#exile: the teeth. and your lack of success | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onecanonlife · 3 years

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careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,205

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur tries very hard to hold a productive meeting, and does not quite succeed.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

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Chapter Seventeen: ‘til the work is done

In retrospect, it’s not his best idea. He seems to be full of those, lately. Not-great ideas. This one is foolish simply for the fact that he is already tired, and gifting energy to Schlatt is a strain on his already depleted reserves. It takes about twenty minutes for him to get dizzy, and another two after that before spots start drifting across his vision, and at that point, he has to admit defeat, cutting himself off mid-sentence and breaking their connection. Schlatt swears as he loses his tangibility.

“Fuck, that felt weird,” he says. “What the fuck was that, why’d you stop?”

He wets his lips. It takes longer than it should for the words to formulate.

“I told you, we’re essentially sharing a lifeforce, Schlatt,” he says. “There’s only so much I can give you.”

Schlatt starts hovering in the air again, regarding him with a dark stare. And then, his expression clears.

“Oh, I see, so you’re being a dumbass,” he says, and Wilbur wants to protest, but he can’t get a word in edgewise. “Why the fuck are you giving me shit you can’t afford to lose, then? Jesus Christ, Wilbur, would you sit down?”

“There isn’t time for that,” he replies. “I’ve spent too long up here already. I need to go and meet with the others.”

Schlatt stares at him for a long moment. He’s not sure why. And when he speaks, his voice is—strange.

“I was right about you,” he says. “You really don’t change. Not when it comes to yourself. You’re just as stupid and self-destructive as you always have been. And now that coating of paint you try to put on over it? That’s flaking off. The only question is how many people you’re going to bring down with you this time.” He shakes his head, and his eyes narrow, expression hovering somewhere between a dark satisfaction and something else, something difficult to interpret. “You’re wearing yourself thin. I see it, everyone else can probably see it. But you can’t. Or you do, but you can’t accept it.”

(you put on a smile for the masses an upbeat tone for your friends but you’re a sinking ship and you know it, and you think it might be easier to let yourself drown even though you know you won’t, because you cannot allow yourself to fail because you are leader you are president and this is everything you fought for so it is a fault in you if you cannot handle it so you push through you make yourself and you scream into your pillow and cry yourself to sleep because at the end of the day your self-loathing clings to you like cobwebs and secondhand smoke)

He inhales.

“I don’t see how me needing to have a meeting with everyone else has led you to that conclusion,” he says, tone frosty, “but you can think what you want. And besides, you can hardly talk. We’ve had a conversation like this already.”

He turns on his heel, letting his coat flare out behind him; though, it’s still damp, so the motion isn’t nearly as satisfying as it usually is. But Schlatt follows along with him, and he grits his teeth, letting each of his footfalls resound with purpose, with confidence that he is struggling to truly find.

This was definitely a bad idea. Engaging with Schlatt always is. He should know this by now, should know that a welcome distraction can turn unwelcome at the drop of a hat.

“I never said that I was any better,” Schlatt says, “but that’s the difference between you and me, Wilbur. I know exactly what I am. You don’t know who the fuck you are, so you hide behind labels because that makes it easier for you to think about.”

(general president exile villain and round and round it goes and there is truth to his words because he scrambles for stability scrambles to fit the old roles but the fact of the matter is that he is something new and he is floundering because for all that he wants to be better he has never known how so it’s casting a coin in a wishing well and hoping)

“I know exactly who I am for the moment,” he says, “and that’s someone who’s going to get rid of the fucking Egg and pummel Dream’s face into the ground. For now, that’s more than good enough.”

He gets to the stairs again, and takes them two at a time on his way down.

“Fine, then, just don’t come crying to me later,” Schlatt says. “So, what’s the deal with Dream anyway? How the fuck did he get out of prison?”

That actually gives him pause for a second.

“I’m not actually sure,” he says. “A question for the warden.” One that he does intend to ask, if only to know how, exactly, Dream made what was supposed to be a secure prison seem like child’s play to escape. Was he waiting for the right moment all along? He’s not sure he likes the implications of that,

(especially since he deemed the right moment to be after Wilbur’s return, during the implementation of a plan that he helped to form, and it sickens him that he might have played any role in Dream’s decision making, that he might have led everyone into these circumstances, eyes wide open but blind all the same)

but it would make sense, considering everything that he’s learned, considering what he now knows of the rot that’s woven itself into Dream’s very being. The corruption that lends him power.

“How much have you even been here for?” he continues, glancing at the ghost out of the corner of his eye. “Do you have any idea what’s been going on, or have you just been fucking around since the last time I saw you?” When you ran away from Tubbo, he does not say, and he wonders if Schlatt catches it anyway.

There is a beat, and then, “I—know that Dream’s out,” Schlatt says, the words reluctant, and he suppresses a bark of laughter.

“So, you know jack shit,” he says.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You know jack shit,” he repeats. “That’s fine. Stick around, I’m sure you’ll get caught up to speed.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that’s exactly what I want, hanging around you chumps some more,” Schlatt mutters. “What a good time. God, I need a drink. Or you know what, I’d settle for a fucking protein shake. You got any of those around?”

He doesn’t respond. It takes some effort, but anything he could say would only rile him up further, and any indication of actually, you do not need a drink, and I am going to make sure that you don’t get one literally ever is sure to set him off, which is exactly what he doesn’t need right now. So he lets Schlatt complain as he backtracks to the entrance hall, and then to the throne room where he assumes everyone else is.

His assumptions are proved correct the moment he draws close enough to hear everyone’s voices. Talking over each other, tones fluctuating. It sounds anything but peaceful.

Eret has moved their throne aside, he notes as he stops in the doorway. Most of the room is now taken up by a large wooden table, clearly meant to be a place for meeting. He appreciates the gesture, or would, if anyone seemed to be using it. His eyes find Techno and Phil first, next to a cluster of torches; Techno is still wringing water from his hair, looking very put out, but his posture is tense, on guard, and Phil looks about the same, even as he helps Ranboo get the last of his armor off without flicking himself with water.

(it is easy to forget that his family is among enemies there, that at least a few of these people would like to see them dead)

He finds Fundy next. He’s standing by himself, ears flat against his skull, and every now and then he twitches toward Eret. But the main spectacle in the room is the ongoing argument, and he narrows his eyes, trying to pick out the participants and their stances. There’s Quackity—and that’s an interesting scar on his face, though with what he knows of the man’s combat ability, or lack thereof, he was bound to gain an injury like that sooner or later, with the server being what it is—shouting at Sam, who looks like hell, frankly, and Puffy next to Sam trying to defend him, maybe, and Sapnap by Quackity’s side trying to calm him, and then there’s Eret, who appears to be trying to mediate with little success.

“—don’t fucking care,” Quackity is saying, and he sounds near-hysterical, words spat out at a record pace, even for him, “I do not fucking care what the rules were, I do not fucking care, just, fuck, Puffy, stop trying to defend him, if he’d kept Dream locked up like he was supposed to, like his job was, like we all trusted him to, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, just, I don’t fucking understand how you could’ve let that happen, Sam, I don’t—”

He keeps going, and at the same time, Eret’s voice overlaps—“We’ve been through this already, Quackity, and I don’t see how this is helping.”—with Puffy’s—“You’re the one who needs to fucking stop, it wasn’t his fault, so stop yelling at him!”—and Sapnap’s—“C’mon, Q, please, I know, but you think tearing into each other is gonna help right now?”—and Sam himself is just standing there, taking it, eyes dull.

On the other side of the room, Tommy and Tubbo appear in the opposing set of doors and draw up short, Tubbo placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder to pull him back, face settling into what might be resignation. This isn’t the first time, then.

Schlatt whistles. “Damn,” he says. “Something about this is familiar.”

“I do not want to know that,” he replies, eyeing Quackity. “Don’t tell me anything about your relationship, I categorically do not want to know.”

“Wait, what the fuck do you think I’m talking about—”

He meets Techno’s gaze. Techno raises an eyebrow, pointedly squeezes his hair with a towel, and inclines his head, as if to say, You deal with this. He glares back, trying to convey, Fuck off, I am not in charge of corralling these fuckers, and Techno rolls his eyes, the arsehole, because of course, he knows that that’s a damn lie, and actually, he kind of has put himself in charge of corralling these fuckers.

(something about this is familiar indeed, and these could be earlier days if he takes a step back and squints, looks at them all through blurry vision, and this could be a nation risen up around a drug van if he tilts his head just right, and he could be in charge of leading them, because the original members are all here, him and Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and Eret all here, except the arguments are sharper and lined with more desperation than any of their original squabbles, before the war became real, before everything, before it all fell apart for the first time, before it was never meant to be, and he can lead, can pretend that it is all like it was then, but it would be unwise, perhaps, to forget that it is not like then at all)

So he steps further inside, notes with some displeasure the way that no one has marked his presence yet, and says, as loud as he can, “What the fuck are you all shouting at each other for, then?”

Quackity cuts off abruptly, which solves eighty percent of the noise problem, and Puffy stops after he does, which solves another fifteen percent. Quackity wheels toward him, not quite shocked, but still surprised, perhaps.

“Holy shit,” he says. “They said you were back, but—wow, Wilbur, you’re looking good. For a dead guy, I mean.”

“Thank you, Quackity,” he says, nodding. He strides up to the table, though he doesn’t sit, and splays his hands against it. It would probably be more picturesque if he weren’t still dripping a bit, but he made his choice to forgo towels and that’s the hill he’s dying on, apparently. “You’re also looking good. It’s nice to see you.”

“Tell him he looks sexy,” Schlatt suggests, and with a great amount of fortitude, he ignores him.

“So,” he continues, “is any of this arguing actually something that needs to be happening right now? Or can we move on to arguing about different things?”

Quackity’s face twists. “I’d say we do need to be arguing about it, actually,” he says. “Look, Wilbur, I know you—you left a while ago, right, so you’ve missed a lot, so I’m not sure how much about this you know. But Sam was supposed to be in charge of the prison. He had one job, and that was to keep Dream in his cell. And now look at where we are. So, yeah, I’d say it’s something that needs to be happening.”

(people keep saying that, that he left, and that’s not quite right, because leaving is slinging a bag over one shoulder and waving goodbye and leaving implies going somewhere when he wanted to go nowhere at all, and leaving is a sanitary way to phrase the desperate exit he made and perhaps they don’t know better or perhaps they do but don’t want to confront it but either way something in him recoils whenever they say he left because that is not the word is not the word at all and if they’re going to bring it up he wishes that they would actually bring it up rather than dance all around it dance in quicksteps that serve nothing)

“I agree that it’s important,” he says. “I would like Sam to explain what happened. But I also don’t see that recriminations are where we need to be directing our energy at the moment. Considering that what’s done is done” —He meets Quackity’s gaze as steadily as he can, meets his gaze and brings all the weight of their history to bear, from the debate floor to the podium and the stage to the dark caverns of the rebellion— “and going through all of the ways that everyone in this room has fucked everyone else over hardly seems like the best use of our time.”

He knows the statement won’t land like it should. He knows that he of all people has no right to ask for this. But the longer he stands here, the more aware he is of all the bad blood in this room, the more aware he is that this particular group of people is like a powder keg set to explode, that they could all turn on each other and do Dream’s job for him at a poorly placed jab or threat. The air is thick with the complicated web that binds them all.

(betrayals and lives taken and homes destroyed and even the bedrock of a once stable foundation shaken and torn up)

“Well, that’s kind of a convenient stance to take,” Quackity shoots back, and it’s precisely the response he expected “considering what you did.”

“I’m aware,” he says, drowning out the way that Tommy audibly starts to protest. “I think my point still stands, though. Unless you really think now is the time to air out everyone’s dirty laundry. I’m sure Dream would find it entertaining, at least.”

(the words taste like ash and he feels like a hypocrite but he can’t let them see how off balance he is can’t let them know because a leader is needed and he could step aside and let someone else take the position but that has always been a weakness of his, his need for control, so even when the control is slipping he grasps it with both hands and hangs on to it with all his worth whether it’s wise or not because someone needs to lead and he does not trust himself but he trusts others even less and he has always been one to take on the responsibility even when he ought not to even when)

Quackity breathes in and out, eyes narrow.

“Alright,” he says. “No, you’re right.” He steps up to the table as well, pulling out a chair for himself, though he doesn’t yet sit. He also, Wilbur notes, does not apologize to Sam, but that’s not a requirement, even though the way Puffy is glaring suggests that she would like it to be.

“Wait,” someone says, and Wilbur starts, looking to—George, and how did he not realize George was here, too? Perhaps because he’s been quiet. Quieter than the norm, though he can’t say that he’s ever known George all that well. Or perhaps it’s just a surprise to see him around. “Is he in charge?” George continues. “Why is he in charge?” He sounds genuinely confused more than upset, but he still feels his hackles raise.

(he is placing himself in this position and it feels natural and right and feels wrong and unsteady like his footing is slipping like he’s on the edge of the cliff face and below the rockslide is starting but he can do this, he can, he can lead this, it’s just one meeting and he can do it because if not him then who else will and he can do it)

“I’m not ‘in charge,’” he

(lies? he doesn’t know doesn’t know)

says. “I’m just trying to get a meeting started. We’re all here, aren’t we?”

“Everyone we were able to find is in this room,” Eret says softly, and then, to everyone else. “And I agree with Wilbur. We need to plan out our next move. And seeing as a meeting table has been provided—” They gesture, rather pointedly, and Puffy is the first to nod, pulling out a seat and all but collapsing into it, running a hand through her hair. Sam is next, and then Tommy and Tubbo enter fully, situating themselves directly to his right. Phil is the next to approach, followed by Techno and Ranboo, and he does not miss the way Quackity’s eyes track Techno’s movements.

Before long, it’s just him and Quackity standing. A concession might be needed here, or at least, a show of one; he doesn’t actually want to cause too much conflict with the man, if it can be avoided, not right this second, so he tilts his head slightly and sits in a chair of his own, though carefully, so as not to slump into it. Sitting seems to make him realize just how tired he still is, and the urge to let himself sag is strong. But the ploy works; Quackity seats himself, Sapnap on one side and George on the other, and really, this has to be one of the strangest collections of allies to have ever existed.

It reminds him of the final days of the rebellion, a little bit. The way that so many flocked to their banner to depose Schlatt. It’s difficult to look back on, but that aspect of it, at least, is not entirely tainted. There was a sense of camaraderie among them that is not quite present here, but he doesn’t miss it for himself; in those days, too, he held himself apart, struggling to resolve himself to what he was going to do, knowing too well that the traitor they all feared existed was him.

But there’s people here who weren’t here then. And people here then who are missing now.

“Who couldn’t be found?” he asks, and it is Puffy who answers first.

“Niki,” she says, and his heart skips several beats, unprepared for that answer, though its truth is undeniable. “I tried, but we only had so much time, and I have no idea where she’s been staying these days. There also wasn’t time to get to Foolish, but he lives a long way out, so he’s probably fine.”

It is a struggle not to react outwardly. Niki. He hadn’t even thought to—

No. Now isn’t the time.

(even though he wronged her, too, wronged her as he wronged everyone else and she deserved so much better than what he could give her and she is a dear friend so dear that even Ghostbur always remembered her but it seems that in the midst of everything else he might have failed her again and she deserves a thousand apologies and all the atonement he can offer but now he may never get that chance, may never and now is not the time to focus on it but oh gods Niki)

“Jack Manifold, too,” Tubbo chimes in. “He was staying in Snowchester, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Karl’s gone,” Quackity says. “But he does that a lot, so that might not necessarily mean anything.” His voice is too strained to be causal, and Wilbur has to make an effort not to react to that, too, though for an entirely different reason. He’s not sure how much Quackity knows. Not sure how much he should say, if anything at all.

(but he has seen Karl bargain with a god has seen the universe cling to him has seen the way he sidesteps in and out of reality and through time to the places inbetween and he would not have thought it of Karl of all people but perhaps that is the point)

“Hannah,” Sam offers, and nothing else. It’s not a name he knows.

“That might be everybody, though,” Sapnap says. “Alyssa and Callahan are long gone, and people like Vikkstar and Lazar haven’t been around for a while, now. Or, wait, actually, I have no idea where Hbomb is.”

“And there’s Purpled, too,” George says around a yawn. “No clue what he’s been up to these days, but he was always pretty close to Punz.”

“Oh, yeah, and the vines were all over his UFO,” Puffy agrees. “Um, and we might want to add Skeppy onto that. I have no clue where he is, but I’d be surprised if he weren’t Team Egg, since Bad is.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Is that actually everybody, then?” George says. “That’s more people than I thought.”

“It could be worse,” Phil says. His head is tilted back, eyes tracing the ceiling, though Wilbur knows him better than to think he’s actually relaxed. “We know about Dream, and BadBoyHalo, Antfrost, Ponk, and Punz. It’s a maybe on Niki, Jack Manifold, Hbomb, Skeppy, Karl—”

“Not Karl,” Quackity insists, and Wilbur is inclined to agree with that much, at least, even while Phil presses on.

“—Purpled, and—Hannah, did you say? And possibly Foolish, since we don’t know, but I’m inclined to agree with Puffy that he’s probably alright. So absolute worst-case scenario, that’s twelve, maybe thirteen people we’re up against. Pretty even odds.”

Phil’s definition of even odds, he thinks, is slightly skewed.

“Yeah, except you’re forgetting that the Egg is a demon. Dreamon, whatever. And Dream is also a demon, kind of,” Sapnap says. “That doesn’t sound even to me.”

“He’s still homeless,” Techno murmurs.

“The fuck does it matter if he’s homeless?” Quackity snaps, and then visibly quails when Technoblade looks at him, even though it’s also obvious that he’s trying not to. History there that he’s not privy to, perhaps, and he’s hardly going to bring it up right now.

“Well, I mean, we’ve already—” Fundy tries to speak up, but he’s drowned out by about four other people trying to weigh in on whether Dream’s homelessness has any bearing on the conversation, and Wilbur takes a second to frown at Techno for the hornet’s nest he’s kicked up, and by that time, Puffy’s speaking again.

(it’s fine, it’s still under control, he has this under control, it’s fine, and so what if he’s running on too few hours of sleep and so what if he wants to set his head down on the table and stay there, because he’s not about to actually do that, and it’s fine, he’s fine, it’s all fine)

“What about you guys?” she says, and everyone else falls quieter. “You were looking for dreamon-related stuff, right? Did you find anything? Honestly, we weren’t sure that you guys would be back this soon.”

“Is that where you went?” Schlatt asks. “How the fuck did that lead to you antagonizing a god?”

He ignores him, still. It’s the only option, really. “We went through as many of the stronghold’s” —There are several exclamations at that, at the fact that they know where one of the server’s strongholds is, as well as a sigh from Phil, no doubt an objection to spreading that tidbit around, but he continues— “books as we could, but we didn’t find anything. I did attempt to provoke a god into helping us, so we’ll see if that pans out at all, but I wouldn’t call it a wasted trip. I also managed to confirm for sure that the Egg is a dreamon, but I think we pretty much knew that.”

There is another moment of complete silence.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” Quackity asks, and from where he’s drifting behind him, Schlatt starts cackling, loud and extremely irritating, a wheezy undertone to it that makes no sense considering that he does not need to breathe.

“I attempted to provoke a god into helping us,” he repeats. “I’m not sure whether I succeeded or not—in the helping area, at least. They were very provoked. But—” He pauses, considering. It’s always a tricky game, figuring out what to say and what to keep close to the chest, but this case is harder than most. “Actually, Sapnap and George, I’d like to ask, were you aware that Dream is a god? Or was a god?”

He is predicting the chaos that erupts after that, all exclamations and incoherent sounds, most of them some variation on either “What?” or “Fuck!” or some combination of both. But he keeps his gaze flickering between George and Sapnap, measuring their reactions. George’s face goes blank—shock, he thinks, rather than the expression of someone being caught out. And Sapnap’s jaw drops slightly.

“Dream’s not a god,” he says, and his voice overrides everyone else’s. “Dream’s not—there’s no way he could’ve kept that from us. Absolutely no way.”

“He’s not now,” he agrees. “He separated himself from the vast majority of his power, somehow, when he realized he’d be corrupted by the remnants of the dreamon. But he was one. I’m sure of that much. He may have hidden it from you, but I am certain of it.”

Sapnap’s face reddens.

“Aw, I think you hurt his feelings, Wilbur,” Schlatt says.

“Dream’s not a god,” Sapnap says again. “He’s not.”

“Even if he is, what does it matter?” Fundy says suddenly. “Especially if he’s not one now. It’s the dreamons that we have to deal with. The Egg, and whatever’s left in Dream. So if we don’t have anything that can take care of that, then what the fuck is all of this for? We have nothing.”

“Weird time for the kid to grow a spine,” Schlatt comments, and he’s ignoring him, he’s ignoring him, even though the vitriol in his son’s voice hits like a knife driven through stitches, back into a wound not yet healed. Fundy’s not looking at him, and the avoidance only makes it worse.

(it is directed at you it has to be it has to be that it is directed at you and it hurts hurts hurts and there is no one to blame but yourself and it hurts and you’re so tired and you have to stay in control but it hurts)

A hand touches his. He glances down to find that he’s clenched them, that his knuckles are white and his palms are stinging from the bite of his fingernails in his flesh, and Tommy has placed his hand on his, watching him. It is an effort to relax even a little bit, but for Tommy’s sake, he manages it.

Tubbo clears his throat. “What Fundy is getting at, I think, is that even with the stuff that me and Fundy have, it won’t be enough to kill them. Maybe we could banish the Egg, but apparently the exorcism we used on Dream wasn’t entirely effective, so we can’t be sure of that much. So maybe we’re not quite at square one, still, but we haven’t gotten that far. And if we can’t beat the dreamons, we can’t beat the Egg. Since the Egg is a dreamon.” He shrugs. “We’ve managed to keep it out. And as long as none of us break the enchantments from the inside, we should be fine to hold out here. But in the way of attacks, we don’t have much.”

“Great,” Quackity says. “So where the fuck does that leave us, then?”

He narrows his eyes at the table, attempting to collect his thoughts, and then looks back up. “I think we’re getting a bit off track,” he says. “Sam, is there anything that you can remember from the moment that Dream broke out that you think might be relevant?”

He tries to keep his voice, if not gentle, then at least free of blame, perhaps because he sees what Quackity apparently doesn’t; there is nothing he could say that would assign more fault than Sam has already assigned to himself. His eyes are dark, shadowed, and what skin is visible above the lines of his mask is pale and gaunt. It’s only been two days, little though that seems possible, but Sam appears as though he hasn’t eaten or slept for a week. Frankly, Wilbur hopes that he’s not planning to join in the fight that is sure to be on the horizon; he hardly looks as if he could effectively wield a sword. He is a far cry from the confident, stoic warden he met in the prison a few weeks ago.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, voice half a moan. “I think—I didn’t go in his cell. I know that for sure. I’d have no reason to. I didn’t go in, and the lava wasn’t lowered, so somehow, he escaped despite that. Which doesn’t make any sense, since the prison was designed to cut people off from any extraneous powers that they might otherwise have access to, and that includes admin abilities.” He stops for a second. The table has fallen silent again, though this time, there is a certain anticipation to it, a horror. Even Quackity looks considering rather than outraged. “I didn’t see him coming. He stabbed right through my armor. And I don’t—maybe it’s related to the demon thing. Or maybe—Wilbur, you said he was a god?”

His voice rises in pitch on the last sentence, cracks a bit on the last word, and Wilbur is suddenly reminded that Sam, like Sapnap and George, has known Dream for a very long time. Known Dream for a very long time and somehow, not known this.

“He was,” he says. “I don’t know how much of that power he still has. Not much, I’d imagine, but in combination with demonic corruption, perhaps that doesn’t matter. And in any case, it’s not something you would have known to plan for.”

“Wait,” Schlatt says, “is that why he could see me? Wilbur, what does it mean that he could see me? Does that mean something?”

He blinks. That—might actually be a good point. One that he hasn’t thought about in some time, though where he fits that into the mess of puzzle pieces spread out before him, he has no idea.

“So we’re back to square one there as well,” Phil says.

“Then I’ll reiterate, where the fuck does this leave us?” Quackity says. “We’ve been doing a whole lot of talking here, but not a whole lot of actual planning. Does anybody actually have an idea of what to do, or are we going around in circles?”

“I don’t see you offering much of anything either,” Eret points out.

“Yeah, ‘cause I don’t know what the fuck is happening!” Quackity shoots back. “At least I can admit that instead of yanking everyone around pretending like I know what I’m doing!”

That is a barb, probably, but Quackity isn’t even looking at him, is glaring at Eret, and this is about to erupt into another argument, and he thinks he’s going to allow it to, because even laying out all the information available to them isn’t getting them anywhere, and even if he had the ability to impose control over the room, there is still a part of him that whispers, that cries out that he does not have the right, and any moment now they will decide that punishing him for his crimes should be higher on the list of priorities, especially if he tries to step back into his old role, and—he’s not nearly as over this as he hoped he was, is he?

(he forgot how to trust a long time ago and perhaps these fears are baseless but that makes them no less potent and he forgot how to trust a long time ago he cannot trust them he cannot and he holds none of his former power not even that which was rightfully his he holds none of it and he cannot trust)

(he can control this he can lead but)

(but he)

(he’s supposed to be)

(a question, one that you do not want to confront: were you ever in control?)

So he lets them. He lets them talk over each other. Even Tommy joins in after a moment, after a sideways glance and another squeeze of his hand, and he can’t even pay attention to what everyone is saying.

It is difficult to keep his shoulders erect. There is a weight trying to bring his head down to his chest. It’s just an argument, and he can hardly expect anything less from these people, so bitter have the tides of history turned between them all, but it feels like a failure on his part, and his thoughts are fracturing again, flying beyond his grasp.

“Wil,” Phil murmurs next to him, but he just shakes his head.

“Yeah, this is going great,” Schlatt says. “Good job with the meeting. Y’know, when I was in charge, I didn’t let any of this happen. I ruled with an iron first. People listened to me. They respected me.”

“And then you died in a drug van,” he says, “from a heart attack, surrounded by people who hated you.”

This gets him an extraordinarily strange glance from Phil, but no one else is paying attention. He can’t keep track of who is snapping at who, but they’re all snapping at each other. In a way, Schlatt is right; the peace lasted, what, ten minutes at most?

Schlatt is silent.

Fundy is looking at him, too. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to read the expression on his face. He doesn’t want—

“Wait,” Schlatt says suddenly, “wait, fuck, do you feel that?” He sounds genuinely alarmed, for once, and after a second, Wilbur feels it too, feels

(the air in the room alight and alive and their voices waver in and out of tune with the underlying melody and the regard lies heavily on them all and the universe is always there is always with you in the back of your mind but it is leaning in closer leaning in over your shoulder and you feel)

the way the atmosphere shifts. His ears fill with white noise. Everyone is still arguing, and they need to stop, but he can’t force the words out. Beside him, Phil jolts. Tommy grips his hand tighter. He doesn’t know if they’re saying anything, can’t hear anything past the ringing.

(a realization, dim and far too late: he really should have tried to get some more sleep)

Schlatt curses. He can hear that, for some reason, loud and clear. And then, he becomes aware of the tether again, aware that the tether is being pulled, is being yanked on, a burst of energy departing from him, energy that he’s fairly sure he might not actually have to give, and—

“Hey, could you all just shut up for two fucking seconds?” Schlatt says, voice almost causal, strong, no longer echoing, and the static clears from his mind and ears, and the room is once again quiet. His hands have begun to shake, and the tether is pulling on his heart, he thinks. He doesn’t have to turn to know that Schlatt stands behind his chair, solid as anything.

His heart is literally fluttering. That might not be good.

“What,” Quackity says, “the fuck.”

