rolls 21 or higher on attack roll with chainsaw, he gets sneak attack regardless of other circumstances. Because it’s a goddamn CHAINSAW.)

The Lurker turns its attention directly on us, or at least to the enormous hissing cat hellbent on ruining its day. Gral, still strumming furiously, realizes the Lurker’s only got a couple of portals left. He’s closed a portal already; he’s gonna try to close all of them for good. The DM imposes disadvantage and a brutal pile of psychic damage, but Gral is unphased, hitting a power chord that shakes the entire inn.

The Lurker screeches and reaches for him, the space around Gral beginning to warp, but it’s too late, the portal slamming shut against it. The Zoomy Zones vanish; the portals close, the strange atmosphere fades. The road looks to be the size it was before instead of an endless stretch of packed earth; the vineyard is once again an easy ten-minute walk away.

His big solo complete, Gral sways and collapses unconscious. Valeria runs over and Lays On Hands so he doesn’t die, while Vigdor starts casting Mending on the destroyed bar furniture. Shoshana, meanwhile, just stares dumbstruck at the place where a huge spectral cat is dissipating into shadowy smoke.

“…Schmendrick?”

René is holding himself together, but he’s an old man and it’s been a while since he fought this much. He took a bit of damage; Valeria pat pats him some HP. “Thank you, Kyr. I…I need to check on my other guests. The old man with the Man-Go game, we must find out if he lives.”

Valeria accompanies him upstairs. Rack’s glowing rose vines are still visible, stitching the portal shut; it’s healing more quickly than Valeria’s used to seeing. The door to the old man’s room swings open under Valeria’s cautious knock. The bed is unmade but empty, and the old man’s luggage is gone. The only things left are a generous tip on the counter and his odd multicolored glasses.

As Vigdor steps outside to clean viscera off his chainsaw, Gral scopes out the stables. There’s evidence of disturbed earth around the grounds, but nothing conclusive. Aethis seems to be unbothered.

We reconvene without much to show for our investigation. But we have one last clue: Why were the hounds so interested in the old man’s map? We spread it out on one of the bar tables and crowd around. It’s a map of Valdia, but the path it shows us to take to Sturmhearst makes No Sense. It’s not even contiguous! It tells us to start here and wander north, and then the line cuts off next to some scribbled equations, the route picking up again elsewhere, where he’s drawn a symbol we don’t recognize – and so on, in strange and nonsensical disconnected paths.

Shoshana, on a hunch, puts on the multicolored glasses the old man left behind. Like 3D glasses, they reveal the hidden image. Through the kaleidoscopic lenses, she can see remnants of the Key’s influence all around the inn; the fading Zoomy Zones and closing portals light up in ultraviolet. The map, meanwhile, has gained an entirely new dimension, like a layer of holographs. NOW the shortcuts make sense – they route through other dimensions along the z-axis, with additional symbols and labels giving helpful hints.

To be honest, it does look like a much faster route. And one of the notes says it leads to the “Drowned City” – hey, isn’t that where Bullbreaker ended up? But we’re all rightfully wary of hopping right back into another flesh-hound portal disaster.

We now have the Extradimensional Map and the Stranger’s Glasses.

Oh! The map has a note for us: “Happy Journeys to a fellow master of the game. Your friend, T.T.”

We immediately rifle through our notes and realize he may have been Professor Trevor Twombly, Headmaster of Sturmhearst. Vigdor, did you know that guy?!

Vigdor didn’t recognize him. Maybe the guy looked like Twombly, if you squint? There were a lot of old men at Sturmhearst, and they wear masks most of the time? Also he had distracting glasses? So, like…maybe?

As we bicker, Vigdor snags the glasses off the table and heads to his room, opening up his case and taking a look. The lenses don’t reveal anything new about the object inside.

Unfortunately, the poor rogue didn’t bother to stealth. “Whatcha doin’ in here?” says Valeria, who followed shortly behind.

“Um, just looking at my leg, seeing if anything is weird-“

Valeria immediately checks Vigdor’s lower limbs for wounds. “I can help! An extra pair of hands can always-”

“No, no! I think I’m okay! Really!” he protests. He glances into the case again, clearly torn, and sighs. “Let me explain.”

He lifts a whole human leg out of the case, kicking and twitching.

“This is my leg, and I’m taking it to Sturmhearst. I’m not sure if it’s wholly mine anymore.”

Through his torn pants, Valeria can see a clunky clockwork leg to match his buzz-saw arm.

One player immediately yells “FULL METAL ALCHEMIST.” Another player says it again, in a slightly different voice.

Dr. Vigdor Gavril has joined the party!

#the cursewood #session recap #the key #valeria argent #gral omokk'duu #shoshana bat chaya #vigdor gavril #schmendrick #trevor twombly

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