And he doesn’t say anything else. Because the god appears, then, hovering over the meeting table, cloak fluttering without wind, twin halos circling their head, and it’s interesting, that he can see those now without straining his mind. The space under their hood no longer appears full of shadows, but rather of the universe itself, a darkness that is not empty, starstuff swirling just out of view.

“Oh, shit, that actually is a god,” Schlatt mutters.

He hears the humming. It bolsters him, a bit, boosts his flagging strength. He takes in a deep breath, and his heart calms, steadies.

He focuses.

“Is hovering over tables the only way you know how to make an entrance?” he asks.

The god’s hood swings his way.

“I asked the universe,” they say. “The universe did not refuse.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Quackity is muttering under his breath. Eret is staring, jaw slack. Puffy has grabbed onto Sam’s arm. The reactions on his side of the table are less pronounced; Phil and Ranboo have seen the god before, Techno is not one to be impressed without what he considers due reason, and Tommy refuses to be cowed on general principle, though he does hear him and Tubbo both let out a, “Holy shit,” under their breaths, almost in unison.

But Sapnap has risen to his feet, eyes wide.

And George says, “Dream?” His voice does not waver. He sounds curious, confused. Perhaps hopeful.

The god actually seems to still, the motion of their cloak dying down as they turn away from Wilbur and toward the other side of the table.

“Once,” they say, and Wilbur is surprised that they’re answering at all, to be honest. “No longer.” They pause. “He loved you. May yet still, under the corruption that has taken him. I am sorry.”

The god does not know human emotions. The god is not a person in their own right, not really; they are built of the power of a god and little else. But somehow, Wilbur almost believes that they mean it.

Sapnap makes a gasping sound, like air tried to escape his lungs but got caught in his throat. George has sat up straighter in his seat, his whole body leaning toward where the god is hovering. His hands rest on the table, palms facing upward, as if in invitation.

If it is one, the god does not take it.

(DreamXD, Karl called the god, DreamXD, Dream XD, Dream Xed, Dream crossed out, Dream but not, and perhaps this is the cruelest thing he could have done to these two, inviting a facsimile of their friend to hover in front of them, a reminder of what they lost and are not likely to ever have again, because this god could never hope to replace the man that Wilbur remembers from the beginning, the Dream that used to be and will likely never be again)

“I asked the universe,” the god says again, and turns back toward him. “The universe did not refuse. The universe sees you, and the universe would reply.” They pause, allowing that declaration to simmer in the air for a moment. Their voice echoes, and he can hear in that echo the overlay of the song, the tune, the notes that the stars hum reverberating in the world’s atoms. “If I alone were strong enough to exorcise this corruption, he would have done so when we were whole. But you have met with the universe, and the universe would aid me, so that I might aid you.”

His attention is fixed on them. But in his peripheral vision, he sees Sapnap slump back into his seat, face contorted.

(yes, this is the cruelest thing he could have done, bringing their dearest friend’s mirror reflection here)

“And what—” He stops. Wets his lips. His mouth is dry. “And what aid would that be?”

The folds of their cloak stir. A hand emerges, and the hand, too, is darkness-that-is-the-universe, and it is not connected to any arm that he can see. Their fingers splay wide, and then dropping from the air and onto the table, there are two swords. On first glance, they seem to have been forged from diamonds, sparkling blue in the throne room’s flickering firelight, but there are runes crawling up and down the blades and hilts, runes that seem to squirm and dance and shift.

And the runes are lit with starlight. He’s not sure that anyone else can see it. But he knows.

(the runes hum)

“The void is not so easily subsumed,” the god says, “and it is from the void that the corruption comes. But the void is part of the universe even as it exists outside of the universe. Corruption can be destroyed.” The hand gestures to the swords, now lying beneath them on the table. “With great effort, but the universe has joined me in it. These are the result.”

“I’ve never seen runes like those before,” Tubbo breathes, eyes wide. He leans forward, apparently overcoming his wariness. “These can—these can kill a dreamon? Like, actually?”

“The blow must be lethal,” the god says. “But the corruption can be destroyed. You asked me for help. This is all I can offer you.”

“It’s far better than nothing,” he says, and pauses, just to hear the hum, now coming from multiple sources, the swords and the god alike. “Thank you.”

“Do not fail,” the god says, and under any other circumstance, Wilbur might laugh at the words, so stereotypical, like something out of a television show. Do not fail. As if he plans to, as if he would without this prompting. “Do not allow this to be in vain.”

The world folds around them. The air compresses. Just as they appeared, they are vanish again, the only sign of their presence the swords that still glimmer before them all. The atmosphere lightens, the sensation of being watched easing away, like storm clouds dissipating. The god is truly gone, then, and staring at the blades, he’s not sure what to feel. He supposes that he hoped for more, somehow, hoped that the god would have the power to solve the issue for them, that if he could just persuade them to act then their troubles would go away. But it makes sense that they can’t; if the god’s power were enough to destroy a dreamon, then Dream wouldn’t have been possessed in the first place, and none of this would be happening at all.

This is the second best thing. The universe itself has interceded.

(and it’s such a strange thought is something that he never would have thought plausible because the universe does not interfere the universe watches and waits but he has been there in the cradle of the cosmos and felt them watching heard them whisper the stars and the space between and they watch but they watch with love and the universe has not fixed their problems has not made them magically disappear but it has given the means to do it themselves and upon further reflection that is like the universe that is very like the universe and perhaps what it has given them is hope)

“Well, that was enlightnin’,” Techno drawls. “So glad we got all of that cleared up. Can I have one of those fancy swords, or do we need to have a whole argument about this, too?”

“Why the fuck are you being so calm about this?” Quackity says. “Why the fuck—what the fuck even was—and you!” He stands, the motion quick and sharp, and he throws an accusing finger in his—no, in Schlatt’s direction, because the god is gone and he can feel his heart fluttering again, his energy tugged away from him at a rate that should perhaps be considered alarming, and he can sense Schlatt’s presence behind him, solid and breathing. “How are you here, you’re dead, you are so fucking dead, I ate your fucking heart that’s how dead you are, I literally own your, your leg bones, I have your femurs, how are you here, and can you just die again, right now?”

“Aw, did you miss me, honey bear?” Schlatt says.

“No, I hate your fucking guts, I hate you so fucking much, you are—” And he keeps going, and Sapnap has shaken himself out of his stupor enough to glare daggers at—shit, at his fiance’s ex-husband, and that’s a bit messy, isn’t it? And absolutely no one at the table appears pleased that Schlatt is here, even though several people seem to be too focused on absorbing what’s just happened with the literal god to be too concerned at the sudden reappearance of a former dictator, but Quackity continues and Schlatt eggs him on, and Tubbo is a few seats down, swiveled in his chair and staring at Schlatt with an expression that’s impossible to determine

(but that he doesn’t like, doesn’t like the mix of hope and fear and want and disgust, doesn’t like it at all)

and it’s all too much, and his chest hurts. Like it’s too tight. Like his lungs aren’t inflating.

(Schlatt died of a heart attack hated and alone even surrounded as he was he was alone and he died of a heart attack of a)

He glances around the table one last time, hoping for some indication that somebody, anybody, wants this conversation to get back on track. Instead, his gaze lands on Fundy, who is watching Schlatt with shock and open anticipation but very little anger, and somehow, that is what does it, what sends everything boiling over, the fact that his son is looking at Schlatt with a more welcoming expression than he greeted him with.

(and he deserves it he deserves it he knows but)

He never had control here. He has to face that.

He yanks at the tether, pulls with what little strength he has left, and the flow of energy halts, and Schlatt goes translucent mid-sentence.

“Just to be transparent, the bastard’s always around,” he says into the silence, rising from his seat, blinking black spots from his vision. His own voice sounds distant, but clear, at least. “But he literally has to draw from my lifeforce to do that, so that’s enough for now, I think. Please direct your complaints to the empty air rather than me, as I have very little say in where he decides to go poking around, and I probably agree with all of your objections to his general everything in any case.” He leans against the table, and tries not to make it obvious that that’s what’s keeping him upright. “I suggest we conclude our discussion for now, and come back in a few hours to actually formulate a plan based on our new resources.”

He gives it a second, but only waits for one person—Puffy, he thinks, though his vision is swimming—to nod, hesitantly, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. Going anywhere. Anywhere else.

(you lost control of them and you’re losing control of yourself and how long until you have to admit that you never had control in the first place that you claim to be better but don’t even know what that means that the paint really is scraping off and once it’s all gone there will be no more lying to yourself and then where will you be, Wilbur, where will you be)

No one stops him. A few people call out. Schlatt—sounding irritated, but that’s tough; he’s going to have to deal with it—and Tommy, and Phil.

He took a few minutes before the meeting began. To compose himself, to relax. That didn’t work, so he’ll take a few hours. And then get back to it. There’s no choice otherwise, after all. No real rest until this nightmare is over with, whenever that may be.

He ignores the voice that whispers that he’s not going to make it that far. He’s pushed through times like this before.

He can do it again.

16 notes · View notes

imtryingthisout · 4 years

Text

Of Flames and Fire: Prologue

[If you hate me for writing this, just remember I hate myself more and that this began because of a joke.]

Warnings: Ask to Tag

Word Count: 3627

Fandom: Disney Descendants

*************************************************

Dirt clung to the fringes of Maleficent’s robes as she descended deeper into the cavernous warren. Once upon a time her presence would have struck such fear that not even the dust mites would have dared come near her, but such a time was over now, and now the endings of her black cloak grew more and more soiled with every step she took.

She held a twisted candelabra in one hand and her faithful staff in the other. The small flame burned a deep rouge color, more red than yellow, with how thick and low the air had become. Maleficent was surprised it still burned at all. She was thankful for the candle’s valiant effort. Gone were the days where she could summon a ball of hellfire to illuminate the room, and with all the dust and filth in the air she wasn't sure her darkvision would be of any use.

A drop of hot wax struck her fingers.

Maleficent continued onwards.

As she ventured closer and closer to her destination, the sound of barking began to ring in her ears. Viscous growls, the sound of teeth hitting teeth, shrieks and yelps and oh so much barking. Were she a lesser soul it might have frightened her, or at the very least given her a pause, but she knew that no dog (three headed or otherwise) lived down here, just a lonely master trying to cope with the sound of silence.

(Out of everything her new prison tormented her with, Maleficent never thought she would grow to loathe the quiet. The silence. Even on the Forbidden Mountain she would hear the rustling of wind, the roaring cacophony of her minion’s delight, the sound of Diablo’s deep cawing. But here, even with the tumult of the budding city of thieves and villains, her thoughts screamed louder than any noise. Here she felt more alone than she ever did atop her ruined castle.)

No door was mounted to the cave’s wall, it would be far too impractical to do so, so Maleficent raised a curved fist and knocked thrice on a wooden post instead. “Who is it?” a voice called out from lower in the room, it sounded irritated and gruff, good. Maleficent smiled “Just a passing visitor Lord Hades”.

Quicker than she thought possible, the exiled Monarch of the Underworld stood leaning against the doorframe, one arm draped over the rotten wood and his head tilted with a school boy smile (if a school boy had eyes of glowing brimstone and thorny rows of sharp teeth protruding from his gums). “Why Miss Maleficent, what brings you to my little.. home away from home?”

She took a moment to drink in his sight, he looked more or less the same as he did when they first met, a little more tired, maybe, a little less put together, thick silver-colored cuffs bound round his wrists to drain his godly might. Still something about him seemed different, she couldn't quite place her finger on it, then she met his gaze. “Kohl around the eyes, Lord Hades? I do hope you aren't going Egyptain on me”

He snorted and rolled his- yes, black lined- eyes “Nah those guys are great, but they sure as Me don’t need another Death God. Besides- Blue Hair? Blue Skin? It’s already confusing enough for mortals to get us mixed up at parties, and don't even get me started on the Ptolemaic Pantheon menagerie, cultural syncretism is fun and all but all that rewriting and re-rewriting and who’s who even got my head more turned around than the gordian knot!”

Here Hades stood taller than Maleficent, even with his slumped posture and hunched back. The slope of the floor was curved in his favor. Her horns were a brandished crown growing, twisting, above her head and barely scraping the stone above her.

She let the humor linger in the air for a breath before speaking. “I have a proposition for you, my lord” she said while dismissing the candle and setting it down on a rock ledge. The light from Hades’ hair and lair would suffice to brighten her vision. Maleficent raised a free arm “Shall we continue our conversation inside? I feel it would be awfully rude to lurk in doorways.” Hades’ smile grew wider, almost splitting his face in two.

“My dearest disgrace to all things dignified, it would be my pleasure” He said, taking her arm and leading her inside. Despite herself she snorted. “My lord I am always dignified, it is deferential which I am not”

Hades’s new domain lay deep underground in the heart of the Isle. Despite his many years of hatred of being saddled with the burden of the Underworld, the room appeared very similar to his old home. ‘Perhaps that is the point’, Maleficent thought, wondering if his new dwelling was really of Hades’ choosing, or did he simply wake up on the Isle in a room modeled after his old kingdom, swapping an old prison for a new one. She wasn’t sure if Zeus had it in him...but Zeus wasn't the only one hurt by Hades’ failed machinations, and she knew that Hera certainitly did, fondness for her older brother or not- the Queen of Gods would not have hesitated to rub salt in any wounds of her child’s stealer. Especially when such irony would have been involved.

In another life, perhaps it would have been Hera who Maleficent would be conversing with, she did always have a healthy respect for the Golden Throned Goddess,like draws to like afterall, and there is nothing more similar yet individual than women with power.

Then again, in another life she wouldn't need to bargain, in another life she would have crushed Prince Phillip’s sword between her teeth and swallowed him whole, in another life she would have blessed the infant Princess with a gift of her own, something clever and far more powerful than any of the Three Sisters trivial delights. In another life---

Hades leads her to a sitting area, long tatham benches set interlocking with one another, made of dark ebony wood. Maleficent gathers the excess of her robe in her grip and takes a seat, then slowly lets the fabric flow down and unfurl on the clean gray floor. The Lord of the Dead seats himself next to her, and after a moment’s pause, she allows him to wrap one of his hands around her waist.

“I have come to reclaim my debt, Your Majesty” she begins, he laughs and jokes “I’m not a accountant dollface, you’ll have to be more specific. I think I still got some styx-water sloshing around in my skull” but she can see the tightness around his eyes, the stiffness in his fingers as he cleans his ear and flicks a droplet of water over his shoulder, he knows exactly what she is referring to. He also knows that his newfound lack of power might have put him in a very precarious situation. Maleficent smiles sharply.

The grip on her waist tightens.

“Then let me help to restart your memory, years ago you needed an elixir that would turn anything, even a God, mortal. I concocted such a potion on the clause that you would… how did you say it? ‘Owe me one bigtime mama '’” she said drolling her words and making air quotations with her slender fingers. The God of The Dead had the decency to look sheepish, a bright blue blush blooming under his siltstone skin. “Okay yeah might’ve been a bit drunk on success when I said that…”

“Mmhmm” Maleficent hummed, raising a single eyebrow.

“....sorry”

“In any case, a deal is a deal, and now I see to collect my end of our bargain”

“It would be my pleasure my lovely lady of labilzation--” “that one was better” “Thank you I do try, --- however I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that, unlike before, I no longer have the Underworld and all its resources at my disposal to grant your dark heart’s deepest desire-- “Lord Hades are you implying I ever had a heart to begin with?” “ Ha ha no. But you do have desires that our current predicament might limit me from fulfilling”

“And you do hate to leave your women unfulfilled, don’t you Hades?”

“Yes I- HEY” Hades began with his usual smooth inflection, not even really looking at her, before cutting himself on and standing up in outrage. Face pinched and flushed. He started pacing back and forth in front of her while Maleficent looked on in cruel delight. He was yammering about something, going on about respect and proper dues and getting wonderfully worked up about himself. It almost made her nostalgic.

“I mean I know I’m no roving casanova like dear little Zeus-y, Persphone would gut me for even trying that and--”

Then his body stilled and he turned to face her, running his hands through his hair to gather his thoughts. Pity, she was enjoying she show. “Alright I get it, playtimes over. What do you want Maleficent? What under this damned barrier could be so important that you need to cash in on?”

“You and I both know Lord Hades that there are forces far older and far more powerful than this Godmother’s little trick. Deals, oaths, dept, magic sworn by magic will be repaid in turn. ” Maleficent raised herself slowly, taking small measured steps to where Hades stood shadowed by the cavern’s light. “As for what I want? That's simple, I want your name”

Name, she hissed out the word, the word that had churned and boiled somewhere deeper than her stomach and rose up her throat, that fell down her tongue and turned sharp and low against her teeth. The word that made her eyes flash with a power that no well intentioned Godmother or once cursed King could contain.

The word that made the Lord of the Dead, Hades himself, fall stumbling backwards to his knees. The shadow wrenched away from him in haste, revealing his wide eyes and- oh how she missed this- positively wreaked expression. If she was someone else she would say he was nervous, his face too numb to be fearful, but Maleficent knew better. He was terrified.

Pleas spilt from his lips like ambrosia in a clumsy hand. He was almost begging her now, with more fervor than he ever begged before--

( In times of old when the earth was freshly taken and the sky still red with titan’s blood, three brothers gathered to divide the cosmos between themselves. The youngest made his claim to the sky and took it’s child, the mighty thunderbolt, as his symbol. He gifted the sea to the middle brother who accepted it glady, but to the oldest he gave no pearl-rich land or magnificent heaven, but the burden of the damned and dead. The darkest corners of the world, where no light reached and the wild souls wandered aimlessly in the eternal darkness. His older brother objected, of course, and perhaps he even set aside his pride to grovel, but the youngest was unyielding. )

“Please Mali, don’t, not that I’ll do anything--”

( Once Ra fell sick from a clay snake bite, and called a council of every man and women and God to come and aid him, but they could do nothing. Then he called for Isis, for surely she would have the answers to his prayers. “What ever you need, I will provide” And so Isis said to the sun god Ra, ‘Great king of The Heavens and all we hold dear, the venom in your blood is much too strong, the only way I can heal you is with the knowledge of your Name’. So Ra listed off all of his titles and epithets, of which he had many, but Isis was not deterred. ‘My Lord and King, though those names are as grand and great as you are, they are not the one of which I refer to. If you wish to continue as yourself, ruler of the Gods, I will need your Rem to cure you’ said Isis and Ra knew she spoke the truth. Banishing the other medicine men and healers from the room he took Isis into his wings and bared to her the fifth of his soul, the name in which all his power sprang from. Isis took the name and healed Ra, feeling the universe realign with her at its helm, Goddess above Gods, of life and moon and medicine and magic. The fruits of her cunning rewarded hundredfold. And she smiled.)

“-- you don't want that old thing, I mean, what would you even do with my name anyway? It’s not like it would be of any use to you here”

“That, Your Majesty, is where you are wrong.” Maleficent slammed the end of her staff on top of the end of Hades’ robe, catching him in place as he tried to flinch backwards. She knelt before him, his back arched so completely he resembled more of a semicircle than a fallen God, his body so small here compared to hers. The long tendrils of her cloak sprawled themselves across the floor, their edges slithering like snakes, writhing and engulfing them, Hades was a cold star trapped amidst a sea of dark fabric.

“You asked me what could be so important to me that I would risk claiming my due of our agreement here, under this hell forsaken barrier. Why would I step into the limelight after years of isolation to rule an island of filth and trash” she pressed a single nail to his face tilting it up, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Because here is where my child will be born, and no blood of mine will be powerless while I still live to conquer and provide”

Her child, who was barely an weight in her arms, hungry for magic where there was none, hungry for food unrotten and drink unspoiled. If Maleficent was kinder she would crush it’s skull beneath her feet and spare it from a life full of pain and longing. Years of torment and clawing at it’s own skin spared in a moment’s decision.

(Her child, who could one day release their Mother from her prison, if they had will to do so.)

Maleficent had never been a kind person.

She did, however, on the seldom occlusion, know mercy and how to manipulate the unwilling. She could just rip his name from his chest, leave him broken and shivering on the cold stone floor. The thought was tempting, it really had been too long since she last had the chance to destroy someone so thoroughly, but she knew it would be better in the long run if she could get Hades to cooperate. Never let it be said she wasn’t a patient Mistress.

Leaning her weight forward she gingerly took one of Hades’ wrists in her hand, turning it over and carefully inspecting the thick band that now encircled it . This close she could feel the way it softly vibrated under her touch, the binding sigils carved so delicately and deep into the metal.

Her skin burned on contact, but you would never tell by her expression, eyes trained on the way Hades’ life force flowed. Faint traces of his magic traveling down his veins and funneling into the band, which would pulse slightly and constrict, the sigils would glow and hold, before loosening its too tight grip on its host. Then the cycle would continue anew.

It was one of the most brilliantly constructed and horrid devices Maleficent had ever laid her eyes on.

It was a work of art.

And as she read the runes she began to recognize what artist could have made such a beautiful thing.

“Do you know just how luck you are Lord Hades? While the rest of us villains must serve a penance that will span the rest of our days, you sit here with shackles holding only until you meet their requirements. I always wondered why Auradon would risk the order of the world just to fulfill their pallid sense of morality, and here my questions are answered. It seems the true nature of your punishment is far more poetic than a measly imprisonment, no, the true keys to your freedom lay in siring a child,”

A cold sense of realization dawned on Hades, “Hera” he whispered.

“How does the saying go again? An eye for an eye.” Maleficent pushed her nail deeper into the skin of his arm “A lost babe for a lost babe.”

Something inside Hades’ eyes broke at her words, and he begun laughing, freely, manic not maniacal, the laugh of a man who knew the entire cosmos was a joke and now he finally got the punchline. “Oh Hera!” He cried out, gathering the shattered pieces of himself and pulling them together.

He stood up from underneath her, fluid as smoke escaping from her grasp, as if his body was still atmos and ichor- not confined to rigid flesh and blood. ( A distant part of Maleficent imagines Hades, stumbling and impaling his head against a stalagmite as he has to relearn how to walk again, learn how to live in a body so forign yet familiar.) He did not offer to help her, and she made no move to rise, instead she remained sitting, her back ramrod straight and hands folded across her staff which rested on her lap.

Over the sounds of running water and the everpresent barking, Maleficent could hear the sounds of his brain work. Spinning gears within gears furiously trying to take in the new information and generate a more beneficial outcome for himself. “Alright, you want my name, you want power, you want little Maleficent Junior to grow up with magic, which I can’t blame you for. I want to get out of here and I want my wife not to kill me on my arrival, so I propose a solution that just might work for us both”

“Go on”

“ gift part of my name to the little tyke, giving them- and by extension you- power that not even this blasted barrier can suppress. That means that in the eyes of magic, I’m basically your baby’s daddy”

“And are you willing to uphold that responsibility? I have no need for a husband nor a housekeeper, but both dragons and fae are known for their possessiveness and of them I am both”

Hades didn't miss a blink, shark toothed smiled fixed back in place on his face “My magnificent Mistress of Misery from now until my chains are unfettered and I am called away to return to my Iron throne, I do swear to treat your little demonspawn as if they were born from the rotten fruit of my loins. Now, do we have an agreement?” Now he looked down at her, hand extended for her to shake. “Going once… going twice..”

Maleficent leapt forward, her hand digging deep into the weak flesh of his arm, she used to movementum to pull herself close to him, nose to nose, sharpened teeth to sharpened teeth, her horns haloing her head- two blackened crests protruding from her skull that reflected the dull blue light of the room. “Its a deal” she declared. Smiling viscously as she felt her eyes flare, not gold, but green, green as burning hellflame, fire in its purest form.

If this were anywhere else but The Isle of The Lost, thunder would crack at their declaration, a ring of light would maifest around their grip sealing their oath in color and magic. The air would ignite at their words. However, this was The Isle, and so the only illumination of fate’s rearrangement came from the flicker of light on Hades’ wrists as the runes surged, the taste of copper under Maleficent’s tongue, and the deep bone-seated feeling that something big will come. This was the stone whose ripple will cause the wave years down the line.

Maleficent hoped it would rise and drown the whole world.

She almost smiled at the thought.

---------------------------------------

“Huh”

“What?”

“You know when you said you had a baby, I kinda pictured- you know- a baby”

“I do hope you aren't talking bad about our child, it hasn't even hatched yet”

“Maleficent thats not a child, thats an egg”

“You think I would birth a infant mammal? Don’t be so crude, egg laying is a much more civilized method of reproduction”

“Wait does that make you a reptile? Oh sweet Zeus don’t tell me you are? What can you unhinge your jaw? Do you have a hemi--”

“Silence your tongue Lord Hades before I cut it out myself”

“Sorry sweetcheeks I couldn't resist”

“....”

“...sorry”

“Now traditionally Mother and Daughter would pass on a portion of their name until the time came where the Daughter earned to full title of Maleficent, usually by slaying their Mother and taking her name for herself. Until that day a middle name would serve as a placeholder to help differentiate them, a Mal Bertha or Mal Lamia or something of the sort. If you are giving up one of your titles, perhaps Mal Aidoneus would suffice?”

“Yeah, no”

“No?”

“Listen, Fairy G’s little parasite pocket is going to hone in on quote the name of the “The Mistress of All Evil” like a cyclopes at a half-off everything sunglass sale. You want this kid to have even a smidgen of a chance we gotta change it up a bit.”

“Well then Your Majesty I don’t suppose you have any better Ideas”

“........Malenthea”

“Hm?”

“Her name, it will be Malenthea”

“Then so mote it be”

“....”

“HOLY RHEA YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THE EGG WOULD EXPLODE--”

#disney descendants #descendants #fic #writing #my writing #maleficent #hades #Disney Hades #OC: Malenthea #Of Flame and Fire Au #descendants rewrite #descendants fic #Mal Bertha #mal descendants #fae Mal #dragon mal

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cruelzy · 5 years

Note

I’m actually nervous about sending in a request cause I love your writing so much and honestly don’t feel worthy to make a request of you. However, I would like to request a Legolas Drabble/fic/whatever you call it based on the prompt that’s like “five times he almost kissed her and the one time he did” I really love your writing and I wasn’t aware requests were open until just now.

notes: i did three and one love cuz ain’t no one got time for that

Legolas hesitantly concludes that his best decisions are made without much thought.

Not to say he is rash. On the contrary—though his every inhale could do with less contemplation beforehand—he considers himself rather circumspect. (As modestly as one could ever self evaluate anyway.)

There tends to, nevertheless, be a lack of time to muse in the thick of battle. He can count on one hand any gargantuan choices he’d had to make outside of a particularly tense situation.

Point: world changing verdicts were normally decided on direct instinct, rather than any gradual, logical philosophy.

Reality: he has had all the time in Middle Earth and more to think about why he should not be with you.

Cannot, he corrects himself. Nay should not. Cannot.

Greed. Coil. Collapse.

Will not.

Your own indecision is louder in the silence.

It’s never truly silent for him, not really, but onset of moonless night has coaxed the land into a reluctant still. His awareness fractures, branches out among the slow shifting plains beneath his feet to the anxious fidget of your dry fingers, the deep seated craving of the forest, the heat of the sleeping company bolstering against his back, bare and familiar and grounding. He keeps watch, the storm in his ears approaching steadfast in the east—torrents to be upon them by noon the latest of morrow, so he plans; he listens to the far flung sea, ever present in her rhythmic whispers, he tracks the mechanical open shut of your mouth in hushed breath as you slowly but surely build your confidence—"Legolas?“

Thunder unfolds itself from the sky.

Your head snaps to the heavens. Blinking against the night, clumsy in that distinct way of man in dark, “you had something you wished to tell me?”

“No.” Legolas says. “Nothing.”

ii.

Time marches on.

They rise. They move. They fight. They sleep. They rise.

The good and the bad scatters into the wind, lingers in their eyes and their jokes and their bones at the fire. They keep moving. Solidarity is a drive half-cool, offering much needed relief against the merciless sun every moment between.

“Say, do your hands serve the same purpose as your feet?” A voice rises into morning dew. “If you drop on all fours, you may be able to advance faster than that!“

“Ha!” You scowl in response, posturing an air of exaggerated disdain and failing terribly. Your lips quiver up at the corners. “I could run to the sun and back and you would still be doing up your boots!“

The brown eyed dwarf you speak to turns swiftly on his heels, holding Legolas in his sights. He grins wide, the physical embodiment of mischief. "What say you, elf? Who is swifter?”

“Foul play! I have seen the food you offer him after hunt!”

“Give the truth as you see fit, great war-bow warrior, keen-eye of Mirkwood—”

“Bribery!”

The rest of the circle keeps quiet in amused exasperation, wholly familiar with your antics.

“Perchance he should race with us to properly judge. If he loses, the punishment shall be a pleasure of mine to ruffle at least two, no, three hairs loose from his perfect mane!” There’s a teasing incredulity in his purr. “Unimaginable!"

Legolas smiles. "I do not think you could reach.”

You throw your head back and laugh heartily as the BlackLock squawks in outrage. Legolas watches your face glow. The joyful sound unfurls him from the inside out like wood flowers in springtime.

Longing surges fast. Sudden.

It would be so easy.

The thought loiters for only a second, but it is a second far too many. His reaction is all but physical: restraint forcefully barreling into him like a tidal wave. Ire immediately follows. Always, always this with you. Eats him alive. Haunts. Marvel at the vast expanse of his own incompetence, tossed about like a raft in the surf, lost to emotion’s every beck and call as though he were a boy. And if there is anything Legolas is not, it is a boy.

Outwardly, his ears twitch once.

The sea laughs and laughs.

iii.

(SII’ !)

Peace shattered by a cacophony of yells.

He should have known—the forest had been teething in unrest all morning, but he was, of course, unusually distracted.

And where there is one warg, there are bound to be more. Packs never stray far. Honestly, he would have been more concerned if there was a solo beast; lone, exiled wolves always tend to be more unpredictable, and consequently more dangerous.

His own pack has tightened, too well polished to break formation. Legolas assesses the situation in a brisk glance before raising a fist level to his sternum, parallel to the ground. The company obediently scatters. Divide. Lure. Incapacitate.

Earlier hypothesis confirmed, he thinks, absentminded. He did not hesitate for that course of action, now did he?

Legolas frowns. A harrowing blur of teeth and claws draws him back to reality, three answering growls sounding from behind. He presses his lips together. He is in no mood for this.

In the end it is less a skirmish and more an execution.

Today, the concept of mercy may as well be as far from him as the Halls of Mandos. He yanks his arrows back from the bodies, apathetically maneuvering around the excessive bloodshed. None of his companions have disappeared from the corners of his visión; in fact, most are beginning to take rest as the struggle winds down. Hard resistance to his movements makes him pause.

The last shaft is unrecognizable amongst the shredded cartilage and sinew.

Legolas blinks owlishly.

“Report."

"All accounted for,” there’s your voice, effortlessly branded to his skull, “don’t worry about the blood.”

He tips his head. Legolas has both been around long enough, and been around you long enough, to recognize nuance when he hears it. The timbre of your tone is too innocent. “Is that s–”

You enter line of visión, and whatever amusement there was fizzles entirely out of existence.

You’re a bath of carnage from head to toe.

He straightens, bewildered.

“Don’t worry about the blood,” you repeat. Upon your smile is victory, but he can hardly register such a thing, already crossing the distance in three long strides.

Sturdy. Sturdy in front him. Strong as a bough; chest high, shoulders back, hands slick with sweat and grime. Still vulnerable. The stench of moldy earth fills his nose. “Report."

You wipe your blade on the grass, eyeing the hand on your arm strangely. Quiet, then whoosh, air punching through your nose in an obvious joking redirection—"Puppy just got too close for comfort. I live.”

Once he has visibly confirmed what you say to be true, the relief is dizzyingly tangible. It feels as though his mind is shooting out sparks.

Will not.

Desire alone he could handle, but this is something else, something more tender. And what of it? A living disease.

“Plague,” he hisses.

Now that the threat of your demise has cut short, he cannot ignore the heightened adrenaline running rampant in his veins, yet to temper from the sudden battle.

Fingers clamp tighter into flesh, as though you would vanish into thin air the moment he took hands off you.

For all your confidence, your palms are shaking. This, however, does nothing to the vicious triumph etched into your visage.

Something slowly jostles awake within him.

There’s a sense of pride, yes, but what raises heavy head under his bones is far more ancient, more volatile. He touches your cheek, watches the up down heave of your chest quicken. Liquid crimson marks exposed skin, slides wet between his knuckles. Your brow is slick with sweat. The trees grow louder and louder in their whispering, crisp leaves crunching underfoot where he inches closer. Every detail on your face has sharpened to a point, and Legolas knows his eyes have blown wide and luminescent.

When he says your name, he can barely recognize his own voice.

“There is a stream up ahead!”

Reminder of an audience makes him all but growl. The fingers on your cheek drop, lightly brushing up and under the curve of your jaw on their way out. He does not imagine the violent shudder that runs through you.

Legolas endures.

“Alive, indeed,” he quips, gaze smoldering. “Be more careful.”

———

You are going to murder an elf.

You’re going to rip out his entrails and wear them as a badge of honour. You’re going to wrap up the remains and send them to Thranduil himself. You’re going to tug him down to your level and you’re going to, you’re going to kiss the ever living daylights out of hi—

No!

You grind your teeth together, stalking down the hallway threateningly. Passersby steer nervously out of your way.

When you finally find him, he is alone in the kitchens. “Ah!” Your exclamation is purposefully loud, as you vehemently wish he would jump and smash his perfect head into the pans from surprise. Of course, no such thing happens. He probably heard you coming. This only incenses you further. “There you are you intrepid, lousy, good for nothing—”

“I did not know,” Legolas drawls, “that it was a crime to prepare oneself a drink.”

“Hilarious. You’re hilarious. No really, if you ever tire of being a prince, a jester is right next in line.”

Hot and cold and hot and cold for months on end with the pointy-eared bastard. He’s put the icing on top by avoiding you, when he well knows that with the journey commenced, you are leaving Mirkwood soon.

“There are rumors you have been searching for someone. Were you successful?”

There have been absolutely no such thing—

“Oh? I haven’t heard.” The last dregs of patience spill out of you like a runny egg. “Whose mouths spout such gossip? Ghosts? Are there spirits in these halls?"

"Perhaps.”

“Alright.” You are very very done with this conversation. “Here it is. I am going to talk, and you are going to listen.”

His eyebrows raise, bemused. Legolas spreads his upturned palms placidly as if to say go ahead, then turns back around, the frame of his body blocking whatever his hands are occupied with from eyesight.

You squint.

“What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” he says. He catches your gaze, and without any semblance of warning, you are struck, once again, by his beauty.

You swallow.

One would think the novelty would eventually fade and disappear, but not so. It is a fact of his existence: just as the colour of his hair, or the sound of his voice. Noticing is simply seeing. Unavoidable. Legolas is impossibly beautiful, and you are trapped reliving it again and again.

He calmly slips a spoon into his mouth.

“Care to taste?”

Before your own cowardice can psyche you out of it, you dart forward, tugging the utensil from his lips to thoughtfully place between yours.

A beat.

Legolas tilts his head like some lazy jungle cat, eyes impassive.

As if on cue, explosions of colour practically bang behind your teeth: pungent woodsmoke and spice and evergreen, acrid, fine sugared juniper flooding thick down your throat. If the very heart of the earth had a taste, it was this.

You choke.

“That,” says Legolas, “was alcohol.”

“Pardon?"

You gag around the weapon in your mouth, pulling it out faster than the speed of light in genuine panic. If Legolas was capable of downing an entire bar of alcohol without feeling a thing, what would one drop of elvhen alcohol do to you?!

The face you were making must have been hysterical, because Legolas laughs breezily, sweeping up the mug in one smooth motion and taking a long, deliberate sip.

"I was joking,” he finally says. “It is tea."

"Truly?” You clarify. “No repercussion?”

“Well, you may feel unnaturally clear-headed.”

Forget sending remains to Thranduil. You are going to hang them above your front door.

A sarcastic response nearly flies off of your tongue but dies of clipped wings half way out. You frown. With a start, you realize he’s steered you away from your original topic with frighteningly choreographed ease.

Unease makes you fall quiet, apprehensive.

“You’re dangerous,” you say.

“Yes.” He smiles, deliciously slow. “Does that scare you?”

You think even a whisper would drain whatever breath you have left, so you don’t answer. All the air has fled your lungs.

“A score and two moons ago,” Legolas continues evenly, as if you had not become a living statue, “you and I stood outside my father’s throne room. Do you remember? You peered out at the turning of the leaves, those great trunks in their shadow, and wondered how glad I was at heart. You said you would be old and grey by the time my father decided we were worth his presence.” His eyes crinkle at the corners again, sadly. “I know why you are here, valarhîw. It cannot happen."

You imagine how you must appear to him. The march of time on your features, mortality burning out quick and bright in every tuck and crease of skin, leaking out of each pore, impermeable in your predestined fate. Brevity of such a high-tensioned existence: chase of second to second, the constant companion that is anticipation, desperation, anticipation, you imagine, is inconceivable to a being thousands of years old. Your entire life is simply one of his weeks.

And yet, something traitorous whispers in your ear. He is still here.

"You know what I think?” You croak.

Legolas does not respond.

“I think you are trying to scare me off. I think you are more terrified of the alternative.”

“Trust me, child,” he sounds seemingly the same, but his gaze is molten. “Heartbreak is no simple matter.”

The inevitable tragedy of your story. You logically hear what he is saying, but your heart has stopped listening ages ago. The concealed pain on his face squeezes a hand round your ribs and pulls.

Desire alone you could handle, but this is something else. Something more tender.

And what of it?

“We will cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Please,” he breathes, struggling against the typhoon that is your humanity, the whirlwind of here and now buried in your species’ gravity, your rage against the dying of the light—tiny little blips in a grand world ruthlessly determined on stamping their footprint on eternity. It completely contrasts his very identity. His mask cracks, soft and unguarded. “You do not know what you ask for. Please."

"Or maybe,” you sneer. “You are not able to give.”

The words hang in the air. Staggering.

Legolas slams you into the counter. You see a flash of teeth, quick as lightning, before his mouth is on yours.

The first thing you think is that you were way in over your head.

Then you’re not thinking anything really because all else instantly ceases to matter.

His kiss is white-hot and overwhelming, drawing a hopeless whimper up your throat like water from a well. You throw your arms up and around his neck until utterly no space exists between your bodies. Or, trying, failing, hands dropping to frantically press and wander about his chest because why is he so tall, your mind going void again as he crowds closer, thighs pressing to thighs and large hands searing above your waist, behind your head. The mug shatters at your feet. Punishing bites are soothed by slow, firm strokes of his tongue, leaving you to gasp and shake against the hard planes of him. He is relentless, steady and insistent against your urgent quickness. Legolas kisses you and kisses you until you think that maybe that talk of mortality was for nothing, no, you are going to die of pleasure right here and right now, at the mercy of your tormentor.

“If—” you tear away just enough to cup his face in your sweaty palms, fighting for air, “if we do this, it is all the way. You do not, you do not take the parts of me you want, you—wait—you accept all of me—”

“Ed’ i’ ear ar’ elenea, Melamin!” He laughs, clear and bright. “For once, shh!”

Your reply is lost to the wind.

Or his mouth.

(It was definitely his mouth.)

#asks #lord of the rings #legolas greenleaf #legolas imagine #legolas x reader #legolas greenleaf x reader #the company i refer to is not the fellowship. legolas has other adventures :)

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megatentious · 6 years

Text

Shin Megami Tensei 3 Nocturne is still incredible

I just finished a replay of Shin Megami Tensei 3 for the first time in a decade, so I felt compelled to write a big long unstructured essay about it where I’m going to sound like an overwrought crazy person. That’s okay though. There’s just something about this game that really speaks to those of us who find our way in. When you sound like a hyperbolic cultist writing soaring prose to try to meet the game at its level, it’s not a unique reaction. We’ve all been spellbound in the same way, the game is designed to do it. How is it designed to do this? Basically, in every conceivable way! The music and sound composition, the moment-to-moment battling, the environmental art and location choices, the progression systems for both the protagonist and demon fusions, the scope and method of storytelling, the density and depth of the mythological references, everything fits together like a symphony to inspire these feelings. Tension, immersion (lol), and utter absorption. Nocturne is a clinic in how to structure every aspect of your game around a unified vision (finding the strength to survive in a cruel and barren land) without hugely compromising ambition. That this level of design can be sustained over the course of 50 hours for the average playthrough and 70 for those of us determined to reach the lowest depths of the game’s enormous optional (!) Amala dungeon is insanely remarkable. Some of the more adolescent fans of the Shin Megami Tensei series and the broader Megaten franchise lionize this one in particular as being the most “dark” but that’s a kind of stupid and narrow way of looking at it. If you’re a cool person you don’t love Nocturne because it’s “dark” you love it because the game makes you feel like you’re hallucinating. SMT3 is unconcerned with providing detailed exposition and light-hearted character moments, but it’s a game that is overrun with “story” at every turn. And not just in the environmental, piece-it-together Souls series storytelling sense people love to talk about, there are actually a bunch more NPCs around straight up delivering dialogue for you than you’d think! Pair that up with the demon chatting, the compendium entries, the audiovisual cues and the gorgeously directed cutscenes, and the common complaint that SMT3 has no story just seems like nonsense to me. The game isn’t necessarily just dour or unambiguously somber either. Megami Tensei’s roots are in the pulpy trash of 80s light novels, and you see this in some of the humorous demon-focused crassness, the bits of comedic negotiation dialogue, and the seeming mish-mash of myth as aesthetic influences. But the funny paradox of SMT3 is that it’s a game built on a punk-rock foundation of rebelling against what’s proper and mainstream (see any interview with the creators) that is also simultaneously downright austere by today’s standards. Grand and lonely and visionary in tone, careful, measured and meticulous in its design, without an ounce of bloat, nothing wasted or incoherent, it’s just so impressive on every level (I promise I’ll get more specific with my gushing soon). There’s an attitude among some Megaten fans that Nocturne is the one that doesn’t fit in the series, that it’s too different from previous Shin Megami Tensei games, but I don’t think that’s right. To me there’s a very clear throughline, it’s just Nocturne’s antecedents aren’t necessarily found in its immediate numbered predecessor. When it comes to the main and numbered games in this series, you can very easily see the path from Megami Tensei 2 -> Shin Megami Tensei 2 -> Shin Megami Tensei 4, all of which begin years after the apocalypse has occurred and concern themselves with how society persists and political factions collide decades and even centuries into the aftermath. They are the three most readily described as “cyberpunk”, they’re chattier, they’re a bit more clichéd in their own ways (amnesiac gladiator and military academy recruit openings for SMT2 and SMT4 respectively), they let you use guns and their general sensibilities are similar.

SMT3’s lineage is, I feel, more directly traced from two other games. SMT1 and (hear me out!) Revelations: Persona. I think it’s easy to link these three games together for several reasons. In all three you begin in relative peace in a current day city, in all three the inciting incident is an occultist ritual, and interestingly in all three the hospital is your first dungeon, deliberately chosen for its uncanny familiarity to create an immediate sense of unease (and also the pretty obvious birth/death location symbolism). These are games centered around the immediacy of disaster and apocalypse, and take modern day locations that are meant to be familiar and subvert them to make them unnerving. Atmosphere is a word I see frequently used to praise all three games (yes there are at least 1 dozens of us, [dozens!] who like Persona 1) and the dream-like, surreal atmosphere in these three games can be strikingly similar.

So yeah, good lord, Nocturne’s atmosphere. This game is simply filled with astonishing imagery at every point. The art directors managed to make each scene feel somehow weighty and mesmerizing, with aesthetic choices made throughout that are just so thoughtful and cultured. Angels and demons look terrifying and awesome, in that they inspire terror and awe. Gods and goddesses appear benevolent, their facial expressions neutral and lacking in human emotion. Jack Frost remains the best mascot in videogames. There’s well-researched details in the animations and all aspects of appearance (see here for a bit on Baphomet’s posing). The vocal and sonic choices are perfect, like that unsettling blaring soundblast when the statue of Gozu-Tennoh speaks, as if a great and mighty terror is deigning to communicate across worlds.

There are posts that dissect the spiral imagery of the vortex world that repeats over the course of the game. There are entire sites devoted to breaking down the wide range of inspirations for the game's transcendental demon design. Random tumblr people compare the cutscene direction to Ingmar Bergman films, and it’s interesting to see how the cutscenes are frequently in first person or otherwise hide the protagonist, which not only hearkens back to series roots (while saving budget $$$) but also conveys solitude and makes the scenes with multiple demons and figures appear that much more spectacular. On any given day you’ll find a tweet or two or three of people overwhelmed by the game’s aesthetic choices, its virtuoso game over sequence, or title sequence, or pretty much any sequence. It’s the purest expression of a world class artist’s singular vision and is the reason why all of us sound so annoying whining for Kazuma Kaneko to return from his flower field exile.

There’s also a very ingenious way SMT3 supports its themes and that is through the combat. Nocturne is a game about stealing turns. It’s the fundamental principle of the battling, it’s why everyone tells you to keep the skill Fog Breath, and it’s a carryover from the simpler system in SMT1 where the method of stealing turns was using charm bullets or casting Zio to paralyze the enemy before they even have a chance to act. The battle system has a famous Engrish name called “Press Turn,” which is distinct and not to be confused with the One More system from newer Persona games or the alignment based combat bonuses of Strange Journey.

In SMT3, any given press turn encounter depends upon the party composition choices you’ve made, not only the resistances and repels/drains you enter with (two very different things in terms of battle consequences!) but also the moment to moment decision-making of turn management, weighing how to strategically pass to maximize damage output over the course of the fight. Every battle is an opportunity to demonstrate your efficiency and mastery of the systems, and the goal of each encounter is to use foresight and preparation to demolish your foes before they have the chance to even act. Steal turns and survive in a barren land of death upon death, this is the elegance of Press Turn. You’ll hear endless discussion around this game’s difficulty, and encounters generally have teeth to them yeah, but there is a very principled fairness to the battling where combat swings do not occur as dramatically as they do in say, SMT4. SMT3 is balanced perfectly by virtue of its lack of save anywhere option, providing you with tension at all times but also most importantly the tools to mitigate disaster over the long term, which is a deeply deeply rewarding way to survive.

Press Turn’s UI really adds to this rewarding feeling. How terrifying is it when a boss casts Beast or Dragon Eye, and suddenly a string of new turn icons appear? How satisfying is it to see a row of flashing turns, knowing that you’ve fully exploited your enemy? The enemy composition really accentuates this as well, with encounters often designed to avoid easy spam of single elements or physical skills to mindlessly coast to victory. SMT3 doesn’t want you taking any shortcuts, if you want to take advantage of a given demon or magatama’s skillset, you need to pair your choices to mitigate the corresponding weakness, or the enemy’s AI will press their advantage in the exact way you would. It’s a really satisfying symmetry.

There are also other paths to battle that are just as viable. Exploiting weaknesses with a multipurpose magic build is another way to steal turns. Building battlers around skills that maximize critical hits is another way. And if you are terrified of the infamous one-shot deaths that people like to say are the franchise trademark? Equip null-death magatama in between level ups. Raise your luck. Resolve battles before enemies even have the chance to use the spell against you. Raise your speed so enemies don’t get the chance to go first. Get endure as soon as possible. The tools for success are all right there for you! Nocturne tasks you with growing strong enough in this world to ascend to creation, and it provides you with multiple paths to reach this goal.

So, about these multiple paths, let me talk to you a bit about SMT3’s famously unique alignment system. Other games are lauded for their ultimately fairly stupid morality systems but Nocturne breezily operates on a completely different level. Instead of RESCUE and HARVEST in dumb giant gothic font or literally color-coded paragon and renegade meters, in SMT3 you align yourself naturally through story progression with factions concerned with stillness, power, solitude, freedom, or rebellion. Instead of the grand binary moral choice being telegraphed through hideous-looking “Little Sisters” (god I hated that stupid name haha) there’s a rough analogue in the actually sympathetic but far more complex unsettling-looking Manikins, whose character motif is described by the creators as representing those who lose themselves to the strength of numbers. There’s unfortunately a tiny amount of material in the game to support extremely tedious “canon” discussion, but the game actually works best and most purely as an abstract, impressionistic vision of grand universal themes. Playing through any one of SMT3’s six endings makes the universe feel vast and overwhelming, and asks you to contend with a broader suite of philosophies than ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ and that’s ultimately what I think the developers were most interested in going for.

Something about the prose in Nocturne is also special in a way that is extremely difficult to accurately describe. Like everything else in this game it feels elegant and detached, gods and goddesses are appropriately otherworldly without sounding like haughty stereotypes, lower demons are funny and crass in a way that’s not so on-the-nose. Again it’s very difficult to pinpoint but something has been lost in the writing of the newer games, even a bit as small as how angels and demons in the game actually never name anything directly as God, but instead refer obliquely to a Lord, an Absolute, or a Great Will, Nocturne just gets all the little details right.

As I run out of steam from this braindump, I notice there’s still an essay’s worth of observations in so many other topics that deserve to be discussed. The Tokyo-focused but somehow universal theming of the game’s alignment principles and locale visuals. The insanely expansive but unfortunately compressed soundtrack (see over three hours of unreleased material alone here), where dungeon music regularly evolves to indicate progression, and battle and boss music quantity is generously varied both between and within song. The extremely rewarding fusion system can be plumbed to frankly insane depths, with a demon bestiary that is reasonable to 100%, and the lack of “use it or lose it” demon quality that hits other SMT series games contributing to a better feeling of progression and customization opportunities. The demon negotiation, which rewards your knowledge of mythological connections among pantheons with unique one-time only dialogue. The dungeons, the DUNGEONS. With the exception of an early set of sewers, an apparent shitty dungeon theme RPG tradition, each of these are little masterpieces of aesthetics and design, with their own thoughtfully introduced and iterated gimmick, planned wonderfully for both third and first person, often wrapping in and around themselves in spirals in that very Shin Megami Tensei-specific way.

Even if you think a game like Nocturne seems too dense or impenetrable or boring or random-encounter filled or whatever, it’s worth giving it a real shot for yourself to see if it manages to grab you. We’re no longer in those days in the late 2000s where the game cost exorbitant amounts of money to get, a digital version can be found on PS3 for $10 (with only rare emulation issues in certain dungeon sections), and the disc itself was reprinted and can be found brand new on Amazon if you have a PS2 or want to emulate on PCSX2, where the game looks even more breathtaking. Either way, find a way to treat yourself to an RPG where it is actually appropriate to throw around the term masterpiece. I didn’t really write any of this text no one’s going to read to make a persuasive case to anyone, but sometimes games will inspire you and it feels good to ramble about them. Games like this one are nearly impossible to make nowadays, and SMT3 is something worth cherishing.

#smt3 #nocturne #smt nocturne #unparalleled #why doesn't that last gif work here oh well

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offense-is-the-best-defence · 6 years

Text

The Dragon Thing - Rewrite

The adventurer glanced at the oppressive grey sky, the promise of rain heavy in the air. She silently cursed her pursuers that drove her this far north, what they lacked in tracking skills, they made up for in sheer determination & numbers.

The ground became steeper & rockier as her path took her further into the high grey mountains. The great heights hemmed a green valley dotted with copses of fir & aspen amongst which birds, deer & rabbits thrived, more than once the adventurer spotted the creatures & pulled her bow to catch a few rabbits unawares, clearly they were not accustomed to humans in their habitat.

Around midday the heavens opened up & a wall of water descended unlike anything she had seen before, as she quickened her pace she thanked the thick hooded cloak that kept her most of the rain at bay. After a mile or so she spotted a cave through the heavy rain.

Entering the cave the adventurer quickly lit a torch & her jaw dropped by what she saw. The cave was much wider & larger than she had expected & the light of her torch hit the walls so that they glittered like the night sky.

The adventurer had seen many sights on her travels, but this had to be the most beautiful. Rumaging through her pack, she found the firewood she had stashed & quickly lit a fire.

‘Leave now.’ Came a low voice from the darkness.

‘I just got here.’ said the adventurer & drew her sword, her eyes scanning the darkness.

‘LEAVE OR DIE.’

The ground shook as something big came out of the darkness & a large dragon stepped into the light. It’s scales were a deep red while it’s belly was as dark as night, the spines that ran along it’s back alternated between black & red. A pair of rich brown eyes blazed as it glared at her. The adventurer had seen many types of dragon in many hues, but this was a first.

‘Oh, it’s just a dragon.’ said the adventurer, visibly relaxing & turned to unpack her bedroll.

The dragon blinked, her rage somewhat stalled by the adventurer’s indifference.

‘What do you mean ‘just a dragon?’

‘Well, it could be worse. You could be a troll.’ She replied, successfully hiding her surprise at the dragon’s ability to speak. She had heard rumours, of course, but she had never believed them.

The dragon blinked again. She was used to fear or awe from humans, this reaction was unheard of.

‘Get out!’ she recovered.

‘No.’

‘No? NO??’

‘It’s pissing down out there, I’ll catch my death.’

‘Your about to catch it in here.’ growled the dragon.

‘If you were gonna kill me, you woulda done it already.’ pointed out the adventurer, she saw the dragon’s indecision & continued. ‘Look, I just need a place to spend the night, I’ll be gone in the morning. I don’t want your gold & I don’t want to kill you.’

The dragon inclined her head, she had no reason to trust humans but somehow she sensed this one was sincere.

‘Fine.’ she said, ignoring the gold remark. The stereotype was completely untrue & one that was hated by her race. ‘But if you aren’t gone, I’ll kill you.’

‘Deal.’

The adventurer removed her sodden cloak setting it as close to the fire as she dared & removed her armour. She dried the leather & metal curiass as much as possible & prayed to any passing god that it wouldn’t rust. Crawling into the bedroll, she rummaged in her pack & found the rabbits she had killed earlier & began to skin them

‘What?’ she asked, feeling the dragon’s intense gaze upon her.

‘How do I know you won’t kill me while I sleep?’

‘How do I know you won’t?’ she countered, skewering the rabbit & setting them over the fire. The adventurer looked the dragon in the eye. ‘I prefer my opponents awake & facing me, human or no.’

The dragon nodded it’s great head, somewhat surprised by the human’s words.

‘You may sleep well, human. I will do you no harm.’

The dragon stared down at the sleeping human. She still wasn’t entirely sure why she’d let her stay, it certainly wasn’t out of pity. The dragon had learned long ago that dealing with humans was dangerous & trusting them was a disaster.

Perhaps it was the woman’s seeming indifference to her, rarely were humans unafraid of her & surprisingly, the first to actually talk to her.

The dragon gently nudged the woman without success.

‘Wake up.’ she growled.

‘Wha-‘

‘It is morning.’ said the dragon pointedly.

The adventurer groaned & stretched her limbs.

‘Have you ever heard of sleeping in?’ she asked, eyeing the dragon sleepily.

‘It’s morning. Leave.’

‘Not a morning person, huh?’ she replied, picking the remains of the rabbit from the night before.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Breakfast.’

‘Breakfast??’ growled the dragon, exasperated. ‘Put that down & leave!’

The adventurer wandered over to the cave entrance & was greeted by a wall of water falling from the sky, she could barely see a foot in front of her.

She turned to the dragon, ‘No way.’

‘No? NO??’ the dragon surged forward, pining the woman against the wall. ‘You will leave or I will eat you.’

The adventurer’s eyes widened, feeling fear for the first time since she entered the cave. The dragon’s eyes blazed with an anger she had rarely seen yet she sensed the threat was an empty one.

‘Then why haven’t you?’

The dragon released the woman, breathing heavily. Smoke curled from her nostrils.

‘Why aren’t you afraid of me?’ she demanded, clearly frustrated. The woman’s indifference was annoying & confusing.

‘Your not the first dragon I’ve met, though so far you’re the nicest.’

‘Nicest?’ said the dragon with distaste. Her kind had been described with many words but nice was not among them. ‘Have you lost your mind, human?’

‘Well you haven’t killed me.’ she smirked.

‘Yet.’ she said, baring her teeth. Wisps of smoke curled around her jaws & she grinned at the sight. The dragon took a deep breath, her crimson hide expanding & let loose a mighty roar that shook the walls of the cave.

The adventurer froze as the dragon roared but instead of the wall of searing flame she expected, she found herself enveloped in a slightly warm yet thick cloud of smoke which made her cough.

‘What the hell!’

As the smoke cleared, she saw a slightly bewildered & embarrassed dragon & her jaw dropped as she realised something.

‘You’ve lost your fire!’

The adventurer leapt to the side as the dragon roared in frustration & clawed the cavern wall, throwing up white sparks & leaving deep gouges in the rock.

‘How does a dragon lose it’s fire?’ She asked, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart.

‘I did not lose it!’

‘So, what? Did you drink too much water or something?’

The dragon glared at the adventurer, her eyes burning once more.

‘Human,’ she grated. ‘If you don’t shut up –‘

‘You’ll smoke me to death?’ said the adventurer sarcastically. Baiting a pissed off dragon probably wasn’t a great idea but her patience was wearing thin. ‘Listen, you overgrown iguana, so far you’ve threatened to eat me & you just tried to fry my ass. Your lucky my sword isn’t sticking outta your heart.’

The dragon blinked, was that a threat? No-one had ever talked to her like that before, not for very long at any rate. The adventurer’s sudden anger took her aback, she glanced at the sword strapped to her hip & suddenly wondered how good the human was with a blade. With a conscious effort she bit back a retort & headed to the entrance.

‘Do not be here when I return.’

The adventurer watched the dragon taking off, admiring how she soared through the down pour. She glanced at the gouges in the wall & it struck her that the dragon had not lost all of her fire.

The adventurer returned to the smoldering fire, munching some cold rabbit as she wondered how the dragon had lost it’s fire, in all her travels she had never heard of such a thing happening. Perhaps I was too harsh, she thought, regretting her words, a dragon without fire would be like a warrior losing their arm.

Lighting a torch, she ventured further in to the cave, wondering if there was any truth to the myth that dragons hoarded gold. The cavern suddenly widened & a grey light filled the chamber supplied by a circular opening in the cave roof. A small pool of water lay in the center surrounded by a few skeletons & scattered weapons littered the floor. There were always a few idiots that thought they could take on a dragon.

The adventurer lifted her torch higher & her jaw dropped. The walls were filled with small alcoves that had clearly been made by the dragon. That such a creature would take the time & effort to do this surprised her. It was then she found herself being studied by dozens & dozens of tiny eyes.

This dragon didn’t hoard gold, but birds.

The heavy rain drummed along the dragon’s scales, it’s steady rhythm serving to calm her anger slightly.

Overgrown iguana

She should’ve killed the woman the minute she entered the cave. Humans were trouble & she was sure this one was no exception, yet the adventurer’s complete lack of fear intrigued her. Indeed, she had barely flinched when threatened & didn’t even attempt to retaliate.

This human was either very brave or very stupid.

The adventurer’s insult reminded her sharply of her clan’s reaction when they discovered her lack of fire. Only very old dragons lost their fire, they were shunned & forced into exile lest they weaken the clan. It was unheard of in younger dragons & she had been treated with the same scorn.

A dragon without fire is no dragon

You are nothing more than an overgrown lizard

What use are you now?

The painful memories made the dragon angrier than before which she took out on a lone stag. Her claws ripped into the beast, killing it instantly.

She tore at the juicy flesh enthusiastically, savouring the hot blood & meat as it slid down her throat. The short meal only heightend her hunger & she scoured the landscape for prey, taking care not to kill any females or young. Decimating your food supply was stupid & she wouldn’t stoop to the humans level. After several hours the dragons hunger was satiated, she swung round to return & grabbed a stray sheep, flexing her claws so the beast wouldn’t suffer. Oddly she felt she should make amends with the adventurer.

As she approached the cave her sharp eyes spotted the woman fighting a man, six or so bodies already lay around her. Not bad for a human, she thought, clearly fighting this woman was not healthy.

Flying overhead, the dragon dropped the dead sheep with surprising accuracy which landed on the man’s head with a thud & he dropped like a stone, as she landed she saw the adventurer poke the prone body with her sword. The woman’s jaw dropped & she started to laugh uncontrollably.

‘What is so funny?’ asked the dragon as she landed

‘You. Killed. Him. With. A. Sheep!’ she said, each word punctuated with laughter.

‘You are strange, even for a human.’ said the dragon, perhaps the woman was mad.

‘Right back atcha, Red.’

The dragon watched as the adventurer buried the men under cairns of stone, the woman was soaked, bloody & clearly tired from the fight yet she somehow felt the need to bury the men who had tried to kill her.

‘Why waste your time on the dead?’ she asked.

‘They fought well. The least I can do is give them a decent burial.’

‘As did you. Not many could best six men’ replied the dragon, she paused. ‘An honourable human? I didn’t think any existed.’

‘Yeah, we’re like virgins in that respect.’ laughed the adventurer, somewhat surprised by the compliment.

‘What?’ said the dragon, confused.

‘Nevermind.’ she said, laughing again. ‘C’mon, I’m freezing.’

The dragon dropped the sheep on the cave floor while the adventurer relit her fire, though her progress was hampered by how much she shivered. She approached the woman & drew her wings around her, gradually the woman’s movements became steadier as the dragon’s heat warmed her.

‘Thank you.’ Said the adventurer as the fire came to life, she eyed the carcass curiously. ‘Still hungry?’

‘No. It is yours, I thought you might be hungry.’ replied the dragon.

‘After that fight, I am.’ she grinned, nodding her thanks as the dragon retreated to the back of the cave. She unsheathed her knife & began skinning the carcass, cutting the meat into chunks once she had removed the fleece & otherwise inedible organs, she set the meat on the edge of the fire while she threw the offal away.

‘Who were those men?’

‘Scouts, I imagine.’ The adventurer looked up & smiled. A small purple coloured bird stood on one of the black spines that ran the length of the dragon’s back. ‘I see you brought a friend.’

‘Scouts?’ the dragon sighed, ignoring the comment. ‘I need to leave. Again.’

‘Why? They came for me, not you.’

‘What? You?’

‘I recognised their colours.’ she explained, looking a little sheepish. ‘I may have pissed off their chieftain.’

‘How?’ asked the dragon curiously.

‘He, uh, thinks I seduced his daughter.’ the adventurer now looked thoroughly embarrassed.

‘Did you?’

‘No! Look, she kissed me & he walked in at the wrong time.’

The dragon laughed & her mirth only increased as the adventurer glared at her.

‘You wandered into my cave because of a woman?!’

The adventurer unclasped her sword & a sodden leather curiass, she set it against the cave wall along with a pair of gauntlets & leather trousers studded with small metal plates soon joined it leaving her in a white shift & a pair of undershorts.

‘Thanks for the assist out there.’ she said & chuckled. ‘Never seen a man killed like that before. That was a sheep shot.’

‘That was terrible.’ groaned the dragon. ‘But your welcome.’

‘Not that I’m not grateful but why? You wanted to kill me earlier.’

‘Maybe your not the worst human I’ve met.’ conceded the dragon.

‘Your not the worst dragon either.’ smiled the adventurer, turning the mutton over.

‘You said I wasn’t the first dragon you’d seen.’ prompted the dragon

The adventurer nodded. ‘It’s why I was in the area. The chieftain I mentioned? He wanted me to get rid of a dragon in the forests that bordered his land.’

‘Did you?’ the dragon’s claws scratched at the cave floor, trying to fight the anger she felt at thought of one of her kind being killed.

The motion wasn’t lost on the adventurer, she could feel the silent anger coming from the dragon & she shook her head.

‘The dragon was barely an infant. When I found it, it was terrorising a tree.’ she chuckled at the memory of the baby dragon attacking the tree. ‘I persuaded it to follow me & took it somewhere safe, no-one’s finding that dragon anytime soon.’ She looked up at the dragon, ‘I fight when I have to, same with killing & I never kill kids, whatever their species.’

The dragon regarded the adventurer, the woman’s words seemed sincere & she could detect no lie in her open face.

‘A philosophy we both share, it is a shame that others do not.’

‘The idiot was probably after a dragonskin.’ She said derisively, skewering a piece of mutton. ‘They are quite popular.’

The dragon growled loudly.

‘I hope I meet this man one day.’

‘Now that I would pay to see.’

A deafening roar awoke the adventurer which was followed by shouting men.

What the hell?

She staggered from the bedroll, grabbed her sword & ran to the entrance. As she stepped outside, a blur passed her & she heard a crack.

The man had hit the rocks head first, smashing it open like an egg. A splash of red blood & brains now decorated the cave entrance.

The dragon was surrounded by a dozen men armed with spears, 3 of which she had already dispatched.

Dragon 3 – Men 0

‘IT’LL BE ME YOU WANT!’ bellowed the adventurer, recognising their colours.

The men turned, caught by surprised. She floored one with a shoulder charge while slashing another across the throat with her sword, pivoting to her left she hacked the head off one & stabbing at another two. All 3 men lay dead in an expanding pool of blood, the distraction affording the dragon time to lash out with her claws & teeth, finishing off the remaining men.

‘Campbell, you bastard!’ shouted the adventurer, recognising the heavy set bearded man.

‘You bitch!’ the man’s eyes widened. ‘You sullied my daughter!’

‘I did nothing of the sort! She kissed me.’

‘You lie! She would never consort with your type.’ he sneered.

‘My type?’ growled the adventurer.

‘And you owe me a dragonskin. My trackers found signs all over those woods.’

‘Oh please! Your men couldn’t track their ass outta their pants.’ she said mockingly, suddenly realising that the chieftain’s daughter had little or nothing to do with the attack.

‘This is the man?’ growled the dragon.

‘Yes.’

With a roar the dragon lunged forward completely catching the chieftain by surprise, she snapped the head off the spear & grabbed the man. The dragon closed her claws & slowly impaled the chieftain. Blood poured from his mouth as he tried to breathe through pierced lungs, each gasp became more ragged until the noise finally stopped. The dragon threw his body away unceremoniously.

The remaining man screamed & ran, hurling his spear as he left. The dart whizzed passed the adventurer & lodged deeply into the dragon’s side, who roared in pain.

‘Red!’

The adventurer’s face was grim as she examined the dragon’s wound. The spear was lodged deeply in her side just below the scales & only the shaft was visible. The blade must have been very sharp indeed to breech the dragon’s scales.

‘I’m sorry, this is going to hurt.’ she said. Holding the shaft tightly, she loped of the excess so that only a stub protruded. Tentatively, she pulled on it & felt some resistance, wincing as the dragon roared in pain.

‘Don’t move, I’ll be right back.’

The dragon would’ve laughed at the statement if she was sure it wouldn’t cause her more pain, each breath caused sharp stabbing pain. She had been wounded before by spears & arrows but none had ever hurt like this.

The adventurer ran into the cave, grabbing her pack after quickly donning her armour. As she turned to leave, she found herself surrounded by a wall of birds. They circled around her agitated & seemed to be looking for something.

‘She’s outside & she’s hurt.’ she said, suddenly realising what the birds sought.

The avian wall suddenly tightened.

‘It wasn’t me.’ She said quickly. ‘I want to help but I can’t if you don’t let me go.’

The wall slowly parted but the birds closely followed the adventurer so that it seemed she wore a living cloak. When she reached the dragon, the birds chirping increased.

‘Your friends are a little protective of you.’ she said, taking a few things from her pack.

The adventurer looked up & was stunned as she heard the dragon begin to chirp. Was she talking to her birds?

The birds suddenly fell silent, they landed on the ground & every one of them turned to look at the adventurer.

‘What did you do?’ she whispered, feeling slightly unnerved.

‘Told them you weren’t a threat, that you were a… friend.’

‘Oh… thank you.’ the adventurer was surprised & touched by the dragon’s words, she shook herself. ‘Right, let’s get this thing out of you. Sorry but this is gonna hurt.’

The adventurer picked up the knife & with some difficulty cut horizontally on either side of the wound, stroking the dragon’s flank when she grunted in pain. She knew very little about dragon physiology except where the heart was & hoped she wouldn’t make things worse, she levered the wound open with her knife, giving her a clear view of the spearhead lodged there & she could clearly see the metal pressing against her lung.

The adventurer opened one of skins containing whiskey & poured it over her hands, she gently put her hand in the wound & enclosed it around the spearhead, slowly & painstakingly twisting it back & forth until it loosened from the flesh. She took a deep breath to steady herself & slowly pulled it free. The dragon roared again, whether in pain or relief, she didn’t know.

‘I got it!’ she stroked the dragon again. ‘You did good. Now I gotta close the wound.’

Breathing heavily, the dragon grunted, ‘Thank you.’

Working quickly, the adventurer threaded a hooked needle & sewed up the wound, though the dragon’s tough hide made it difficult & her hands were numb by the time she was done. When she had finished she rubbed some numbing ointment over the wound even though she wasn’t sure it would work.

‘Rest now, you earned it.’

As the dragon closed her eyes, the birds came closer & surrounded their friend.

The adventurer smeared honey on the dragon’s wound after washing & drying it, she looked up as she heard chirping & smiled.

‘Take it easy, little guy. I’m just making sure it’s ok.’ She told the purple bird.

Despite it’s stature, the little bird had assumed the role of protector & had made a lot of noise when the adventurer had approached the dragon the day after the battle which in turn set of the rest of the birds. It was only after she explained what she doing, that they quietened down.

For 3 days the dragon had slept soundly & showed no signs of stirring. In between tending to the wound, the adventurer hunted, had taken care of fallen & stacked their weapons against a rock. The spears & swords were made of a curious metal that shone red in the sun & she was sure they would fetch a good price.

She glanced at the dragon. The length of her new friend’s slumber both puzzled & concerned her. While the wound was bad, it was not grievous & she had seen dragons that had taken worse without breaking a sweat, in fact it generally just pissed them off. Why was this so different?

Maybe I pulled it out too hard, she thought, twirling the dull red blade between her fingers. What if I made it worse? A wave of dread rose within her at the thought & the irony of it was not lost on her either. After several years of killing dragons, she was now trying to save one.

A constant noise slowly penetrated the adventurer’s ears & she reluctantly woke up, blinking rapidly as the bright moonlight hit her eyes. She saw the purple bird on her chest hopping up & down & whistling like mad, soon the other birds joined in.

‘Okay, okay! This had better be good.’ She grumbled.

She looked around & her heart dropped. Red was nowhere to be seen, she looked wildly around her but could see no sign of the dragon.

How the hell do you lose a 20ft dragon?

As the fog of sleep lifted, she noticed a very naked dark haired woman where Red had been. In her experience naked women did not appear out of thin air.

‘Thank you?’ she said vaguely, just in case.

Numbly, she threw a blanket over the woman & brought her closer to the dying fire.

‘What the fuck?’ she whispered.

The adventurer wrapped the cloak round herself as the sun came up. Now there was more light she could see her guest more clearly.

The woman had deep red hair that framed a long face & a strong jaw. The adventurer noticed tiny red scales that ran from her temples, down the side of her neck & arms, ending at her fingertips. Dragons were not known for shapeshifting & she was sure it was an ability they did not possess. Yet there was a woman with dragon scales lying in front of her.

The adventurer took a deep breath & ran a hand through her hair, this had to be the weirdest week of her life.

The first thing the dragon noticed when she woke, was that she was on her back & tried to right herself, using her tail as leverage. She was astonished to find it missing, a feeling which soon turned to confusion as she saw pink arms instead of scaled legs.

‘Hey, Red.’

The dragon sat up looking wildy about & felt the cold air hit her chest as the blanket fell. Something white hit her in the face.

‘Put that on.’ said the adventurer, who had taken a sudden interest in the ground.

‘Why?’

‘It’s cold & your naked.’

Red sighed & after a 5 minute struggle donned the shirt. She supposed if she was human now she’d have to wear what they did. Human, she shuddered.

‘What is going on?’ she demanded.

The adventurer shrugged. ‘After the battle I patched you up, you’ve been asleep for 3 days.’ She gestured toward the dragon, ‘I have no idea how this happened.’

Red frowned, everything after the battle was fuzzy though she did remember the excruciating pain when the spear was pulled out. It was then she noticed the red blade in the adventurer’s hands & her eyes widened.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Out of you, our friends were armed with them. Here,’ she tossed the spearhead & was surprised when Red jumped up.

The adventurer sighed & threw a length of plaid at her. ‘Wrap that round your waist.’

‘Stop throwing clothes at me!’ she growled, complying with the request. She noticed once again that the adventurer’s eyes were fastened to the ground. ‘And keep that away from me.’

‘What? Why?’

‘It’s orichalcum & it is dangerous to my people.’ She explained & paused. ‘The metal interferes with the magic in our blood, or so I’ve heard.’

‘You have magical blood?’

I’m a dragon, of course I do! Or a least I was.’ She added bitterly.

The adventurer looked at her friend sympathetically.

‘I think we should find that spear thrower & find out why they were armed with this stuff.’

‘We?’ said Red, surprised.

‘Yes, we.’

Life as a human was certainly different & the world seemed so much larger than it had before. Red began to notice more details than she had before, like how the sunlight filtered through the leaves or how the breeze felt against her face even the ground felt different beneath her feet. It was as if the world was a new place that she was getting to explore & she found herself enjoying it. However there were some things she did not enjoy, like the clothes she had been given, they felt restricting & itched in more places than she could count. And then there was walking everywhere, it had been novel to start with but now she was bored.

‘This would be a lot faster if I had wings.’

‘True.’ Chuckled the adventurer. ‘But it would also make you a target.’

‘But walking is so slow.’

‘Welcome to the human race.’ She said brightly & laughed as Red glared at her.

‘How do you expect to find this man?’ she asked changing the subject.

‘I imagine the coward ran back to town, shouldn’t be too hard to find.’

‘Why are you doing this? The chieftain is dead, this is no longer your problem.’

‘Those men were carrying enough orichalcum to fund a small army. It’s not a common metal & very expensive. Explained the adventurer. ‘Those men weren’t there just for me, they were after you too & I want to know why.’

They hadn’t gone far when they suddenly heard distant voices, the adventurer grabbed Red & pulled her into the bushes.

‘What-‘

‘Shhh.’

Three men came down the trail led by a long haired bearded man, all of them were armed & wearing the same blue plaid that Red was.

‘I’m telling you, I killed the dragon.’ Said the bearded man.

‘Fyk was the best warrior among us, how could you succeed where he failed?’

‘I speared it through the heart. It was easy.’

Beside her, Red fumed silently at the man’s words & she itched to rip out his lying tongue. She felt the adventurer’s hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

‘I’ve always wanted some dragon armour.’

At that Red snapped, she burst from the bushes & barrelled in to the men at speed. She lashed out with her fists at anything in range, cracking a few ribs & jaws before the men could react. The dragon’s fury was a sight to behold & to the adventurer’s surprise, Red had knocked out the 3 men in a short amount of time.

She hasn’t lost any of her strength, she thought admiringly.

Red grabbed the bearded man & slammed him against the tree.

‘Coward.’ She growled, tightening here grip.

‘Don’t kill him, Red.’ Said the adventurer, she turned to the man. ‘Where did you get those weapons?’

‘What weapons?’

‘This one.’ She said, pulling out the red blade. ‘Well? Or do you want my friend to ask you?’

‘Fyk gave them to us, said we were getting a huge payday for taking out the dragon.’

The adventurer frowned, a clan chief stooping to mercenary work?

‘Who hired you?’

‘A southern mage called Dran.’

Red had heard enough, she tightened her grip once more & snapped the man’s neck.

‘Mages…’ groaned the adventurer. ‘I fucking hate mages.’

After travelling most of the day, the pair had camped in a small clearing. The adventurer had been in a bad mood since the encounter with the clansman & had barely spoken since.

‘Do not do that again.’ She said coldly.

‘What?’

‘Charging into battle like that, you let your anger get the better of you.’ she said angrily. ‘You fought well but you could’ve gotten yourself killed.’

‘It’s always worked before.’

The adventurer took a deep breath. While Red’s recklessness bothered her, it wasn’t the real reason for her anger & it wasn’t fair to take it out on her friend.

‘You weren’t human before. You have to be more careful.’ She relented.

‘My death would bother you?’

‘Let’s say I’ve got used to having you around.’ she smiled, ‘Your not so bad when you aren’t threatening me.’

Red laughed & a thought occurred to her.

‘What is your name?’

‘Caera.’

Red looked down at the bowl of stew she was handed, cooked food something completely new to her but after a few dubious mouthfuls she found that it tasted good. She still missed the taste of raw flesh though.

‘This isn’t too bad.’ She said.

‘I told you.’ said Caera smugly. She had watched in amusement as her friend had picked at the meal like a child before finally eating it.

‘So what is it about this mage that bothers you so much?’ asked Red, after a moments silence.

Caera frowned.

‘Mages are arrogant & most are obsessed with power, they fight like cowards.’ She spat.’ But this one… I know him, at least I met him once. He’s dangerous, completely unscrupulous & very powerful.’ She replied. ‘And he’s after you, it should bother you too.’

‘Many humans have tried to kill me.’ shrugged Red. ‘How did you meet him?’

Caera took a deep breath, the shame of who she had been & what she had done were still strong.

‘Until recently, I was a dragon hunter. I-‘

Without warning Red pounced on her with a strength she did not expect, knocking the wind from her.

‘You’re a fucking dragon-slayer?!’ she growled, breathing heavily. All she could think of was ripping this woman’s throat out & make her pay for the lives she had taken, her entire body burned so intensely with this desire that she screamed.

Caera rolled out the way as Red screamed & watched in disbelief as her friend’s skin thickened to scales, her limbs & body slowly transforming before her.

The dragon was back.

Caera approached the dragon tentatively, she was on her side breathing heavily & her eyes were closed.

‘Red? Red? Are you okay?’ she asked & dodged quickly as the dragon snapped her jaws, missing her by inches. ‘That’ll be a yes, then.’

‘How many?’ growled Red, righting herself. ‘How many of my people did you kill?’

Caera scrambled away from the dragon until her back hit a tree, she could feel the anger emanating from Red & her eyes seemed to burn right into her. The small part of her that wasn’t terrified couldn’t help but admire the sight.

‘Personally I’ve killed about 8, indirectly, 3.’ she replied, swallowing hard as Red came closer.

‘You humans! You think nothing of taking lives for gold or sport. You disgust me!’ said Red angrily, she paused. ‘What do you mean ‘indirectly?’’

‘The mage I told you about? He hired a few of us to find dragons for him, we told him the location & paid us. After the third one I found for him, I got curious. I followed him & saw him throw a rope round the dragon, It must have been enchanted because the beast followed him like a dog.’ explained Caera. ‘He-‘

‘You lie! Magic does not effect us.’

‘It does from this bastard.’ said Caera bitterly.

‘What happened to the dragon?’

‘Dran… he took a knife & slit it’s throat, bled it dry.’ She said, closing her eyes. The memory of it still sickened her & she felt her heart tighten. ‘He didn’t move, didn’t even cry out when the knife opened his throat. I remember his eyes the most. They were so peaceful & serene, even when he died.’

Red took a step back, stunned. She was used to human cruelty & greed, had often been subject to it but this… this was a whole new level of malice. That someone could be capable of such evil was almost unbelievable & made her angrier that ever.

‘Where is he?’

‘No! You can’t-‘

‘WHERE. IS. HE?’

‘His castle is to the south, a few miles past the border.’ Said Caera, standing up. ‘Look, Red-‘

‘Quiet! You sold my people to this madman & I will make sure he pays with his life.

Be grateful I do not take yours.’

‘He will kill you!’

‘Be sure our paths don’t cross again, human. Next time I won’t be so merciful.’

The dragon casually flicked her tail, throwing the adventurer across the clearing & she slammed against a tree.

The last thing Caera saw before the blackness took her was Red taking off into the night sky.

The dull throb steadily became more insistent, forcing Caera to open her eyes which she immediately regretted. The pain in her head was soon joined by her back, shoulders & legs. Why did everything ache so much?

Oh yes… Red.

Leaning on the tree for support, Caera slowly got to her feet & was surprised to find that nothing was broken. She grabbed some ointment from her pack rubbed her limbs with it, it was going to be a long day & she couldn’t afford to stop.

Not that I don’t deserve it, she thought as she ran down the trail. She had never told anyone what had happened at Dran’s castle, not even her fellow dragon hunters. Afterwards she had headed to the nearest tavern & stayed there for a month, trying to purge the images from her mind. Not that it worked, drinking herself into a stupor every night only served to make her broke & give her the worst hangovers she’d ever experienced but the image of the dragon bleeding, of Dran drinking it’s blood stayed with her. Caera’s self-pity & loathing had turned to anger & she vowed to prevent this from happening again, she stopped hunting & began to feed her fellow hunters bad information or misleading them on jobs.

After a few hours of running, Caera began to notice something flitting in & out the trees on the edge of her vision but whenever she looked round, it disappeared.

‘Alright, I know your there. Come out now.’ She said and was surprised when she saw Red’s tiny purple guardian. The bird flew from the tree & landed on her shoulder. ‘Are you stalking me?’

The bird cocked it’s head.

‘Have you seen Red?’ she asked. The bird chirped loudly & flew down the trail.

Thank the gods

Caera followed the bird at a sprint, occasionally drinking from her water skin. The little bird moved fast & at times became a purple blur so that following him became difficult. He cut through the forest & finally stopped before a clearing.

Breathing heavily, the adventurer was relieved to see the familiar shape of Red lying down. Suddenly her heart dropped to her stomach.

Around Red’s muzzle & neck were the enchanted ropes she had seen in the mage’s castle.

No, no, not again

‘Dran will be pleased, he’s been after this one for a while.’ Said a woman to the two men behind her.

Caera’s jaw dropped, instantly recognising the woman. It was the chieftain’s daughter. She drew her sword & ran into the clearing.

‘Touch her & I’ll have your fucking head!’

The blonde woman turned & smiled, ignoring the threat.

‘Caera, what a surprise! What are you doing here?’

‘Iona? What the fucking hell?’ She said confused.

‘Now, is that any way to talk to a lady?

‘The only lady I see is her!’ said Caera, pointing to Red, ‘Your working with Dran? Why?!’

Iona looked dumfounded for a moment, as if the adventurer had asked if pigs flew.

‘A dragonskin, of course. When you failed, I persuaded Father to take Dran’s offer but after you killed him I had to take matters into my own hands.’ She laughed. ‘A fitting look for a chieftain, don’t you think?’

‘Your doing this for a fashion item?!’ said Caera angrily, the woman’s vanity was beyond belief. In 2 strides she reached Iona & punched her so hard she flew backwards, landing on the ground unconscious.

Caera turned to the two men, who had rather foolishly drawn their swords.

‘Is she paying you enough to die?’ she growled, her eyes blazing. ‘I’ve killed more men than I can count, do you want to be next.’

The two men looked at each other & deciding wealth was not worth facing the angry warrior, fled into the trees.

Pulling on a pair of gloves, Caera raced to Red’s side & tried in vain to cut the enchanted ropes with her sword, the steel seemed to simply slid across the ropes with out making a dent. Out of desperation, she grabbed the orichalcum blade from her belt & hacked at the ropes, the blade cut through them like a hot knife through butter.

‘Red! Red!.’ Caera cradled the dragon’s head with her hands. ‘C’mon, you gotta wake up. We have to get out of here!’

Red’s brown eyes remained blank & unmoving, she cursed the mage in every language she knew. She looked up, hearing voices in the distance.

The bitch must have reinforcements

There was no way she could get the dragon out of the clearing before the voices came closer. Caera looked down at the orichalcum blade, remembering how it had changed Red when the spear was stuck in her side. She wasn’t sure how but the metal had an effect on her friend but right now, anything was worth a shot. Full of hope, she pressed the metal against Red’s skin & gasped the skin began to ripple.

Yes!

Slowly the dragon’s limbs shrank, the scaled skin became pale & soon became the human form Caera had known for a few days.

What are you? She wondered, wrapping her cloak around the woman.

Caera took Red in her arms, running as fast as she could away from the voices, determined that the mage would not claim another victim.

Thick moss covered the ancient walls & ivy crawled over every available surface, blending it so well among the trees that anyone not looking for it would easily miss it.

Caera, however, had been looking for it & she leaned gratefully against the green walls. The pursuing voices had died away sometime ago but she had kept running until she found the familiar ancient ruins. Being caught out in the open right now would be suicide, so she returned to the one place she felt safe. She tapped the ground within the walls until she heard a wooden thunk & lifted the concealed trapdoor.

The room remained much as it had been left & Caera was grateful that no-one had found this place. A makeshift bed sat against the wall beside which sat a small set of drawers, on the opposite wall stood a weapon rack & book shelf.

Caera lay her friend on the bed & lit a few torches hanging on the wall before closing the door. She looked closely at Red, she hadn’t stirred once during the mad dash through the forest & she began to wonder at the effects of the enchanted ropes. Suddenly Red’s eyes sharpened, Caera ducked as the dragon’s arm extended & a fireball shot passed her & hit the wall behind her. Both women looked at the blackened wall in shock.

‘What the hell was that? Not that I didn’t deserve that.’ She added, staring at Red with wide eyes.

Red stared at her hand, it felt hot & wisps of smoke rose from her fingers. She suddenly grinned, full of joy that her fire had returned. ‘My fire… it has returned’

Caera backed up, her eyes wide as Red looked at her.

‘Perhaps it never left.’ She replied nervously. What she had witnessed should not have been possible from anyone except a mage.

Red saw the familiar fear in the adventurer’s eyes & the sight saddened her, despite Caera’s crimes. She frowned, taking in her surroundings.

‘Where are we?’

‘Somewhere safe. No-one will find us here, she won’t find you.’ she explained, handing Red some clothes.

The dragon rolled her eyes as Caera turned her back & removed her armour.

‘What is this human obsession with clothes?’

‘Being naked is not a good survival trait.’ She said shortly. And it’s distracting, she added silently. ‘What do you remember?’

Red frowned, her memory of the last day was fuzzy at best. ‘I landed in the clearing & then… the woman!’ she looked at Caera. ‘You were right. The ropes… I couldn’t move, I wanted to but I couldn’t. I saw you hit her.’

‘That did feel good.’ grinned Caera, handing Red some water.

‘She’s not going to be happy when she wakes up.’ said Red, also smiling. ‘So that’s the chieftain’s daughter? Your taste in women is appalling.’

Caera merely laughed.

‘Thank you for… thank you for coming back for me.’ said Red sincerely, she frowned. ‘How did you find me?’

Caera smiled. ‘You can thank your little purple friend for that, he’s quite attached to you.’ Red looked sheepish. ‘So you think you can postpone killing me until we deal with Dran & his bitch?’

‘Oh absolutely.’

Red opened her eyes staring at the vaulted ceiling, she had no idea whether it was morning or not but as the torches were burning low she assumed she’d been asleep for sometime. Caera had given her the bed & fallen asleep on a chair that looked far from comfortable.

Red looked over at the woman & sighed deeply, feeling conflicted. How could she trust someone who had killed her kin for money? Who had sold them like cattle to a madman? The knowledge still angered her. Everything she had been taught demanded she kill Caera to avenge the lives she had taken but she had also saved her own twice, the same code that demanded her death also put her in the adventurer’s debt.

Red looked at her hands as she felt the familiar heat she had experienced yesterday & pushed down her anger. Burning Caera’s home down would solve nothing.

Caera opened her eyes & groaned, she ached all over. That’s the last time I do that.

‘Hey.’ She smiled, seeing Red was awake. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Troubled.’

‘Still deciding about killing me?’ she joked.

‘Yes.’ Red said honestly.

‘And?’

‘It’s complicated.’ She sighed & sat up. ‘You have murdered my people for money, which demands your death but you have also saved my life. Twice.’

‘Murder?’ said Caera, offended. ‘Yes, I’ve killed dragons & my motivations weren’t exactly noble but it was never murder. I tried to kill them & they me, the fight was fair.’ She paused & looked at the ground. ‘Except those I sold.’

‘And how many men did you take with you? 10? 20? Is that what you call a fair fight?’

Caera eyed Red’s hands, remembering yesterday’s events. The dragon noticed her gaze & thrust her hands below the blanket.

‘I hunted alone.’ She replied, her eyes narrowing, there was more here to Red’s words than her shameful past. ‘Who was it? Who did they kill?’

‘I don’t know what your talking about.’

‘They took someone from you, didn’t they? Someone important.’ Caera said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I do not need your pity.’ said Red coldly.

In that moment Caera realised that it was not simply an animal she had been hunting, she had taken the life of someone’s mother or son or sister. She had destroyed families. The realisation hit her like a punch to the stomach & made her feel sick.

‘Perhaps when this is over, I can help find the person who did this to you.’

‘You would do that?’ said Red, her anger momentarily stalled by this gesture.

‘For a friend, yes.’

Caera stuffed a few supplies into her pack & looked over at Red who was still eating breakfast. The dragon’s bright red hair was distinctive & she was glad she had given her a long sleeved shirt, the bright scales that ran down the side of her face could be easily explained away if the need arose.

Red looked up from her breakfast of bacon & fried bread, she wasn’t sure about the bread but the bacon was really good. In the dim light she could see burn marks peeking out from Caera’s sleeveless vest.

‘Your back… what happened?’

Caera stiffened & turned round.

‘My last hunt, I turned my back at the wrong moment. I got lucky.’ She explained, holding her breath for Red’s anger.

‘I… I’m glad you did.’ Said Red, the burn scars on the adventurer’s back were extensive & deep, creating a macabre web. The pain must have been excruciating. How did she survive that? she wondered.

‘It’ll take more than a little heat to kill me.’ She grinned, throwing on her armour. She glanced at her friend. ‘Red, how long ago did you lose your fire?’

Red opened her mouth to snap at the adventurer & stopped.

‘5 years ago.’

‘And you haven’t been able to use it since?’

‘Not before yesterday.’ She replied. Shifting between dragon & human bewildering enough but the return of her fire, something she had longed for, made things more confusing. ‘What am I?’

‘Unique.’ Smiled Caera, clasping her friend’s shoulder. ‘You got your fire back, that’s good, right? We’ll figure it out, okay?’

Red nodded & smiled back.

Caera grabbed a spare sword from the rack & belted it around Red’s waist, who looked at it curiously.

‘Why do I need this?’

‘People tend not to bother you if your armed. But your fairly strong anyway, so it might not matter.’ She replied, opening the trapdoor. The forest seemed quiet except for general background noise. ‘C’mon, it seems clear.’

‘Now we kill Dran?’

‘No, well not yet. We need wards.’ She added, seeing Red frowning. ‘I’m not magic proof & neither are you. I have a friend who deals in that sort of thing.’

They hadn’t gone far when something buzzed out of the air & landed on Red’s arm.

‘Hello, little one.’ She greeted the purple bird, gently stroking his small head as he chattered away. Suddenly she laughed & turned to Caera. ‘He says your quite fast for a human.’

‘I hope I never have to that again.’ She grinned

For the remainder of the journey, the purple bird remained on Red’s shoulder, chirping without pause.

Caera’s friend turned out to be a robust old man who lived on the side of a small hillock on the edge of the forest. A makeshift fence surrounded the hill with a few chickens pecking amidst the long grass.

‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep walking!’ said a man holding an old looking crossbow.

Without knowing why, Red grabbed the hilt of her sword.

‘Oh please! You couldn’t hit a tree with that thing.’ scoffed Caera.

The man lowered the weapon & a grin split his bearded face.

‘Caera! By the gods, how long has it been?’

‘Too long, old man.’ She said, hugging her friend. ‘How have you been?’

‘Can’t complain.’ He said, he spotted Red & his smile widened even more. ‘And who is your lovely friend?’

‘Forget it, Kirk. She’s outta your league.’ Said Caera firmly. ‘Red, this is my old friend Kirk.’

‘The pleasure is all mine.’ He said, holding out his hand. Red looked flatly at the old man until he lowered his hand. Kirk coughed nervously. ‘So what brings you ladies to my humble home.’

Caera rolled her eyes at his attempts to be charming. ‘I need your help. We need some wards.’

‘What kind?’ he brightened. The study of magic was a particular passion of his. ‘Elemental? Transfiguration? Control?’

‘Blood magic.’

Kirk visibly paled, blood magic was the most dangerous & powerful of the arcane arts.

‘By the gods Caera, what shit are you involved in now?’

‘Nothing good, my friend.’

‘You’d better come in then.’

Kirk’s home was a disorganised mess of books, alembics filled with different coloured liquids & shelves full of dried ingredients. Various small drawers dotted the room & in the corner sat a small forge. The purple bird flew off Red’s shoulder & investigated the room, after a few minutes of flying around the room he landed on top of a high shelf.

‘Curious little fellow, isn’t he?’ smiled Kirk. ‘So who did you piss off to warrant blood magic, Caera?’

‘I didn’t exactly piss him off but he has become a problem.’ She replied.

‘You never could stay out of trouble.’ He chuckled, rooting around the shelves. ‘Please tell me it isn’t anything to do with those awful dragon hunters.’

‘You don’t like the hunters, Elder?’ asked Red, surprised.

Kirk smiled widely at her. ‘Finally, someone with some respect.’ He looked pointedly at Caera, who rolled her eyes. ‘No, I don’t. Barbaric, greedy lot. If they have 2 brain cells to rub together, I’d be surprised.’

‘I like your friend, Caera.’

‘You should - ahh, found them!’ he cried, holding up two bright blue amulets. ‘So… I, uh hate to do this but…’

‘You want paid.’ Said Caera flatly. She sighed & pulled out the orichalcum blades from her pack. ‘Will this do?’

Kirk’s eyes widened.

‘Where did you get those?!’

‘A bunch of guys who attacked us a while back.’

‘I assume they are dead?’

‘Red helped with that.’ she said smugly.

Kirk raised an eyebrow at this, the red haired woman was more formidable than he thought.

‘Why are you after wards when you have all this orichalcum? I could make you & your friend some gauntlets.’

‘Red’s allergic to it.’ Said Caera. ‘Tell you what, the gauntlets & a ward & you can keep the rest of the orichalcum.’

‘Really?’ Kirk’s eyes lit up & he grinned. ‘You got a deal! It’ll take most of the day, so you can spend the night.’

True to his word, Kirk worked for hours on end on the gauntlets, Red watched in fascination as the old man heated & beat the metal, slowly shaping it. The process was long but interesting. Caera had gone hunting & had strenuously insisted that Red stay with Kirk. After a while she picked a random book & flicked through the pages.

‘An interesting book that. It details how orichalcum affects dragons.’ Said Kirk looking up briefly. ‘The author even theorizes that in rare cases it can change their form completely. Though I’m not sure how genuine the claim is.’

Red looked stunned & suddenly wished she knew how to read the human tongue, she opened her mouth to ask a question & the door burst open.

‘Kirk, you old bastard. Give us what we want or we cut you in half!’

‘My, how dramatic. Did you practice that?’ he said disdainfully

‘We’re serious, old man.’

‘Leave now or leave in pieces.’ growled Red.

‘Whose the bitch?’

The purple bird suddenly flew forward attacking the intruders with his claws & beak, despite his size he managed to draw blood. Red took advantage of the distraction & threw a solid punch at the first man, knocking him down while the other suddenly found a naked blade at his throat.

‘Take your friend & leave now.’

The man nodded gently for fear of losing his head, he grabbed his semi conscious friend & fled.

‘You are certainly full of surprises, young lady, my thanks.’ Said the old man, smiling ‘You too, Sir Bird.’

Caera returned shortly carrying 5 rabbits, Red’s inner dragon salivated at the sight.

‘Why did I just pass 2 running men?’ she asked amused.

‘Dragon hunters, they’ve been annoying me for some time now. Red & her purple friend scared them off.’

Caera raised an eyebrow & laughed.

‘I leave you guys alone for 5 minutes…’

Red yawned widely & sat up, she had talked with the old man long into the night & was now regretting it. Kirk’s knowledge of her people was impressive though he admitted most of it came from books, she had questioned him closely on orichalcum & the effect on dragons. She had been surprised to learn the metal only effected change in certain dragons & that were-dragons, as he called them, were more common hundreds of years ago.

The Elders of her clan had never even mentioned this.

Why is this happening to me?

A loud crack jerked Red from her thoughts & she ran to the door & yanked it open, her jaw hit the floor by the sight before her.

Kirk was hurling fireballs at Caera, who was deflecting them with her knew gaunlets & laughing gleefully. Several of the trees around them were either smoking or on fire.

‘ARE YOU INSANE?!’

Both turned at the sound of her voice & Kirk lowered his hands guiltily.

‘I had to test them out.’ explained Caera, lifting up her arms to show off the gauntlets. ‘Aren’t they awesome?’

‘And what if they hadn’t worked?’ Red pointed to a cracked tree. ‘What if that was you.’

‘In my defense, she was quite insistent.’ said Kirk.

‘Oh thank you! Throw me to the wolves, why don’t you!’ glared Caera.

‘I am not a wolf.’

‘That you are not.’ smiled Kirk knowingly. ‘Come, Red, I would never harm Caera.’

‘That is well for you, Elder.’

Kirk laughed at the veiled threat.

‘Come have some breakfast before you leave.’

After a large fried breakfast, the pair bade farewell to the old scholar but not before he extracted a promise for them to come back alive. They avoided any kind of road or trail, instead making their way among the trees.

‘Why did you call him that?’ asked Caera.

‘What?’

‘You kept calling Kirk ‘elder’, why?’

‘He is old & learned. My people revere those who seek knowledge.’

‘I see. I think it’s the first I’ve seen you not hate a human.’

‘Most humans I’ve met have tried to kill me.’ Red pointed out.

Caera stopped suddenly & motioned Red to stay silent. Through the foliage she could see 2 men in black a few yards away.

‘Stay here. Keep silent.’

Caera crept forward silently, drawing her sword. The men never even heard her & slumped forward as she struck them with the pommel of her sword.

‘Quick, take off their clothes.’

‘What?!’ said Red, puzzled.

‘You see that silver drake on their armour? That’s Dran’s sigil.’

‘Oh.’ Red’s eyes narrowed at the sigil. That this monster who casually slaughtered her people would take such a symbol angered & disgusted her.

Caera grinned widely as she donned the armour.

‘The bastard won’t see us coming.’

The moonlight filtered through the clouds, creating light & shadows among a huge stone circle. A huge white dragon stepped through the stones & approached the lone figure.

‘Why isn’t she dead, Dran?’

‘She is proving most clever or lucky. My sources tell me she has help, an ex hunter.’

‘She must die! These changelings are impure & must be erased.’

‘Do not worry, Elder. My men are combing the forest as we speak, it will not be long before we capture her.’ the mage grinned evilly. ‘I cannot wait to sample the blood of this one.’

Red landed on the ground with a thud & growled in frustration, she had been sparring with Caera for an hour & had yet to lay a blade on her.

‘Anger can only take you so far, Red. You also need to watch your opponent, anticipate them.’

‘I will make you eat those words.’ She said through gritted teeth.

‘It would be a meal I would happily eat.’

Red took a deep breath, trying to dispel her anger & picked up her sword. Instead of blindly attacking she carefully circled her opponent, watching her eyes & paying attention to Caera’s movements.

Finally! It took her long enough.

Caera attacked & Red met the blow & turned it aside, she pressed the advantage with a swing from the left but found it blocked & pushed back.

‘Better! What else you got?’ grinned Caera, twirling her sword.

Red surged forward, aiming her blows at her opponents head & legs. The dragon’s blows were strong & Caera struggled to parry them, yet there was none of the blind anger that Red had displayed before. Both their swords locked together, each pushing & struggling for upper hand. Red suddenly pushed forward & kissed the adventurer.

Caera blinked in surprise & her sword arm slackened, it took her a few moments to register the blade at her throat.

‘You cheated!’

‘Didn’t you tell me to take every advantage in a fight?’ smirked Red.

Caera scowled & suddenly laughed.

‘Not exactly what I meant.’ She shook her head, somewhat embarrassed by how well the tactic worked. ‘A cheap shot, but well played.’

‘Your just mad cause I beat you.’

‘Don’t let it go to your head.’

As dusk fell, the forest gradually thinned & the pair finally stood on the edge of a valley. A short distance away stood a castle surrounded by thick walls, several tall towers surrounded the main keep. A little to the south stood a town, it’s flickering lights dwarfed by the huge shadow of the castle.

Caera gathered some wood & started to light with her flint when Red stopped her.

‘Let me try.’ She said, Caera looked at her curiously but stepped back.

Red stared at the pile wood & recalled the anger she felt the other day but as she looked at the adventurer, she felt nothing but respect & a little affection. The dragon’s thought turned to Dran & the anger rose within her, she felt her hands grow hotter & hotter until both were aflame. Red focused on the pile of wood & extended her hands, a gout of flame shot forward & ignited the wood.

‘Damm!’ exclaimed Caera, her eyes wide & grinned.

‘So, what’s they plan?’ asked Red

‘Get in & kill the asshole.’

‘That’s it?’ said Red incredulously. ‘How did you get in the last time?’

‘Through the kitchens. But we’re in disguise, so I’m thinking we use the front door.’ Caera grinned.

‘Are you insane? That’s suicide!’

‘They would never expect it, we’d have the element of surprise.’

‘For a moment & then we’re dead!’

Caera opened her mouth to reply but was stopped as she spotted a white shape to the east.

‘What the fuck is that?!’

Red followed her friend’s gaze, the shape was unmistakably a dragon & she knew of only one white dragon.

‘It can’t be…’ she whispered, a feeling of dread coming over her. ‘What is he doing here?’

A low chirping slowly invade Caera’s consciousness which was followed by a strange rustling, she opened her eyes & she saw the purple bird hopping furiously.

‘Hey, little guy.’ She said drowsily. She looked up & blinked as she saw her friend preparing to leave. ‘Red?’

‘I’m sorry, Caera, I need to go.’

Caera frowned, had she done something to offend her? As the fog of sleep cleared, it hit her.

‘This is about the white dragon, isn’t it?’

Red nodded.

‘I need to warn him.’

‘Who is he?’

Red sighed & ran a hand through her hair.

‘The one who exiled me. He’s an Elder of my clan, one of the oldest.’

‘Exiled? That’s why you were in that cave?’

‘Weakness is not tolerated among my people. When the clan discovered I had lost my fire, I was brought before the Elders & sent into exile.’ explained Red, the memory of being ejected from the only home she had ever known still hurt. ‘I can never return.’

Caera’s heart went out to her friend.

‘I am so sorry, Red. It was wrong of them to cast you out like that.’ she said sincerely & motioned her friend to sit. ‘The absence of your fire does not make your weak nor any less a dragon.’ She smiled. ‘You are quite fierce without it.’

‘I must still warn him.’ said Red, giving a small smile at the compliment.

Caera paused, the appearance of the white dragon so near the mage’s castle was too much of a coincidence. She had a very bad feeling about this.

‘If we stop Dran, you won’t need to.’

‘What if we fail?’

‘He is powerful, yes, but not invincible.’ She said after a moment. The possibility of defeat had never entered her mind. ‘Together we can beat him.’

Red considered this for a moment & nodded. The adventurer was a skilled warrior & nothing, if not determind.

‘Very well. But we are not going in the front door.’

‘Okay, okay.’ laughed Caera. ‘I’ll take a better look in the morning. Get some sleep. I’ll stand watch.’

Red paused as she headed to her bedroll.

Among my people, we are name for certain traits or the colour of our hide. Our true name are only known to our parents or those we trust.’ Red took a deep breath. ‘My true name is Armeth.’

‘You honour me, Armeth.’ Nodded Carea. ‘Sleep well.’

A thin blanket of mist crept across the floor of the valley as the sun rose. Caera stood up & pulled a small telescope, after few adjustments she could clearly see the castle.

Even this early, she could see half a dozen guards at the front gate & the towers were similarly manned, except for the largest one, it’s wide top was curiously empty except for a single figure. Even from this distance Caera recognised him.

Dran.

‘Red! Red! Get up!’

‘What is it?’

‘Dran. He’s on that tower.’

Red didn’t even hesitate, she grabbed Caera’s gauntlet & gritted her teeth as the change took hold of her. She almost screamed as her bones lengthened & shifted, felt the itch as her scales returned. Lastly, her wings slowly protruded from her back & finally unfurled, her claws digging into the earth at the pain.

Caera looked on in concern as her friend drew large heavy breaths, the bright red scales moving & glowing in the early sunlight.

‘Red? Are you okay?’

‘Get on my back.’

Caera’s heart pounded in her chest as the wind whipped her hair & the valley passed swiftly under her. They were upon the towers all too soon & she saw their arrival had surprised some of the tower guards who scrambled like ants, a few more prepared souls fired arrows.

‘Archers! Watch yourself, Red!’ she shouted, clinging on as the dragon banked between the towers. A few arrows glanced off Red’s hide but she remained unharmed.

Red drastically slowed down as the approached Dran’s tower & hovered above the mage

‘Ah the hunter & you brought me a present.’ Drawled the mage.

‘Yeah.’ Said Caera, drawing her sword. ‘The sharp pointy kind.’

Suddenly a dark shape blotted out the weak early morning sun & descended to the tower beside the mage.

Red blinked & a coldness flooded her as recognition hit.

‘Elder?’

‘I have been looking for you for a long time, young one. How good of you to come to me.’ Said the white dragon smugly as Dran climbed on his back.

‘You… your working with him?? He has murdered many of our brothers & sisters.’

‘Not murdered, cleansed. You are the last of the changelings. With your death, the stain upon our race will be erased.’

Caera could feel her friend’s confusion & stroked her neck. ‘I’m with you.’ She whispered. Caera looked up at the dragon & the mage, anger flooding through her.

‘Don’t be so sure, lizard.’

At the adventurer’s words, the white dragon sprang from the tower toward them with the speed of the wind, Caera could see the mage readying his magic & urged her friend down. To the surprise of both, a flock of birds sped past them led by a certain purple bird & formed a living wall against their opponents.

‘You need to pick stronger friends, young one.’ Laughed the white dragon, opening his mouth. To Red’s horror, she realised the elder meant to flame her defenders. She shot forward & rammed into the white dragon’s flank, her claws raking across the white hide. The white dragon roared in pain & let loose his flame but the angle was too tight & Red dodged it easily, she surged upwards & clamped down on his tail with her jaws. Caera leapt from her perch on to the white dragon & attacked Dran, her red blade flashing in the sun. Dran fired a bolt of red lighting that was grounded by the red blade & the adventurer surged forward & punched the mage square in the nose before thrusting her sword deep in his ribcage. The mage gasped, blood flowed from his mouth as he tried to breathe.

‘You are nothing without your magic.’ Said Caera coldly & firmly booted the mage, sending his corpse into the air. Caera lost her footing & grabbed onto a spine as Red slammed into the white dragon, despite her size Red had taken a few chunks of flesh from the larger dragon & the adventurer could not help but admire her friend’s skill.

Caera rushed forward as Red’s jaws clamped around the white dragons throat, her opponent roared in pain as Caera drove her sword near the base of his skull & severed his spine. The white dragon grew limp & plummeted downward, the velocity threw Caera into the air & she got an excellent view of the green land that was rushing toward her.

I’m gonna die

Her descent came to a sudden stop & as she tried to catch her breath, she saw the red hide beneath her.

‘Nice catch.’ She croaked, breathing heavily.

‘He’s dead.’ Said Red distantly.

Caera rolled over & saw the dead dragon on the tower below.

‘He meant to kill you, his death was deserved.’

‘Perhaps.’ Replied Red & Caera could her teeth grinding. ‘My clan will not see it that way. There will be a reckoning.’

‘Then we will face it together.’

#the dragon thing #i kinda tweaked a few things #sometimes i write shit

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robininthelabyrinth · 7 years

Text

FFXV: Eschaton - 1/4

Fic: Eschaton (ao3 link) - chapter 1/4

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Pairing: None (gen)

Summary: Sure, it's the end of the world, but that just means someone's got to fix it.

And then the world found its somebodies.

(aka, with Noctis gone into the Crystal and no one sure when he'll be back, Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto end up saving the world one piece at a time)

A/N: So, the lack of actual change in the World of Ruin segment of FFXV made it feel like it was set three months after Noctis' disappearance, not ten years. So I took all the detail we saw from the supposed "ten year" mark, set it at "three months", and then went through the ten years from that starting point.

...aka I really wanted to write a proper post-apocalyptic fic. So here it is.

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THREE MONTHS

"We don't know how long the darkness will last," Ignis says again, hoping that by repetition he can finally impress the seriousness of the point. "As a result, it is urgent that we gather as much of the harvest now as possible, before it is befouled by daemons and blighted by the lack of sun."

“We can’t give up our hunters!” the man – an important merchant-man of some variety from one of the towns, unaccustomed to not being listened to even now as a refugee – argues.

Ignis feels bad for him, uprooted from his home, forced to take everything he owned and put it in a carriage, fleeing the daemons, fleeing the night, heading to the only place that was still known to have light.

Lestallum.

Lestallum might not have the Titan crouched beneath its meteor any longer, the dread Archaean who once was sleeping and now is dead, but the power plant still works, and their city has light.

Light, the final barrier against the daemons that prowl freely through the forests and the hills.

With the sun gone, what do they have to fear?

Nothing. Only humans have fear, now, fear from the daemons that hunts them for sport, fear from the Astrals that abandoned them, fear from the Starscourge that still sweeps through the countryside and changes men into daemons – a fate worse than death.

Fear of starvation, as the far-sighted look into the future and realize that no new harvests would grow as long as the sun was gone. You could only hide in a Haven for so long, after all, until someone stronger or more desperate came and pushed you out, or until hunger itself drove you forth, and then the daemons would find you.

Hunters do what they can to hold off the daemons, but only light – clear, consistent light – can hold them off for good, long enough to rest and recover.

And the only place with that sort of light is Lestallum.

And so people come from all over, come to the temporary gates that the Lestallum hunters so painstakingly constructed around the city, the gates they watch every day, with endless patrols; the gates that are protected by hunters going out daemon-hunting, meat-hunting, hunting – hunting – hunting –

And, sometimes, doing other things.

"—with the proliferation of daemons attacking –" the man is continuing to argue.

"The decision is final," Ignis says firmly. "The hunters accompanying your caravan will be reassigned from guarding your belongings to ferrying in crops from the nearby fields; the farmers have arranged several shipments, but require assistance in defending the transport from daemon attack."

"Should’ve expected it. Of course Lestallum prefers to rescue its own – always favoring the farmers –"

"I am not a resident of Lestallum," Ignis says, very slowly and glacially calm. "I am a citizen of Insomnia, as it happens, so I can sympathize with your feelings as a city resident. That does not make them appropriate now. Our origins are irrelevant. We are all citizens of the world now, common in our humanity, and we must work together to do what we can to hold back the darkness.”

The man is still grumbling, still unsatisfied, still displeased. Ignis can’t really blame him – those hunters would have represented the only hope of safety he and his family have had for weeks now, and they arrived at a refuge only to have them taken away. Ignis wouldn’t have particularly appreciated it, either.

“You have been assigned to a housing unit. The information will be posted on the posting board in the center of the town within several hours,” Ignis says, moving on to other business. “When you leave this office, you can pick up your daily ration ticket which you will be able to turn in for a meal –”

Ignis had ordered them to go down to two meals a day, a morning and an evening one. The part of Ignis that is still a chef aches at the thought of the meals they are mostly able to provide.

They aren’t great, but they're nutritious enough.

At the very least, it is all free. All food has to be given to the central administrator and set aside for redistribution, with the focus of each daily meal on the food that is on the verge of expiration or, if they are lucky, whatever amount of the meat that was brought in by the hunters that couldn’t be smoked or preserved or frozen. This applies to everyone: Lestallum no longer discriminates by wealth, no matter how many times the rich men who come to their city in search of shelter try to bribe their way to extra food or additional benefits.

They usually try it on Ignis, which is – less than successful.

To say the least.

“Why’s a blind man making these sort of decisions, anyway?” the man challenges Ignis.

Ignis doesn’t even grind his teeth at the slight. This isn’t the first time this has happened, either. He understands that angry, scared, tired people have the urge to lash out and use any weakness they can against someone they perceive to be taking away their food and their protection, even though he doesn’t appreciate it happening to him. It doesn’t matter, in the end.

The only thing that matters now is keeping the order and the peace of the city.

“I speak now not for myself,” Ignis says clearly and calmly. “But as a representative of King Noctis."

That gets the grumpy merchant to shut up, but it starts up whispers from elsewhere in the room, mostly whispers about the King in Exile, as they've taken to calling Noctis.

In exile, because that's easier: easier to think that Noctis is just far away, gathering more resources, physical and technological and magical. Easier to think that Noctis left his people to the guidance of his lieutenants, purposefully installed to govern them in his absence, while he was on his journeys, than to think that they had been abandoned, that all of them had been abandoned, because of a trap no one could predict. Easier to think that Noctis is only unavailable because of the distance, than it is to think of him trapped away in a glowing treacherous rock filled with magic, a rock that took away all their hope at the very moment that they thought they had won.

The King In Exile, they call him, because while no one wants to give up hope, most people don't really believe the story about the Crystal.

Ignis scarcely believes it himself some days, and he'd all but witnessed it.

Not with his own eyes, of course – the blindness from Altissia remains as stubbornly incurable as ever, and Ignis isn't willing to continue to uselessly waste increasingly precious potions on a wound that seems unlikely to heal.

At any rate, it doesn't matter. He’s found his own ways around it.

Ignis feels the pad beneath his hands with its upraised series of bumps and dashes – a language designed for the convenience of the blind, Cor explained in one of his brief visits between daemon hunts; he brought several of the pads, which functioned as translators for the paperwork Ignis had to review, and two typewriters that could conveniently type simultaneously in both common and the physical-language.

Ignis immediately gave one to Cindy and Cid, with the request that they supply Lestallum's central office with as many of duplicates as possible to make with the machine parts they had to spare, and installed the other in his office at once. Honestly, given the utility of communicating by text in the dark, he's thinking of insisting that everyone learn to read the blind-language. Hunters are already picking it up at speed, following Cor’s example; he loudly announced his intention to learn the language alongside Ignis in order to ensure that messages could be passed secretly between hunters when trying to sneak through the darkened towns outside Lestallum, but with the engineers warning that even the power plant would need to go through occasional black-out periods for maintenance and repairs, it isn’t necessarily a bad idea to suggest something like that universally.

No time for that now, though; Ignis has enough to worry about already without adding in concerns about universal education, no matter how useful. His assistants have all learned how to read the language – that's good enough for him.

Between the typewriters and the pads that let him read, albeit in a slow and clunkly fashion, handwritten documents, Ignis feels almost like his old self again.

Almost.

Noct...

The sharp pang of his friend and prince's absence stings as bitterly as the day he disappeared. It's been two months – no, nearly three months, now.

Three months of loss, of grief, of pain.

Of loneliness.

Noctis' absence had shattered not only their hearts, but their unity.

Gladio buries himself in hunter work, barely coming back to Lestallum long enough to shower and pick up a new assignment and supplies. Ignis speaks to him at times when Gladio has something new to report that he’d found in his hunts, but that's not often; the only thing out there are daemons, daemons and more daemons. Ignis doesn’t hold it against him: the sight – or sound, in Ignis’ case – of each other simply causes too much pain.

Prompto acts as a messenger to Hammerhead, flitting to and fro whenever possible, flirting with almost savage desperation with Cindy as if she could ever fill the hole left in his heart. He doesn't even notice that he's unsuccessful, but that isn't the point of it. The point is to forget. Instead of returning his flirtations, Cindy is using the time Prompto spent at Hammerhead to teach him how to fix cars, and possibly also weapons. At least, that’s what Ignis thinks is the case; he’s not sure. Prompto usually only comes to see him when he has a message for Lestallum from Hammerhead, or if he’s planning on heading out and wants to see if Ignis has any messages for Hammerhead.

Ignis himself stays in Lestallum. He intended to continue helping with daemon hunts at first, his vow to stay until the end still thick on his tongue, but Gladio and Prompto didn't want him around, and the town did. They needed him. He helped the town come together to reactivate the power plant and, when that was done, began working with engineers to help set up outpostings of light to try to guard against daemons, and, after that, the gates they built around the city to aid in patrolling. It worked to start with, but as more and more refugees arrive, Ignis is starting to worry about how long they'll be able to keep this up.

At least there were some hunters in this group. Ignis will be able to assign them to assist the farmers, who have come to Ignis with frantic complaints about food starting to rot in the fields. Food that wouldn’t come back, next harvest. The fall is here, and the harvest, and when the spring comes there will be no new growth without the sun.

No new food, if they don’t harvest and carefully ration what's left.

Ignis would say he doesn't know why they came to him with their requests, but he does. He's the closest thing Lestallum has to a government right now – Six, the closest thing they have to any type of authority, what with all the refugees. The Long Night, as people are calling it already, does not discriminate between rich and poor, meek and powerful, healthy and sick.

It kills everyone.

At the start, Lestallum was wracked with chaos. There wasn’t been any order or anything: everyone giving contrary orders, imposing conflicting priorities, confusing everything. Everyone wanted desperately to preserve what mattered most to them, family and property and safety, and no one was giving any thought to the long term, to the needs of the community at large. They were all too scared, and those who were not scared were often merely selfish. The old authorities were ignored, and a new authority was needed: an authority that could decide what they needed to do now and what could wait for later. An authority that could convert the scrambled individuals of Lestallum into a unified force, bent on preserving life.

Ignis stepped in because there was no one else to do it, and he used Noctis' name in vain to accomplish it.

Gladio didn't like that.

Cor accepted it without words, merely placing a hand on Ignis' shoulder in what Ignis liked to interpret as approval.

Prompto – Prompto, Ignis wasn't sure even noticed what Ignis was doing. Prompto was hollowed out by Noctis' disappearance, hit as hard if not harder than the rest, blaming himself –

They all blamed themselves.

Ignis has reviewed the events leading up to it, but it never changes. Their goal had always been to retrieve the Crystal. Whether or not it was in Gralea, whether or not it was at Ardyn Izunia's taunting, it mattered not. They would have obtained the symbols of Noctis' kingship, the Royal Arms; they would have obtained the Ring; and they would have sought out the Crystal.

The logic is straightforward and clear.

The logic doesn't help.

Ignis finishes signing off on the transfer order and holds it up. One of his assistants (he's not sure which one – they keep dropping out to become hunters) takes it and hands it to the hunters, who mumble agreement and thanks before going out.

Ignis only hopes they'll actually follow the directions he's given them. Sometimes they don't. A blind man with no authority but the name of a missing prince...

Well. There's nothing he can do about it now.

He turns back to reviewing the reports on his desk, clearly dismissing the merchants; they walk out grumbling, but at least they walk out.

Ignis is too busy to care.

The reports –

This isn't working.

This. Lestallum. The Long Night. Any of it.

They're taking in too many refugees. The hunters that focus on food can't bring back enough meat. The vegetables are running low, as is the rice, and grain, and –

They have too many people, not enough food, and not enough light – and more people are arriving by the day.

They're going to have to start turning people away.

Ignis shudders at the thought, true as it might be. There's nowhere for people turned away to go to. Hammerhead can only hold so many, and most of the other main cities are too far away to even check in on, much less send people.

No, Ignis can't lie to himself. Anyone they turn away will be left alone, in the dark, for the daemons and the Scourge.

They will die – if they're lucky.

And how to pick who to turn away? the traitorously practical part of Ignis' mind hisses, the horrifying logic already going to its reasonable conclusion. We need hunters, skilled and trained. We need farmers. We need engineers. But who's left? Women and children? Unskilled laborers? Are they to be cast aside to die? Is it first come first serve? What about the sick? The wounded? Who gets chosen to die? And who makes the choice?

Ignis bites his lip. He doesn't want to think that way. He doesn't want to have to make that decision.

But there's no one to do it but him.

He bends back over the reports, searching desperately for a way to divide their food and housing yet again so that they can squeeze in just a few more refugees.

Just a few more...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gladio's not expecting to find anything in the shabby sparse room he claimed for himself in Lestallum – it's not like he really has anything of his own there, maybe a few of Prompto's old pictures of sunny days, a few novels he'd been carrying around with him.

He's not expecting to open the door with a grunt and find a family of eight staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified, from where they're all huddled together around the few Cup Noodles that Gladio'd stashed behind the desk.

Their knuckles are white around the cups and there are guilty looks on their faces. They know they shouldn't be eating them. They know they weren't theirs.

Four of the eight are under the age of thirteen, and one more barely over.

"You can keep 'em," Gladio grunts, uncomfortable, and he backs out of the room, closing the door in front of him. That room is fit for a bachelor like him; he has no idea what on Eos Ignis is thinking, renting it out to so many people.

"Your clothing's been moved," a calm voice says from behind him.

Gladio jumps a bit, but turns with a smile. "Marshal," he says. "Shoulda known. You're the only one who can sneak up on me nowadays."

Cor doesn't really smile, but his face softens a bit. He's happy to see Gladio too. "That's for the best," he says. "Given your current choice of profession."

Gladio shrugs. He was born and raised a Shield – and what's a Shield without a King? Nothing, that's what. All those years, focusing all his time, all his skills, everything that he is, all devoted to the singular purpose of defending his King, and he fucked it up within months.

What's left for him now, other than hunting? What else is someone like him, a self-made weapon good for nothing but destroying things, destroying threats, going to do? What else is he possibly useful for, now that there's nothing left but the fight?

Gladio swallows those poisonous thoughts back down. He's not useless, not as long as he has his strong right hand and his swords.

And anyway, he doesn't want to go spilling this poison in Cor's ears, burdening the older man with all of Gladio's fears and worries and grief. Cor – the only one who understands. The only one in the same position.

Both of them weapons needing use, and no one left to use them.

"What're you doing here?" Gladio asks instead. "Would've thought you'd still be out hunting."

Cor goes further and farther than any of them, now. His eyes are shadowed by the same emptiness and grief as Gladio's, but for all that Gladio mastered Gilgamesh's challenge where Cor didn't – and Gladio's increasingly less sure that Cor didn't master the challenge, in his own way; Gilgamesh, the Blademaster, seems to know the best way to temper steel, and Cor even by his own account emerged stronger and more cautious than ever, letting him survive the battles he did, the battles against overwhelming odds that no one could have survived, earning himself the name of the Immortal – Cor has the skills to go alone where others don't dare go.

Gladio missed him, these last few weeks. Barely any time at all.

In the Long Night, a few weeks without word is an eternity. If the unthinkable happened, if Cor fell – if Cor died, they would mourn. If Cor became a daemon, well, they were all fucked. Might as well turn in their swords then and there and go straight for ritual suicide.

But the Immortal still stands.

"I returned," Cor answers vaguely. His brow is furrowed.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm not sure," Cor says. "Just a hunch."

"Your hunches are as good as Bahamut's prophecies to me," Gladio says with a shrug. He knows it's blasphemous to say, but he doesn't much care anymore. Not like the Astrals would get off their asses and do anything about it. They never do.

Cor's lips twitch in amusement. "I'll show you where your stuff is," he says. "The old corner store has been converted to hunter's barracks."

"Great," Gladio says, images of hunters sleeping on metal racks meant to hold supplies drifting before his eyes. "What's Ignis thinking, putting that many kids into a small room like that?"

"He's thinking that they'd rather be shoved in together in the light with running water than left out in the dark," Cor says, amusement gone. "You haven't seen the tents."

Gladio frowns. "The tents?"

"You'll see it on the way to the barracks."

He does. The old parking lots have been cleared, and in their place, on the hard asphalt, a virtual sea of tents has popped up. Tents of every color, every quality, pitched claustrophobically close together, and in each tent there are people. People still covered in the dust of the road, sleeping or eating or just sitting there, staring into nothingness, the shock of everything that has happened to them setting in.

And outside of the sea of tents, there are lines. Lines to use the showers, lines to get a bowl of stew spooned out by a tired-looking cook in a ragged old apron, lines for everything.

"What the Six," Gladio says. "Where'd they all come from?"

Cor shrugs. "Everywhere," he says, answering Gladio's question even though he knows it was rhetorical. "Not a lot of places still have light enough to keep the daemons back."

Gladio knows that, in his brain, but he's still having a hard time wrapping his skull around it. It's like the entire population of Insomnia tried to all move into Lestallum.

Except it isn't just Insomnia, is it? It's Galdin Quay, it's Hammerhead, it's everywhere. All of Lucis is coming to the light.

All of Lucis is coming here and dumping their problems into Ignis' lap.

"Shit," Gladio says. He feels bad about his uncharitable thoughts from earlier. He almost feels bad for not being here to help, but it's not like he can do anything to help. He's no administrative wiz like Ignis is. He just hits things.

Once, he thought his greatest fear was not having the strength to be the Shield Noctis deserved.

How naïve he was. There's so much else to fear, here in the Long Night.

They just have to hold out until Noctis comes back, though. Noctis will come back – he has to come back.

Gladio doesn't know what they'll do if he doesn't come back.

They waited next to the Crystal that first day, shivering. Then, when nothing happened, they took it back with them, guarding it closely with their lives, but nothing happened after the first week, either.

They split apart after that, unable to look at each other, unable to do anything more than bury themselves in different types of work – Ignis throwing himself into the power plant, Gladio with his hunts, Prompto going to learn car maintenance from a patient and pitying Cindy.

They all came together at the end of the first month, standing there, hoping – praying –

But there was nothing.

"Vector points," Gladio said dully at the time. "This is the Astral's design: it works like a fairy tale. One day, one week, one month – one year. Next time he might come out is one year."

"Three months," Ignis replied, his mouth tight. "It might be three months. Or six. The Astrals have always appreciated the number six."

"Or the number thirteen," Prompto snapped bitterly. "Thirteen royal arms, right? It could be three months, six months, a year – and what about after that? Three years? Six years? Ten years? Forever?! How long do we have to wait before we just give up?"

"We can't lose faith," Ignis said.

"We've lost Noctis," Prompto raged, his eyes overflowing with tears. "What else is there to lose?"

No one answered his question. There was nothing to say.

The three month mark –

It's soon.

Tonight.

It's why Gladio's back.

Maybe that's what Cor felt, with his hunch. But no, he was concerned, not pleased.

Besides, the Astrals favor the numbers one, six, and ten. Three is half of six, but it isn't a special number.

Doesn't stop them from having hope.

Gladio follows Cor to the hunter's barracks, split roughly down the middle for men and women – hunters don't much care about gender, or in fact about propriety, but it seems reasonable enough a split – and Gladio gets his shower and change of clothing, which is all he really wanted. His novels are still there.

Iris is there, too. She insisted on becoming a daemon hunter herself. Gladio fought it at first, but he was just so tired after losing Noctis that he couldn't sustain it, so he instead made her promise to start with coeruls and sabertusks instead of going straight to daemons.

Looks like she kept her promise. She has a dozen yellow stripes down the arm of her leather jacket – achievements marking a dozen successful meat hunts – and only a single red stripe, for a dozen daemons downed.

She waves, but doesn't come close.

Still sore about that fight they had last time, Gladio guesses. He doesn't even really remember what he said, just that he knew it was below the belt when he said it, and that Iris needed time away from him after that. They said their 'I love you's by rote at the end of the encounter – they never parted without it, nowadays - but she was still stewing.

Just another thing Gladio managed to destroy.

Great.

Cor leaves off to go patrol after that, leaving Gladio nothing for it but to go to the administrative center to see Ignis, who'll know where the Crystal has been hidden this week. They agreed it should be moved around after the first few attempts to steal it.

Prompto is already lurking at the steps.

He's trying to grow a goatee. It doesn't suit him.

"I'm good at hunting daemons," Gladio announces in lieu of a greeting.

Prompto blinks owlishly at him. "Um," he says. "Yeah, you are..?"

The ending is less a question and more a request that Gladio explain what exactly he's on about.

"I could take care of the one you've got clinging to your chin for you," Gladio clarifies. "No problem. Won't even charge you."

"My chin –" Prompto raises a hand, then realizes. "Hey! Gimme a break, I’m still growing it!"

But he's smiling, just the littlest bit; Gladio can see that the smile is coming despite Prompto's best efforts, but it's there. A little lightness, amid all this darkness.

Prompto smiled the most out of all of them, before.

"Just saying," Gladio says gruffly. He shakes his head. "How's Cindy?"

He doesn't ask how Prompto's doing. He knows the answer – he feels gutted and empty and numb. Just like Gladio does.

"She's tough as nails," Prompto says, his voice fond. Gladio doesn't comment on how that fondness sounds more like the way he talks about Iris than it does the way it sounded a few months back, when he was still dorkily crushing on her. "Nothing gets her down."

"Not even having to wear long pants to keep back the chill?" Gladio teases.

"Hah! You think a little bit of chill is going to stop Cindy?"

"Goosebumps aren't attractive."

"Cindy makes everything attractive," Prompto says firmly. His best attribute has always been his loyalty.

Loyalty –

Like his loyalty to Noctis.

Oh, Noct.

As if his ghost were summoned by the thought, Gladio and Prompto move apart from each other, unable to look at each other.

"Three months, huh," Prompto says, trying and failing to keep his voice light.

"Probably no chance of it," Gladio warns.

"Still worth a shot," Prompto says with a shrug. "Don't want him coming out of it alone."

Ignis appears at the door then. He has his cane, and he's found a visor to protect his still-useless eyes. "Gladio," he says. "Prompto."

"Ignis," Gladio says, his voice rough. Ignis is too thin, the work and the loneliness taking its toll on him. He was their chef and their snappiest dresser; now his fancy clothing hangs loose on him and the tightness of his cheeks suggests that he hasn't been eating right.

Gladio knows that he should stay here in Lestallum, offering his strong right arm and his eyes and his company to help ease Ignis' burden as Ignis does the work that should have fallen by birthright to Noctis. But he can't. He's just a Shield without a King. He can't help.

"Let us go," Ignis says.

The Crystal is in a sub-basement of the building. It was in a cave, last time.

They wait.

There are a few stilted attempts at conversation that quickly die – what do they have to talk about? Ignis knows everything about Gladio's recent hunt from the report Gladio turned in at the gate when he arrived, and the sea of tents says everything about Ignis' activities, and Prompto's attempts to fix cars in Hammerhead are the same as they've always been – and they wait in silence.

It's midnight (or at least the hour that used to mark midnight, before it was all night) before Ignis stirs with a sigh and rises with a creak to his back. He's too young for his bones to be groaning like that.

He states what's obvious to all of them, but which none of them wanted to say.

"He's not coming back today."

"He might," Prompto says stubbornly, his eyes fixed on the Crystal.

"He won't," Gladio says, bitter despair coloring his voice. "He's left us here, alone. He's not coming back."

He doesn't add the 'today' that Ignis does.

Prompto's cheeks flush red. "You always were the first one to give up on him."

Gladio's hands curl into fists. Gladio's never given up on Noctis, not once, not ever; he was angry at him, but it was always for Noctis' own good, to help push him forward. Gladio gave everything to Noctis, everything he had, from the second he was born, from before Noctis had even been conceived; he'd always known his duty, and knowing Noctis himself had turned that duty into a pleasure. Prompto has no idea what he's talking about, with his cars and his girl and his machine repairs, the insipid little –

"That was uncalled for, Prompto," Ignis says, his voice chilly. "Your pain is no greater than our own, and you know it."

Prompto ducks his head, ashamed, conceding the point.

"It doesn't change the facts," Ignis says. "Tonight isn't the night. We should go."

"You go, then," Prompto says. "I want to –"

They never find out what Prompto wanted, though, because the door opens and it's Cor.

"There's a disturbance outside the gate," he says. "You should come see this."

"Daemons?" Gladio asks, his fingers already flexing for the grip of his sword.

"No," Cor says, and his eyes are dark. "Magitek soldiers."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I thought they were all disabled," Prompto says, gnawing at his lower lip. "The MTs, I mean."

He still doesn't like talking about them, about the MTs, about –

Well. It's not like they don't all know about him now, about his past, about where he's from, about what he was meant for. That moment of acceptance, from all of them, from Noct, is still one of the most precious memories he has, one that he pulls out in the darkest moments of the night and replays time and time again. He's not letting that memory fade, not ever.

"We thought so, too. Guess we were wrong," Cor says, his face lined with concern as he looks out of their ring of light to the troop of MT troopers standing a reasonable distance away. Far enough away that a sword strike would be difficult, and, in the dark, a gun shot would have only limited accuracy. Prompto could probably get one – he really is that good, and he knows it – but that wouldn't help against the whole troop.

Noct could've warped the distance, no problem.

But Noct's not here. He's not coming back today.

He's not coming back –

No. He is. He has to.

But right now, they have a different problem, and the problem is the rows of dark silhouettes with glowing red eyes, standing at attention in the dark. They don't move forward, but they're clearly watching the camp.

"What do they want?" Prompto asks. He's taking a leap here, assuming that MTs actually want something, but they're here, and they weren't here before, and that has to mean something, right? Most likely it just means that someone is commanding them, but that person has to want something.

"Excellent question," Ignis says. He can't see them, of course, but they've described the scene to him.

Well, sort of.

Cor gave a brief report, numbers and approximate placement, as well as a quick overview of the terrain and the fighting advantages and disadvantages (positive: lots of hunters; negative: lots of civilians).

Prompto described the atmosphere – the words 'creepy' and 'spooky red eyes' and 'like statutes but homicidal' came up.

Gladio rolled his eyes at both of them and described it in a way that actually explained what they were seeing (dark silhouettes, glowing red eyes, surrounding some sort of box, one standing somewhat ahead of the rest).

He's always been best at it.

"We should just attack already," Gladio grumbles, but it's clear he doesn't mean it. "The longer we wait, the closer they'll get; the more civilians might get hurt."

"They're not doing anything," Ignis points out, sounding thoughtful.

"They're MTs," Gladio says flatly. "Robots."

Prompto doesn't feel the usual sting he does when MTs get discussed in harsh terms; it helps that Gladio knows, and still stays the same tactless ass he’s always been. It shows that he doesn't think about Prompto that way, not even in the back of his mind.

"They came here," Cor says. "That means they want something, or, rather, someone with access to them wants something. We need to figure out what that something is."

"We should approach them," Ignis says abruptly.

Everyone looks at him.

"We have no other means of obtaining information. Cor, call for some of the hunters and set them up on the perimeter to cover us, and to keep watch and make sure this isn't some sort of distraction –"

"Already done," Cor says.

"And we'll go ourselves," Ignis continues. His face is set. "Between the four of us, we can defeat a group this small. Even if there's a greater ambush out there, we have enough power together to keep it back to cover our retreat. We should be able to question them without difficulty."

Nods all around.

"I am the local authority," Ignis adds, forestalling the objections to his presence that no one actually raised. "I need to approve any agreement, or even the opening of negotiations on behalf of Lestallum."

"We'll protect you," Gladio says. Cor murmurs an agreement.

Ignis relaxes infinitesimally; his fears of being left behind are as strong as ever. Prompto can sympathize.

After all, Prompto –

Well, they don't really need Prompto, do they?

"I'll hang up a pan on the gate," Cor says. "Prompto shooting it down will be the signal that the gate should be closed and not opened to anyone, even us."

Everyone looks at Cor.

"In the event they have a biological weapon," he clarifies. “And we don’t want to come back.”

Get turned into daemons, he means.

"Prompto's always been the best shot," Gladio agrees. "And we'd need something that precise to convince them here."

"Then we're agreed; we all go," Ignis says.

Prompto's throat is tight. He doesn't want to deal with MTs, not really, but the feeling of being needed, of being part of the team again, of being useful –

He wouldn't give that up for anything.

"You can count on me," he says.

They make the last few arrangements and they head out into the dark.

The MTs watch them approach.

As they (and their lights) get closer, more details become clear. It's a group of riflemen, tall and dangerous but not as giant as the axemen, and standing some few steps out in front of their perfect formation is a single MT, his armor slightly more fancy than the others. A unit commander, maybe; Prompto doesn't remember seeing that distinction, but it's a reasonable one. At some point, the Empire had more MT squads than captains to lead them, and an MT commander made sense. Robots (not-quite-robots, Prompto's mind reminds him, as you know best of all) commanding robots.

Why are they here?

They don’t move for a long while, just watching the group approach, their red eyes glowing above those fixed, metal smiles.

It’s only when they’re standing less than fifteen feet away that the commander moves with that jerky, inhuman motion characteristic of a puppet with badly pulled strings, or an MT out of battle. Same thing, really.

He (it?) raises a hand, and the MTs who were standing around what is now recognizably a large box all stir to life.

Cor, Gladio, and Prompto all tense for an attack, Ignis tensing when he feels them all brace themselves, but nothing happens.

Instead, the MTs just peel apart, perfect formation reforming several steps behind the box, the commander still out in front.

Gladio’s voice is a quiet murmur, letting Ignis know what happened.

Prompto glances at Cor, whose face is calm and serious as ever.

The MT commander gestures at the box, his metal palm open and welcoming, and then returns his hand to his side and stills again.

“He wants us to see what’s inside the box,” Prompto surmises.

“I don’t see anyone else,” Cor says, scanning the horizon, his hand still on the hilt of his blade

Prompto gulps. That means – could the MTs be doing this themselves? After all, they were human, once. But they were reduced to mindless, obedient robots…

Well.

They’re not going to find out anything just standing here.

“I’m going to open the box,” Prompto says, and holds his hands up before Gladio or Cor can volunteer to go in his stead.

He knows he’s the least useful one here. Gladio and Cor destroy daemons; Ignis runs Lestallum; and what does Prompto do? Run messages back and forth between Lestallum and Hammerhead, like a child, and sometimes fix cars?

No, he’s the right one for the job.

He moves forward slowly, carefully, knowing Gladio and Cor are at his back, watching him, ready to leap in at a moment’s notice, knowing that Ignis has his sharp ears and sharper mind bent on the situation, ready to call out instructions.

But nothing happens.

He gets to the box.

The MT commander is standing only a few steps away, but he’s as still as a statute.

Prompto looks down at the large box – big enough that it would take four men to carry it, easy.

Only one way to see what’s inside.

He opens the box, and then freezes, staring inside.

“What is it?” Ignis asks, breaking the quiet.

“It’s – it’s a – it’s a generator,” Prompto exclaims, rocking back on his heels. “Guys, it’s a generator!”

Generators are worth more than gold, more than diamonds, more than hunters – they mean more light, and more light means more space that can be protected from daemons, and that means more people, more safety. This one is disconnected, too, and it isn’t reliant on the power plant for power, and that means it could maybe be sent to Hammerhead, to help them maintain their boundaries – it means they could hold out longer –

This is great.

“What do they want for it?” Ignis asks, and Prompto stops, abashed.

The MTs didn’t just bring this as a gift, of course. That isn’t exactly characteristic of them.

They’ve correctly identified the thing Lestallum wants most, and they brought it here, in the dark.

Prompto looks at the commander. “What do you want for it?” he asks, unable to keep from addressing the MT directly. He knows it’s probably just a person using a transmitter or something – not sure why they’d send the MTs in that case – but he was very nearly one of these creatures, and maybe, a long time ago, they looked like him, or like someone else.

The commander stays standing still for a few more moments, almost considering, and then he very slowly reaches for his sword.

“Prompto, be careful,” Gladio calls, his voice tense.

“No,” Prompto says, watching the painfully slow process by which the MT commander draws the sword. “I think it’s okay.”

Sure enough, once the sword is fully drawn, the MT commander puts it on the ground, hilt facing towards Prompto.

Prompto’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean.

“It’s an offer of truce,” Cor says. “They want to negotiate.”

Oh. Okay. That makes sense.

“We can negotiate,” Ignis says. “Not here, though. We need light.”

“We can’t let them into Lestallum!” Gladio protests.

“Not all of them, and we’ll be in front of the gate,” Ignis says patiently. “In front of dozens of hunters. It’ll be fine. Negotiations take time; we need a place to sit while we do it.”

The MT commander nods creakily and raises his hand again.

Four MT troopers step forward and come to the box, lifting the heavy weight easily.

“They can carry the generator forward,” Ignis says a moment later, after Gladio has narrated their actions. “But then they return here. The negotiation will be between you and me.”

The MT commander shakes his head.

“No? What do you want, then?”

The MT commander raises a hand and points, first at Ignis and then –

At Prompto.

“Me?” Prompto asks, surprised.

“You want Prompto involved in the negotiations?” Ignis asks.

The MT commander nods.

“Why?” Prompto asks, entirely befuddled. He’s no negotiator!

“It doesn’t matter why,” Cor says. “You’ll agree to come alone to negotiate with Ignis and Prompto?”

The MT commander nods.

“Let’s get this moving, then,” Gladio says. He sounds worried.

Prompto can’t blame him.

They come back slowly towards the gate, the four of them, the four MTs and the MT commander.

The MTs put the generator – the top open and the contents clearly visible – down next to the gate and retreat.

There’s lots of excited whispering from the giant crowd of people who have gathered – Prompto sees Monica, Talcott, and Vyv among them. Another generator could mean opening another field for people to live in – more space to live, more space to breathe.

The MTs retreat, marching in perfect two-by-two order, leaving the MT commander alone before the gate. Not entirely alone, of course; Prompto can see well enough in the dark that he knows that the MTs back at the meeting point have drawn their rifles, though they’re still pointing them down at the ground to signify their lack of threat.

It’s clearly a defensive gesture, meant to show that they will act if they need to.

Whoever is running these MTs is very smart.

Six, Prompto hopes it’s not some leftover remnant of Verstael Besithia.

You killed him, Prompto reminds himself. He’s gone.

He hopes.

The MT commander is looking at the crowd and then, suddenly, moves forward, heading towards the crowd.

“What are you doing?” Gladio growls, his sword half-drawn. He’s not the only one; half the hunters in the crowd have drawn weapons. “Get away from there!”

The MT commander stops in front of some of the crowd. It reaches out a hand towards – Talcott?

Talcott stares up at him. He’s clutching his little two-way radio, which he uses to call Cindy and some of the truckers on the road; he likes to talk to them as they go down the empty roads, keeping them company in his own small way.

The MT commander’s hand remands extended. He does not move.

“Do you want my radio?” Talcott asks shyly.

The MT commander nods.

“Um. Okay?” Talcott says, and offers it.

The MT commander takes the radio and turns back to where some of Ignis’ assistants have brought out a table and three chairs, as well as notepads and typewriters to keep a record of the negotiations.

Ignis sits in his seat, with Gladio standing close by his side to act as narrator and not-so-secret bodyguard, but the MT commander doesn’t seem to object. Ignis gestures for Prompto to sit at the other chair.

Prompto gulps. “You sure this is a good idea?” he hisses to Ignis.

“They want you in the negotiation,” Ignis points out. “It’s an easy concession on our part.”

“But why?” Prompto asks. “Do you think it’s because I…?”

“I don’t know how they’d know,” Ignis says gently. “We can ask once we’ve gotten started.”

The MT commander is doing something to the radio while walking slowly and stiffly back towards the table, fingers moving quickly over the machinery as he takes pieces apart and puts other pieces back together, changing the configuration of wires and gears inside.

Prompto makes a mental note to ask Cindy for a spare radio for Talcott. He has a feeling that what Talcott gets back isn’t going to resemble what he gave away.

Suddenly, a horrible mechanical screeching comes out of the radio.

Everyone flinches, but the sound moderates itself quickly, resolving into crackling static which, in turn, dies down a soft hum. The MT commander is holding the radio in both hands now.

“Did you get what you wanted from the radio?” Prompto asks, curious.

The radio crackles with static again for a second and then, almost unbelievably, a voice comes out.

“Affirmative,” it says.

For a second there, Prompto thinks it’s one of Talcott’s trucker friends with a terrible sense of timing, but Ignis straightening up in surprise next to him leads him to put two and two together.

It’s not a trucker.

It’s the MT commander.

The MT commander is speaking.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Growing up, Ignis was part of a number of high-level, high-risk negotiations – first as an observer and then, later, as a participant.

This is by far the strangest.

He didn’t even know MTs possessed the ability to speak.

Though, to be fair, it doesn’t look like they do – after all, the MT commander is using the radio to speak through.

That’s a horrifying thought – that they have the capability of speech, but not the ability; the brains but not the mouths.

“You can sit, you know,” he hears Prompto say, followed by a few moments of pause and then, very slowly, the sound of metal contorting as the MT commander gingerly lowers himself down to the chair.

Ignis folds his hands in front of him. He wants to take a deep breath to steady himself, but he won’t; that would be revealing weakness, and he’s not going to do that.

This is no different than any other negotiation, he reminds himself. You need to figure out what the other side wants, what they can get you, and how to come to a compromise between the two without exposing your side to betrayal.

That last part is a new addition, added following Insomnia’s fall.

“The people of Lucis –” Ignis is going to go with Lucis, rather than Lestallum as he typically does, both because it sounds better and because he might as well be representing them as anyone else. “– thank you for the generator.”

The MT commander crackles static for a moment. “Offer to open negotiations,” it finally says. “Negotiations can now proceed.”

It takes a second to puzzle through that, but it makes sense: the generator was used to entice them to open the current negotiations, which they would never have entered into without the offer of the generator, but the MT commander seems to think that that was its sole use and there is no further need to discuss it.

Cutting straight to the chase, as it were.

Not quite what Ignis is used to in negotiations, but he can adapt.

He’s good at adapting.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “You wanted negotiations; you have them. What can we do for you?”

The MT commander makes that creaking sound that Ignis has figured out is a nod. “We have offer. We have desire. We will reach agreement.”

A fairly mechanical description of negotiating, yes, but not too different than what Ignis had just thought. Good to know they are on the same page – albeit a slow page determined to go through each step of the negotiating process. Negotiation by machine…

“Who are you working on behalf of?” Gladio asks, even though he’s supposed to just be there as narrator. Ignis kicks him under the table.

“Unclear query. Please resubmit.”

“Um, what he means,” Prompto says, sounding uncertain, “is – are you answering to anyone? Who’s running the MTs now?”

The MT commander is silent for a long moment.

Finally, it speaks. “Superior orders have ceased,” it says.

“What does that mean?” Ignis asks, though he’s starting to have a distinct suspicion.

“Superior orders have ceased,” the MT commander repeats.

“You’re on your own,” Prompto breathes. “You don’t have orders – you’re doing this yourself!”

Another long pause and then, reluctantly, the MT commander answers, “Affirmative.”

Ignis tries very hard not to think of all the MTs he has killed over the years, thinking of them as nothing more than empty robots. They were the enemy, and they were attacking; it was nothing more than self-defense.

MTs thinking for themselves.

They really have reached the end of the world.

“So you represent the MTs?” Ignis asks, instead of focusing on that.

“Affirmative.”

“And the MTs wanted – to negotiate with us?” Ignis can’t help but ask.

“Affirmative.”

“Very well,” Ignis says, struggling to regain his footing a bit. “Do you accept myself and Prompto as adequate representatives to negotiate with?”

“Affirmative.”

“What do you want, then?” Ignis asks. “What do the MTs want?”

“Repairs,” the MT commander says.

“I thought MTs were self-repairing,” Prompto says.

“Affirmative.”

“Then why do you need repairs?”

“Finished units require location to complete self-repairs. Unfinished units require additional repair,” the MT commander says.

“And you want our help to repair them?” Prompto asks, sounding dubious.

“Affirmative.”

“I see,” Ignis says. “And what would you be offering in exchange for our provision of these repairs?”

“Assistance,” the MT commander says promptly. “Scouting and transportation through regions without light. Assistance in removal of obstacles.”

“Obstacles?”

“Physical or biological.”

“You mean daemons,” Prompto says.

“Biological obstacles,” the MT commander agrees.

“We already have hunters,” Ignis points out.

“Limited in number,” the MT commander points out in return. “MT units are more efficient.”

“I’d argue that,” Gladio mutters.

The MT commander crackles static for a few seconds. “Contrary to hunter units, MT units operate at peak efficiency in darkness,” it finally says. “MT units do not face biological obstacles, which will enable swifter activity.”

“Daemons don’t bother you,” Prompto interprets, which is good, because Ignis was starting to get confused. “Why not?”

“MT units are not recognized by biological obstacles as a source of sustenance or opposition.”

“They recognize you as fellow daemons,” Ignis says, feeling nauseous. “And they don’t bother you. So you can go quicker – that’s what you mean?”

“Affirmative.”

Ignis is negotiating with daemons. Oh, they may have been human once upon a time, as Prompto’s story made clear, but they were so infected – deliberately infected – by the Starscourge that they transitioned into daemonic machines. Machines designed to be obedient and mindless, but here they are anyway, negotiating on their own behalf.

Ignis doesn’t know what to do with that.

“MT units can provide additional support in protection of light-given areas,” the MT commander says again. It must be concerned that it’s losing their interest. “Additionally, MT units have located additional generators.”

That gets Ignis’ attention. “How many more?”

“Greater than four,” the MT commander says, clearly opting for its own version of vague.

“Four,” Prompto whispers. “Four – Ignis, you know what we could do with four more?!”

“Where did you find the generators?” Ignis asks.

“Cities,” the MT commander says. “Forts.”

“Were there people left in the cities?” Ignis asks.

The MT commander crackles in static. “Affirmative,” it says, though it sounds confused as to why Ignis would care. “Hiding inside.”

The MTs had made it into the cities.

Ignis clenches his fists under the table, a small nervous twitch he’s picked up ever since he stopped being able to close or roll his eyes.

No one, not even Cor, has managed to make it into the larger, further cities. There are too many daemons encircling them, tearing at the bodies of dead humans; no one dares to make it through.

This is the first confirmation they have that there are refugees left in the cities proper.

“Were the people left in the cities infected by the Starscourge?” he asks.

The MT commander crackles again, in what Ignis is starting to recognize as a thinking sound – much like a human might hum thoughtfully. This time it goes on for some time.

It occurs to Ignis that he’s posed a difficult question for a machine (I don’t know if it’s a machine) to answer, as some of the people were undoubtedly infected and others were not.

But just as Ignis opens his mouth to clarify, the MT commander speaks first.

“No extensive survey was conducted,” it says. “But of humans identified during initial walkthrough, estimated that 80% living humans are currently free from pathogen infection.”

Eighty percent!

Eighty percent of the living, mind you, which could mean 8 people out of 10 total, but it could also mean 80. It could also mean 800. It could mean –

So many people.

We don’t have space for them.

But if they had additional generators – if they were able to properly cannibalize the machine parts from the cities – if they had a few dozen MTs to help bring in the harvest in the dark of the night, untroubled by daemons, they could feed so many more people.

They could rescue so many more people.

“Do you represent the small squad you arrived with?” Ignis asks abruptly. There are only dozen of them. “Or are there more?”

The MT commander is silent for a while. “There are more.”

“And in return for your services as protectors and transportation and scouting on our behalf, all you want is a place to conduct your repairs, and assistance in repairing unfinished units?”

The MT commander hesitates. “Additional desire,” it says.

“What?”

“Orders.”

Ignis blinks. That was not what he expected from an additional request.

“MTs are made for service,” the MT commander explains.

“Wait,” Prompto says. “Are you saying you guys are bored?”

“Negative,” the MT commander says. “MTs do not get ‘bored’.”

“But you want something to do? Someone to give you orders?”

“Affirmative.”

“And you came here?” Gladio asks, clearly skeptical. “There are plenty of other places you could have gone – some of which still have soldiers from the Empire, no less. There were fortresses, scientific laboratories, administrative outposts – Six, even if you weren’t looking for military, you could’ve gone anywhere in Niflheim and found someone who would give you orders. And you came to Lestallum?”

“Affirmative.”

“Why?” Ignis asks.

The MT commander is silent.

“I’m afraid we will need to know why,” Ignis says. “It’s non-negotiable. We must be assured of your good faith, and for that, we need to know your motives.”

The MT commander’s neck creaks.

“Um,” Prompto says. “Why are you looking at me?”

Ignis’ eyebrows go up. They had demanded that Prompto be part of the negotiations…

“Why are you interested in Prompto?” he asks. “What does he have to do with your decision to offer Lestallum your services?”

The MT commander hesitates, static crackling.

Ignis hears Prompto swallow. “Is it because of this?” he asks, and Ignis can’t see what he does, but he can hear a hand be placed on the table. Palm up, if he had to guess; Prompto, one of the bravest souls Ignis has ever met, offering up his barcode for the MT commander to see. “Is this why?”

A moment of quiet, and then – “Affirmative.”

“Why?” Prompto asks. “You know I’m not – I am not an MT. I’m not. I was stolen as a baby, and raised in Lucis.”

“Unit NH-00O6-O204-1987 was never finished,” the MT commander agrees. “MT units have observed over time that Lestallum Base has reacted positively to the present of Unit NH-00O6-O204-1987.”

“Reacted positively – you came here because we’re nice to Prompto?” Gladio exclaims, getting the answer before either Prompto or Ignis do.

“Affirmative. No contingent of Niflheim has demonstrated similar tolerance. Unit NH-00O6-O204-1987 has been given repeated missions selected to his preferences and has been repaired regularly when damaged.”

“Don’t call me that,” Prompto says automatically. “My name is Prompto, not Unit…whatever. Also, are you referring to the fact that they heal me when I get hurt? That’s – that’s not getting damaged. I’m a person, not a machine.”

“Unit NH-00O6-O204-1987 was never finished,” the MT commander says again, clearly agreeing.

A terrible realization strikes Ignis.

“Wait,” Prompto says, and Ignis can hear that same realization in his voice. “You said – you said earlier, that you needed assistance repairing unfinished units. Are the unfinished units – are they like me? They’re people, not machines?”

“Negative,” the MT commander says. “Unfinished units are unfinished. Unit NH-00O6-O204-1987 was never finished. Unit NH-00O6-O204-1987 underwent a different process of development, resulting in person designated as ‘Prompto’.”

Ignis doesn’t care if it’s a gesture of weakness. He presses the back of his hand to his lips until it’s white from the pressure, as if that will keep the bile crawling up the back of his throat back.

“Children,” Prompto says blankly. “You mean you have children. Children that were supposed to grow up into MTs.”

“Affirmative,” the MT commander says, its mechanical radio-voice as emotionless as always. “Unfinished units require non-MT units to provide repairs, or they begin to become dysfunctional.”

“Do you even feed them?” Gladio demands, horror seeping through his words. “Do you even know that you need to touch them? Have the babies started dying?”

“Touching is necessary?” the MT commander asks, sounding surprised.

“Oh, Six. You have to bring them here, right away,” Gladio says. “Babies die if no one holds them.”

“Non-MT units can provide necessary repairs,” the MT commander says. It almost sounds relieved.

“You bet we can,” Gladio says. “We can do our best, anyway.”

“Negotiations are agreed?” the MT commander asks.

“Ignis?”

“No,” Ignis says, putting his hand down.

“Ignis!” both Gladio and Prompto exclaim.

“I’m not saying we’re not agreeing,” Ignis says sternly. “I just want to work out some additional terms with – I’m terribly sorry, I just realized I never asked. What should I address you as?”

The MT commander seems equally taken aback by the question.

“Designation Commander Unit NH-00TX-U514-1553,” it offers after a moment.

“That’s a bit of a mouthful,” Prompto says. “How about just, uh, ‘U5’ for now?”

“Acceptable,” U5 says warily.

“Okay, then,” Prompto says. “Ignis, what are the remaining terms you want to work out?”

“The children,” Ignis says. The concern had occurred to him while they were talking. “What happens after we, uh, ‘repair’ them? Are they going to become MTs?”

“Affirmative.”

“Uh, no,” Prompto says. “Not okay.”

“Query – why not?”

“What if they don’t want to be MTs?” Prompto asks. “What if they want to be more like me?”

“They are MTs,” U5 says.

“You’re making decisions for yourself now,” Prompto says savagely. “Why not give them the same chance?”

Ignis doesn’t interrupt. It’s not his place.

U5 is silent for a moment.

“Acceptable,” it finally says. “Unfinished units will be advanced to the finalization stage, but prior to finishing, will be permitted to select preferred development path of MT unit or Prompto unit.”

“Prompto unit?” Prompto squawks.

“That sounds fine to me,” Ignis intervenes. “When the children are old enough, they decide for themselves. We’re agreed. Dustin, do you have a final version of the terms?”

“Yes, sir,” Dustin, who had been taking notes, says. “The MTs will get us generators and provide help with necessary services, including but not limited to transportation through the dark, fighting daemons, and scouting and retrieval from cities. In return, we provide them with a place to, uh, repair themselves, and we help them raise their children, which will get an option as to whether they turn into MTs or not. And we give them orders.”

“Does that sound acceptable?” Ignis asks U5.

“Acceptable with one revision,” U5 says. “Orders will be delivered through Prompto unit.”

“Wait, what?” Prompto yelps.

“Prompto unit will promote the interests of the MTs,” U5 says firmly. “Prompto unit will ensure that MT units are repaired and not discarded. Correct?”

Prompto says nothing.

Ignis suspects he’s probably gaping.

“Prompto, are you comfortable taking a leadership role in relation to the MTs?” Ignis asks. “I understand that it might remind you of things you don’t want to think of, but they seem to trust you more than anyone else here. Can you do it?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says faintly. “I mean…yeah, I guess.”

“Then we have an agreement,” U5 says.

“Good,” Ignis says. “First things first – what do you know about harvesting vegetables? And how many generators does ‘more than four’ mean, exactly?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gladio did not expect to end today by attempting to explain how Cup Noodles work to a bunch of MTs.

They seem bizarrely intrigued by it, if by intrigued you mean ‘red eyes creepily watching Gladio bring noodles from cup to mouth in repetitive motions’, and Gladio has to start explaining or else he would have to punch someone just to make the awkwardness stop.

And that’s not nice to do to allies.

He’s in the back of the truck the MTs used to get close to Lestallum, while Prompto rides in the front with the MT commander – U5, Gladio reminds himself, we’re calling him U5 – and Cor, who insisted on coming along to scout out the size of the MT group.

This left no seats in the front, which meant Gladio got to sit in the back with the MTs.

Who are watching him eat.

Original best case scenario for today: Noct comes back, Gladio thinks wryly. Updated best case scenario: MTs turn out not to have accidentally let the babies die.

Gladio really hopes the MTs don't actually have babies in their care. He doesn't have much experience with babies, just hanging around a lot when Iris was small, but the thought of Iris when she was small and wrinkled and red and helpless, trapped in some sort of test tube...

That would be intolerable.

The MTs are definitely still watching him eat.

They're not moving their heads or anything as obvious as that, but he can feel himself being watched. By the Six, he still has that secondary alarm ringing in his head, the one that warns him of nearby MTs because MTs mean danger, the alarm that saved their lives (Noct's life) a hundred times over.

Except now, they're allies, and that means Gladio has to be nice to them.

“You should definitely pick these up when you’re in cities,” Gladio tells the MTs encouragingly, and really only mildly sarcastic. “They have different flavor varieties.”

“Gladio, stop recruiting MTs to satisfy your Cup Noodle habit,” Prompto calls from the front of the truck, his voice somewhat muffled. “I’m the one who gives them orders, remember?”

“I’m just saying, if they happen to see a few packs –”

“Generators first!”

“Fine, fine,” Gladio says, but he’s smiling, just a little bit.

He’s smiling. At MTs.

What the fuck is he doing.

The smile goes away.

Prompto goes back to talking with U5 in the front seat about generators.

Apparently, U5's little "more than four" wasn't deliberately vague so much as his best attempt at an answer he didn't know. Several MT squads apparently reacted to the total stop of orders from the top by joining up together to try to figure out what to do – a most un-MT-like behavior, born of desperation – and decided to take several actions at once: U5 to go negotiate with Lestallum for repairs and orders with one of the four generators in their possession, and several other squads to go out to obtain more generators in the event that the negotiations were successful.

U5 assumed that said other squads were successful, but could not, without reporting to his base, confirm how many generators were obtained.

Thus the current trip.

Prompto's asking about the attrition rate of the squads sent out on mission, because he's trying to deal with his newfound role as 'leader of the allied MT units' with responsibility.

He's a better man than Gladio, if he can learn to care about the wellbeing of a bunch of MT troopers – especially given his own traumatic experience with them.

Well, Gladio's always known in his heart of hearts that Prompto's better than he is.

Not a better fighter, of course – Gladio's trained his whole life, where Prompto started in his early teens. But that's just it – he came and he did the same thing Gladio did, try to protect Noct with his life, and he did it without any family duty, without any outside impetus, without training, with nothing but friendship. And where Gladio willingly abandoned Noct's side in his quest to assuage his own fears of not being enough, Prompto had to be thrown off a train before he would leave.

All things considered, Gladio doesn't mind helping Prompto through a few panic attacks (he'd had two before they set out on this trip, and he's still talking a bit too fast). It's quite literally the least he can do.

And the MTs are still watching him eat.

Six, they're creepy.

Gladio supposes they can’t help it; they’re MTs, after all. They’re born (made?) creepy.

Yeah, Gladio doesn’t want to think about this one too hard.

It doesn’t help that only U5 has a radio, so none of them can talk.

Though –

Damnit, Gladio's job has always been people. Ignis, for all his strategy and cleverness, preferred math and administration to diplomacy, even if he was better at the formal push-pull of negotiations. It was always Gladio who went out and befriended people, charmed them with a smile and a discussion of things that interested them.

Gladio's the one who bridges the gaps between stranger and friend.

And right now, he's letting his prejudice against MTs stop him from doing that. Six, the MTs are probably not watching him eat out of interest, but out of fear – a dozen MT troopers like this would be nothing for him to take out. He could probably wipe them out with a few swipes of his sword.

He's done it plenty of times before, after all.

Six, he’s being an ass. Worse, he’s being an ass who isn’t doing his job.

Okay, Gladio. Can't change what you've done. Just do better.

Gladio finishes his Cup Noodles and tosses it aside, then turns to look at the MTs, which are still staring at him.

“So, how do you communicate?” he asks one of them.

It blinks at him from behind its mask.

“I know you guys do. I just don’t know how,” Gladio says reasonably. “I’m willing to learn.”

He doesn't actually get a response from any of them, which he supposes is fair. He hasn't exactly been trying to make conversation so far.

"Information exchange is important for any well-trained group of soldiers," Gladio continues. "You must've seen – or at least heard of – the way my team yells at each other mid-battle –"

At least, the way they used to, when they still had Noct – shouting compliments and friendly insults with the same breath.

Now isn't the time to think of that.

"— but that's because we weren't trained together, not until late. You guys were. But you can't react so well to new input – and I know you do – without communicating about it. I've always been curious as to how you do it," Gladio lies. He'd always assumed there was some controller back on the drop ship, playing a video game but with soldiers; it would explain the slowness of their response time.

But he's trying to make friends, not insult them.

No response.

Red eyes blink at him from behind frozen metal faces.

Gladio shrugs. He tried. "Think on it," he advises. "I don't blame you if you don't want me to know, but if we're going to be allies, then, well, I figure we may as well get to know each other."

The MTs are clearly considering his question, from the way they're squinting, and some of them even turn their heads away from Gladio to look at each other in silent consultation.

Gladio feels pretty good about that. It's progress. It’s something.

Of course, that's when the truck shudders to a stop.

"We're here," Prompto announces unnecessarily. His voice is kinda breathy and high-pitched.

He hates MT laboratories; just hearing that they were going to one had triggered his second panic attack. Reasonable, given that he'd been captured and kept captive in them twice. The first time, after the train, he’d had to fight for his life to escape and barely made it out. The second time, he'd been literally strung up to a rack and left there as a gift to lure Noct to the trap that waited on the other end.

Not great memories.

The first panic attack had been about being the envoy to the MTs, which Gladio honestly couldn't blame him for, either. Even if it'd been only the dozen MTs in this squad, rather than some uncertain number more (Gladio does wonder how many survived – a few dozen more? A hundred more? Two hundred more?), Prompto's understandably tender about his past, and having actual MTs seize on it...

Yeah, Gladio can't even imagine.

Especially if what Prompto haltingly reported about MT units being clones – in at least one factory he knew of, clones of him – is true.

"Gotta run," Gladio tells the MTs, and slips out of the back of the truck and around the front.

Cor has his hand on Prompto's shoulder, grounding him, but they both seem relieved to see Gladio.

Gladio nods his thanks at Cor and nudges Prompto with his shoulder. "So, tell me," he says.

"About what?" Prompto asks, doing his absolute best to breathe evenly and not descend into a third panic attack.

"What's wrong with this architecture? I mean, I know it's ugly, but –"

Prompto snorts an involuntary laugh.

Good, he's distracted. A bit more of that, and he'll start to calm down.

Gladio clowns around for a few more minutes – Prompto always did find Gladio saying the words 'flying buttresses' really funny, and this time is no different, even though the laboratory (of which they can really only see the top, since most of it is underground) definitely doesn't have any – until Prompto is back to his usual color.

"Okay," Prompto says. "Let's go."

The MTs are already in formation, waiting patiently, U5 in the front.

They go inside.

The laboratory is, well. All jokes about architecture aside, Gladio really can only describe the place as ‘classic Niflheim creepy’ – lots of shapeless, colorless walls, industrial ceilings, soulless straight lines built entirely for utility and not even a little bit for aesthetics. Even basic human comfort wasn’t a factor considered in building these walls.

Gladio thinks he heard someone refer to it as ‘Brutalist’, meaning ‘brutally grabbed a handful of walls and put it up without any concern for appearance’, and he thinks the term fits.

Not that they don’t have a certain vibe to them, what with the aura of evil practically dripping from the dirty blood-speckled walls.

The majority of the laboratory is underground, meaning that the unobtrusive looking building hiding in the mountain is actually the entrance to a giant complex.

At least it has light. If they had to explore this place with nothing but their flashlights, Gladio’s pretty sure Prompto would have another panic attack.

“The unfinished units are on level three,” U5 says.

“Children,” Prompto says. “They’re called children.”

“Negative. ‘Children’ units are on level four,” U5 says.

Gladio frowns. “What’s the difference? The age?”

“Negative. Unfinished units are designated for processing into MT units. ‘Children’ units are designated for processing into researchers.”

Gladio glances at one of the rooms they pass by, in which the ripped-apart bodies of researchers are quietly decomposing. “The kids of the researchers, huh? They still, uh, alive?”

“All ventilation aimed at levels three and four automatically seals to prevent contamination of units,” U5 says. “Strict quarantine procedures have been maintained and there have been no signs of contamination of the remaining ‘children’ units.”

“Remaining?”

“Several of the researchers attempted to retrieve their ‘children’ units prior to shut-down. Their status is unknown.”

Dead or refugee, in other words.

They go down in a large elevator.

“Working power,” Cor murmurs thoughtfully.

Gladio nods. That means there’s some form of generator here, too; presumably a massive one if it’s lighting a facility this extensive. If they evacuate this facility, they’ll be able (hopefully) to take it with them.

Maybe they can use the Empire’s portable fortresses to build additional refugee homes. Gladio’d almost forgotten about those things, in all the mess, but surely one of the MTs would know how it was done, or could direct them to some paperwork detailing it…

The elevator doors open, and Gladio stops thinking.

Children.

There are so many children.

They’re on level three, which means ‘unfinished units’, and Gladio can tell, too. The kids have all been let out of their tubes, thank the Six, and they’re of all ages – everything from red-faced babies just lying out there on the floor to blank-eyed teenagers.

“Wow,” Prompto says. “Those are…definitely children.”

Only child, Gladio reminds himself.

He glances at Prompto, who’s gone wide-eyed and vaguely terrified, and at Cor, who, amusingly enough, has a better hidden but otherwise fairly similar expression on his face.

Only child and perpetual bachelor, Gladio amends. Is he really the only one here with experience with children?

Not that these are normal children.

They’re all eerily quiet, waiting for instructions. The older ones have the tell-tale red eyes of the MT units, along with pale skin and what almost look like tear-tracks of black blood dripping slowly down their faces. The younger ones look more normal, albeit still terribly pale – Gladio doubts they ever saw the sun, even before it went away.

They don’t look like Prompto, which is some small relief.

They do look like each other, particularly ones in the same age group. Just at a glance, there seem to have been three distinct ‘types’ for each age group, and about a dozen or so of each ‘type’.

It’s awful.

“Clones,” Cor confirms, crouching before some brunette children, about six years old, that stare up at him. He frowns at them, his brow furrowing. They frown back, similar furrows appearing in their chubby little faces.

It’s…creepily similar actually.

“Are those miniature versions of you?” Gladio asks, mildly horrified.

“Just similar, I think,” Cor says, though he looks disturbed. “Though I wouldn’t put it past the empire to try to harvest our blood to try to create clones of us…”

“Never say that again,” Gladio tells him. Even if it’s true, he doesn’t want to think about it.

Six, there have to be at least a hundred kids in this room.

“Why are the babies on the ground?” Gladio asks, already wading in that direction.

“It was necessary to uncork the unfinished units prematurely,” U5 says, and isn’t that a horrifying way to describe the process. “It was unclear what to do with them once they’d hatched from the pods.”

“So you put them on the ground?”

“It was unclear what to do with the unfinished units once they had hatched from the pods,” U5 repeats, and even though his voice is emotionless, Gladio would swear that there is a tremor of uncertainty and confusion in there.

The MT units had no idea what to do with kids, and all the researchers had either died, turned into daemons, or fled.

Six, what a mess.

Gladio sits down next to the babies and picks one up.

It makes a little choked-up sound and immediately tries to curl up to Gladio as much as possible.

Touch-starved, just like he thought.

“Let’s check out level four,” Gladio hears Cor tell Prompto. “The children of researchers may know more about the facility.”

Gladio doesn’t really pay attention to them going (or, more correctly, fleeing the prospect of having to deal with all the kids). He has other business to attend to.

“I need people to pick up the babies,” he instructs.

Several of the older teenagers come and mimic what he’s doing.

Surprisingly enough, so do some of the MT units that accompanied him.

One of them kneels next to Gladio, holding something out.

“Yeah?” Gladio asks, twisting to look at it, then flinches.

It’s an empty MT helmet.

“I don’t want that,” he says.

The MT just keeps holding it out.

“I’m not an MT, you know that, right?”

The MT doesn’t move.

Gladio looks around, but U5 has gone with Cor and Prompto, so there’s no one to explain what’s going on.

At least the people are picking up the babies, who are sighing with relief – babies gone so long without touch that they don’t even cry anymore, that are probably about to die from lack of attention, babies –

Babies that probably never saw anything other than MTs and researchers, and Gladio does not want them to think he’s a researcher.

Not with the barcodes already seared onto the babies’ flesh, and the ports buried under their skin.

“Fine,” Gladio says. “I’ll put on the damn helmet.”

The MT moves before Gladio can, gently positioning the helmet over Gladio’s head and bringing it down.

It’s absolutely terrifying, even though Gladio knows, rationally, that the MTs probably can’t be created just by adding a helmet.

Looking down at the baby through the mask, though, the baby does seem more comfortable. More relaxed.

Certainly the kids around him are relaxing. Visibly relaxing.

Yeah, they definitely thought he was a researcher.

“Ding! Gladiolus advances to MT Wrangling Level 2,” Gladio mutters.

“What’s a Gladiolus?” a voice crackles into his ear.

Crackles, as though transmitted by radio.

Gladio looks up.

The MT unit next to him is looking at him. “Your unit designation is Gladio, correct?” it asks.

The voice is female.

Gladio would never have known.

“Gladio is a shortened designation for Gladiolus,” another voice chimes in. Male, this time. “All units are assigned shortened designations.”

“But that’s because it takes 8.3 seconds to state a full unit designation and only 1.4 seconds to state the shortened designation,” the female objects. “The time advantage between Gladio and Gladiolus is minimal. Is one used in more formal situations?”

“Yeah,” Gladio says, after swallowing down his shock a few times. “Gladio’s what my friends call me.” He hesitates for only a moment. “You can all call me Gladio.”

Suddenly, he has a feeling of surprise and pleasure.

It’s not his feeling.

In fact, it feels like it’s coming from multiple other people.

“Is that you?” he asks. “You – you guys communicate through your helmets? With feelings as well as words?”

“Affirmative,” several voices chorus.

“MT units have implanted devices which use an equivalent of radio waves to interface with the mind,” the female MT says. “The helmets act as a back-up method in the event the device is broken. It permits conveyance of reports, as well as emotional output for additional context. Is this permitted?”

“Permitted?”

“The researchers did not permit exchange of emotional output,” the male one says. “Emotional output can be suppressed for the link, if Unit Gladio prefers.”

“Uh, no! No need. Emotions are fine. Good. Emotions are good.”

Sensations of relief.

They weren't sure.

“You can all do this?” he asks, thinking of all the MT soldiers he’s slaughtered. They were enemies, so he doesn’t feel bad about it – self-defense in the time of war – but it’s still disturbing. “All the time?”

“Negative,” one of them responds. “Only within link-groups. Link-groups can be modified.”

“Modified?”

“Small squad link-group, twelve units. Large squad link-group, one hundred units. Link-groups are designed to more efficiently create unified movement.”

Marching together without any of the whole ‘training’ business, Gladio interprets.

He looks at the kids, who remain silent.

“Is there a reason they’re not talking?” he asks.

“Unfinished units are not permitted to speak aloud,” the female MT says. “We can broaden the link-group to include them.”

“Uh, yeah. Let’s – let’s do that.”

Suddenly, he can hear them.

Children, whispering to each other, wondering what’s going to become of them; toddlers, babbling happily now that they’re being held because the MTs seem to be assuming ‘baby’ is anything under the age of 5; teenagers discussing –

Okay, there’s three teenage girls actively talking about the size of Gladio’s biceps, absolutely shamelessly.

By the Six, they’re really kids.

Mute kids, traumatized kids, but kids.

A six year old – too old to be held, by the totally arbitrary division imposed that Gladio’s really going to have to fix, given the jealous looks the babies are getting from all the other kids – toddles over and tugs on Gladio’s sleeve. He’s one of the ones that look a bit like Cor.

“Yeah, kid?”

“Unit Gladio will be responsible for future maintenance of unfinished units?” he asks shyly. He doesn’t move his mouth, but Gladio’s getting a bit better at placing the voices that come out through his helmet with the individuals transmitting the signal.

Gladio opens his mouth to deny it – he’s a hunter now, not a babysitter; he only came on this trip to protect Prompto and make sure there wouldn’t be any trouble – but the kids are all looking at him with big wide eyes that, regardless of color or shape or age, remind him of Iris.

“For now,” he temporizes.

They all look deeply relieved.

Gladio comforts himself that ‘for now’ really only extends until they get back to Lestallum and set up an appropriate place for all of them to stay. Then people who actually know what they’re doing can be assigned to take care of them.

Gladio is definitely not one of those people. He’s leaving to go back on hunting missions the second they get back to Lestallum and the kids are no longer his responsibility.

Though he will have to make sure that none of the people assigned to take care of them end up being prejudiced just because they’re Niflheim, or MTs…and are willing to wear the helmet to communicate with them, at least at first…and take special care to make sure that the older kids get some serious touching therapy, not just the babies…

Okay, maybe Gladio will have to stick around a bit.

Just until the kids are settled.

“Hey, Gladio!”

Gladio looks up.

Prompto, Cor and U5 are back. Prompto has a weird look on his face. Cor is trying very hard to look like he’s carved out of stone.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells the MTs. “Do me a favor and try to make sure that everyone in this room has some physical contact, whether it’s the teenagers holding the babies or kids hugging each other, okay?”

“Order received, Unit Gladio!”

Gladio will deal with that later.

He hands his baby to the male MT and jogs back to Prompto and Cor.

“Nice headgear,” Prompto says.

Gladio is confused for a second, then realizes he’s still wearing the MT helmet. He pulls it off, but doesn’t discard it. “They use it for communication,” he explains.

“You were permitted into speaking link-group,” U5 observes. He sounds – surprised?

“Is that weird?”

“Unusual. Researchers only very rarely accessed link-group.”

“Even under orders?” Cor asks.

“Link-groups in which researcher access was permitted rarely involved speaking beyond reports,” U5 tells him.

Gladio feels – complimented? Is that the feeling?

Well, it’s a nice feeling, anyway.

“What’s up?” he asks Prompto, whose weird expression hasn’t gone away.

“U5 says there’s more MTs than just in the complex,” Prompto replies. “He says there’s more laboratories out there, too. With, uh, unfinished units.”

“There’s more kids?”

“Yeah. And more MTs. Apparently they’re camped in the back or something?”

“Why not in the building?”

“That’s what we want to know,” Cor says.

U5 leads them to balcony that seems to look into some sort of underground cavern. Gladio says seems to, because the light is only on inside the building, not in the cavern; everything more than a few feet beyond the balcony is pitch black.

“They’re there?” he asks, marginally suspicious. He sees why Cor and Prompto wanted him there. If there’s a lot of MTs there – or worse, daemons, hiding in the dark – that’s a good ambush point.

“Affirmative,” U5 says.

“Can we get some light?”

“Affirmative.”

U5 goes over to a giant wall of control panels and begins pressing buttons.

After a few minutes, the lights in the cavern start flickering on. Weak lights, reddish in color – clearly back-up lights that drain the generators, but enough to see by.

Enough to see the frankly gigantic cavern.

Enough to see the army of MT units there. Hundreds of them, thousands of them, all standing in perfect formation. All of them looking up at the balcony, awaiting orders.

Gladio tries to count by units, but quickly loses track. There have to be three thousand of them, at least.

U5 steps forward to the balcony. “Lestallum Base has agreed to terms,” he announces. His voice isn’t any louder than usual; Gladio suspects the message is being heard through the helmets of each and every MT unit perfectly well regardless. U5 is only speaking through the radio for their convenience. “MT units are now in the service of Lestallum Base. Units must register change in chain of command.”

The crowd ripples as each MT nods once, sharply, confirming the receipt of orders.

“Amended command hierarchy will retain MT unit classifications and squad orderings until alternative groups are imposed,” U5 continues. “Ultimate superior is to be registered as NH-00O6-O204-1987, designated ‘Prompto Unit’. Acknowledge.”

And the armies of MTs all move at once, faces swinging around to focus on Prompto, and their arms rise up in merciless, perfect unity in the traditional Niflheim salute, swearing loyalty.

To Prompto.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, shit, Prompto thinks in the frozen second spent staring at the saluting legions before him, right before he faints dead away from shock. What in the Six have I gotten myself into?

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #noctis lucis caelum #prompto argentum #ignis scientia #gladiolus amicitia #cor leonis #my fic #YES a new fandom who would have thought

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mylovelylittleobsessions · 7 years

Text

#9 - Eyes

Trust in Me

Julian shivered as he walked through the deserted Promenade. Two months into his first assignment, and things couldn’t be more bizarre. Members of the station’s staff, Starfleet and Bajoran alike, were disappearing left and right without a trace. Constable Odo was completely flummoxed, the Provisional Government was in an uproar, and not even the station’s gossips had a plausible theory for what was happening.

The Starfleet side of the equation was no better. Certainly, people had deserted before, but not to this degree, and with no warning! Indeed, one of the missing ensigns was excited about their future in the Science division. Not even the Infirmary had been spared; one of his nurses had never arrived for her shift, and a search of her quarters revealed nothing.

A sharp, hissing wince broke him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw a familiar, unwelcome shape limping in his direction.

“Gul Dukat,” he said with a raised brow. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

Dukat gave him a pained, sycophantic smile. “Why, Doctor! How fortunate that you happened along! I appear to have injured myself on a loose bit of flooring.” He lifted one of his clawed feet to show him a toe claw hanging on by a thread. Julian couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy at the sight; it did look painful.

“I don’t suppose you could help me back to my quarters?” He asked, putting his foot back on the floor gingerly. “I would try to manage myself, but–”

Julian shook his head. “It’s no trouble.” He walked over and helped Dukat lean on him. The gul had reserved quarters on the station, since he had a tendency to drop by so often (usually to preen and unsubtly flirt with Major Kira, with no success), and they weren’t too far from Julian’s own quarters, only a deck away.

He helped Dukat limp into the turbolift, which got them to the habitat ring in record time. They got through Dukat’s door, and Julian led him over to the Cardassian-style couch, then set about repairing the injured claw.

“You’re very kind to an old lizard.” Dukat purred, flexing his healed foot.

“Nonsense.” Julian replied, putting his supplies back in his kit. “I just did what anyone would have done in my–” A dermal regenerator slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. “Damn.” He knelt down and reached for the regenerator, which had rolled under a table.

“You sell yourself short, Doctor!” Dukat countered. “I’m hardly a favored person onboard, though I can’t imagine why…”

Julian had stopped listening. As he’d reached for his tool, he’d seen something glittering in the low light: a familiar Bajoran earring. He’d seen it every single time his missing nurse had come on shift, and she’d made her position on Cardassians very clear. The earring had no place in these quarters, and certainly not under the table.

He stood and glared at Dukat. “Care to explain this?” He asked, holding the earring between two fingers.

Dukat gave a nervous chuckle. “What, a fellow can’t find some pleasurable company now and then? Not all Bajorans dislike me, you know!”

“Fine.” He replied, snapping his medical case shut. “You can explain it to Security instead.” He turned on his heel and went for the door, only to find that it wouldn’t open.

He turned and looked back at Dukat, who was holding a small remote pointed haphazardly at the door.

“Let me out, Dukat!” He snarled.

Dukat only smiled, the dim light making his eyes shine red, sending a shiver down Julian’s spine.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Doctor.” Dukat replied, tail swishing slightly as he rose from the couch. “You’ve seen a little too much.”

Julian’s voice was somehow frozen in his throat. Why wasn’t he screaming for help?! What was the matter with him?!

“Don’t be afraid, Doctor. This won’t take long.” Dukat stalked forward, eyes still gleaming.

Julian stayed pressed against the door, breathing starting to even out. He felt very strange all of a sudden, like a veil of fog had started to form over his brain. He found himself staring into Dukat’s eyes. They didn’t seem quite so eerie anymore. In fact, they were rather… pretty.

Dukat smiled wickedly. “That’s it, Doctor. Just relax. You don’t have anything to be afraid of.” His tail wound around Julian’s waist, and he lifted Julian’s chin with a clawed finger. “Just let everything else fade away, and trussst in me…”

Julian’s mind started to go quiet. Some distant part of him was screaming for him to move, to reach for the comm badge on his chest and call for help, but that part of him was getting farther and farther away. He couldn’t find the strength to lift his arm, anyway. All he could do was continue to stare into Dukat’s beautiful eyes. They were so easy to get lost in.

“Ssssuch a good boy.” Dukat hissed, trailing his thumb down Julian’s cheek. His grip on the doctor’s waist tightened and he pulled him closer. “No fear, not anymore.”

No, Julian wasn’t afraid anymore. He couldn’t remember why he’d been afraid to begin with. The tail wrapped around him didn’t bother him; it actually felt like he was wrapped in a great big hug, and it was very soothing.

Dukat smiled, then clicked his forked tongue. “Why, Doctor, I do believe it’s past your bedtime!”

Julian blinked slowly in confusion. Bedtime? No, it was only… only… what time was it, anyway? He couldn’t remember.

Dukat continued to stroke Julian’s cheek. “You must be so tired, Doctor.” He lifted Julian’s chin a little more and stared deeper. “So very, very tired.”

A wave of exhaustion swept over him. If not for Dukat holding him up, he might have slumped to the ground. “T-tired…” he agreed hazily, lacking the strength to even yawn.

“Your eyes are getting so heavy.” Dukat continued with a purr.

Julian’s eyelids instantly drooped to half-mast. A soft hum of agreement slipped past his lips. He wanted to curl up somewhere soft and quiet and take a long nap, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Dukat’s eyes, so dark and lovely.

“It would be so easy for you to drift off to sleep right now, wouldn’t it?” Dukat’s other arm slid around Julian’s shoulders, cradling him. “Sssso easy.”

“Y-yes…” Julian replied, unable to resist yawning this time. It felt so nice to be held like this, so tenderly, almost like a child. He felt so peaceful, and so very sleepy.

“Then, don’t fight it any longer, my dear.” Dukat cooed. “Just close your sweet little eyes, and go to ssssleep.”

With another dreamy yawn, Julian’s eyes sank shut and he rested his head on Dukat’s arm. In no time at all, he was sound asleep.

He never felt Dukat’s teeth pierce his throat, nor the Cardassian’s venom enter his veins, causing his heart to stutter, then stop completely.

Dukat sighed and lowered the corpse to the ground. Such a shame that the good doctor had seen what he shouldn’t. He was such a nice boy, if a bit naive.

He had hoped to talk his way out of a confrontation, but the doctor had recognized that blasted earring, and had every intention of reporting him, and that simply wouldn’t do. He would have to be more careful tidying up this time.

He could at least take comfort in the fact that he would be robbing Garak of his plaything. Damned exile didn’t deserve any happiness at all! With a smirk, he undid the doctor’s uniform. A bit skinny, but he’d do for now.

He let his jaw unhinge.

Time for dinner.

#31horrificdays #fanfic #mine #star trek ds9 #julian bashir #gul dukat

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theragnarokd · 7 years

Text

maculategiraffe

replied to your post

“am i going to now unleash on the world my awful self-indulgent...”

omfg do iiiiit

YOU HAVE ONLY YOURSELF TO BLAME FOR THIS TRAVESTY

(contains: multiple OCs, ableism, murder, small children who are not harmed, non graphic discussion of bathroom functions. 2.4k and there might still be more)

They were two hours away from Fort Independence when the bushes rustled suspiciously.

There have been reports of raiders in this area. Nora caught Hancock's eye, got a tiny nod in return, and cautiously approached.

She wasn't surprised to see a gun pointing at her. The hand holding it, though, was unexpected: it was shaking so hard that the gun's owner was likelier to hit themselves by accident than to hit Nora.

"Don't come any closer." The gun owner's voice was flat. "We don't want any trouble. Please just leave us alone."

Nora held up her hands. She was pretty sure she could take the gun away without hurting the person in front of her too badly, but it would be better to talk them into putting it down.

Before she could start, another voice piped up. "Mommy, can we go home now?"

Nora looked downward. Sure enough, that was a small child tugging on her mother's pants; the mother, still looking at Nora, was trying to keep the kid behind her, with little success. "Please leave us alone," the mother repeated.

Slowly, hands still held up, Nora sank into a crouch. "I'm not going to hurt either of you," she said, as soothing a tone as she could manage. "I just want to help. Where are you from? Do you need help getting there safely?"

The mother was silent. The child said, insistent, "I wanna go home." In a quieter voice, she added, "I wanna go potty."

Nora met the mother's eyes. "My daughter is just over there," Nora said. "How about she take... what's your name?" she addressed the kid.

The kid chose this moment to hide behind her mother's leg. After a moment, the mother said, "Shelby."

Nora tried to keep her smile soft. "Hi, Shelby. Can I bring my daughter Emily here to meet you?" She looked up at the mother, who finally nodded, holding Shelby behind her like she could be a human shield for her daughter.

To Nora's complete lack of surprise, Emily had Shelby shyly holding her hand within ten minutes, with the mother allowing this. "How about I take you to water the bushes," Emily said, making Shelby giggle, "and my mom and yours can talk a bit?"

Shelby threw her mother one last doubting glance. "Go on," the mother said softly. "Go with her."

Nora waited until they were out of earshot to ask, "So?"

"I was exiled," the woman told her, "because I killed my brother. I drugged him and stabbed him in the neck when he was asleep, and I'm not sorry." She let out a gasping sob, then, and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "But Shelby's only three." She forced the words out, wheezing.

Nora laid a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. C'mon, you don't have to tell me everything right now. Here, drink some water." She attempted to pass her canteen.

That only got Shelby's mom to bend over double. She was crying so hard she shook with it, but she didn't make a sound until she started speaking again. "I meant to leave her with friends," she said. "But she ran away after me." She took three ragged breaths, stood up and wiped her face, smearing up half-dried blood and dirt. "If you walk a little way away, you can execute me and tell her I said to go with you. Just find somewhere safe for her. She's healthy, I know there's families in the Commonwealth looking to adopt, or in Diamond City--"

"Hey, no," Nora said, alarmed. "I'm not executing anyone right now." Belatedly, it occurred to her to ask, "You know who I am?"

In return she received an unimpressed look. "You're Nora Bowman."

Nora grinned, sheepish. "That I am. Mind telling me your name in return?"

"Cindy," Cindy said, after a short hesitation.

"Nobody's getting executed today," Nora said firmly. "Or, I mean, definitely not in the next hour-- oh, shit, I'm sorry," she said, as Cindy started crying again.

Cindy waved it off, tears still streaming down her face. "Sorry," she said. "I don't think you mean anything bad. I'm just." She swallowed. "Scared about Shelby. Promise me you'll keep her safe? Please."

"Promise," Nora said promptly. She was pretty sure Hancock was side-eyeing her from where he stood, but it's not like he could think she'd say anything else. "And you too. Where are you from?"

That seemed to shock Cindy silent. She blinked several times. "I can't tell you that."

"Okay," Nora said slowly. "You're not a synth by any chance, are you?" Cindy just shook her head; if she was a liar, she was better at it than most of Nora's kids. "Okay. Come with us and we'll sort things out."

A little way away, Emily was listening to a halting story about-- a cat and a hippo? And birthday presents? --and Cindy said, "You sure you want an unrepentant murderess in the place your children live?"

Nora snorted laughter. "My kids," she said with pride, "can take care of themselves."

This statement turned out to be less universal than she thought it'd be only a week later.

X6-88 brought her the news, stone faced. "J3-42 is dead," he said, "and the scientist formerly under her protection wishes to meet with you."

He'd told her to sit down before speaking. Yet another time Nora was glad she listened to her kids. "Shit," she said, with a heavy heart.

She didn't really know J3-42, not at all. Michael and X6 told her some tidbits about her - that she was strong and fierce (like all of Nora's children), that she was loyal (like all of Nora's children). At the time of her death, J3-42 hadn't been comfortable coming under Nora's wing, or bringing her charge there.

Nora wiped her face. If only they'd had more time... but they didn't. "So, why should I listen to the person who probably sat back and let her die?"

For J3's memory, if nothing else. But X6 said, "Dr. Harrington let me know that there is another synth hiding with him. I was not permitted to see this synth, or talk to them."

Nora chewed her lip. "Could be a wild goose chase."

"Undomesticated fowl has never stopped you before," Michael said behind her, and Nora had to stop herself from crying with how grateful she was for his presence.

She stood up, shaky but true. "I'm going to need to be in top form for this," she told Michael.

He answered, "Of course, mother," and opened his arms to hug her.

Whatever was going on with Harrington, he probably wasn't lying about another synth. The voice screaming "No! No! No!" was definitely female, which Harrington wasn't last Nora checked.

When Harrington opened the door to Nora, he was visibly sweaty, malnourished, bags under his eyes that looked like actual bruises. Good, Nora thought, gritting her teeth.

"She's quite intractable, I'm sorry," Harrington said, "and she's been worse ever since poor J3 - hey!" The last word was said to Michael's back as he approached the synth huddled semi-fetal on a chair in the corner.

"K8-99?" Michael said, with something like disbelief.

K8 raised her eyes at him. She was small and dark, with her short hair in cloudy fluffy curls. "X9-21?" she said, uncertain.

"That was my name," Michael said. "I prefer to be called Michael now." He gestured at Nora. "This is Nora Bowman. She's the General of the Minutemen, and Father's heir. She wants to help you, and so do I." K8 listened to this unblinking. "Were you yelling? Can we help?"

K8 huddled tighter, and said something Nora couldn't make out.

"I don't see a reason you should have to do that right now," Michael said. "Is this something you have difficulty doing?"

"That and everything else," Harrington said crossly.

The look Michael gave him like a laser beam. His voice was utterly polite when he said, "I wasn't asking you."

"I have difficulties in many tasks." K8 was audible, just barely. "I need help using the restroom. I can't touch anything dirty. If commanded to do so, I-- malfunction."

"You don't have to," Nora said, the words rushing out of it. "You don't have to do anything that hurts you, okay?"

K8 turned her eyes on Nora. "I do have to," she said, as if correcting a small factual error. "I have to use the restroom, and I can't do that by myself."

"So, someone can help you," Nora said. "Who did it until now, Dr. Harrington?"

"Every since we lost J3-42," K8 said softly.

"Are you comfortable receiving help from him?" Nora asked. K8 nodded. "I don't see a problem."

"I'm a man of science," Harrington said tightly. "You can't reduce me to a wet nurse."

It was an effort not to pin him to the wall by the throat. Instead, Nora smiled very brightly and said, "I can do lots of things, Dr. Harrington. You'd be surprised how few things I can't do, actually."

Harrington got the point and fell into grumpy silence.

With the same bright smile, Nora said, "So, is everything settled? You guys are coming? Can we go home now?"

K8 looked at Michael. "Can I have a name, too?"

Nora beamed. "Of course. Which one do you want?"

"Katherine," she said promptly.

Nora approached for a hug before she could think better; but after only a brief hesitation, Katherine hugged her. It was stiff and gingerly, but Nora was pretty sure it was genuine. "I'm so glad to meet you, Katherine," she said, choked up.

"I'm glad to meet you too," Katherine said. "Apparently I can hug some people, that's good to know." She sounded like she was noting a curious fact.

"That's great," Nora said, whole-heartedly, and hugged Katherine some more.

It took less than a week for Harrington to make a nuisance of himself. Nora couldn't say she was surprised, but she did wish it could have taken longer for the shit to hit the fan.

"This is preposterous," Harrington yelled. Katherine had backed into a corner, mouth drawn into a stiff line. "You're acting like a child!"

"I can't," Katherine said. Those were the only words she'd said in the last ten minutes.

Harrington turned to Nora; if he was looking for sympathy, he wasn't going to find any here. "Please stop encouraging her. How do you think she'll ever get better if you don't--" He apparently caught on to Nora's fury and abruptly changed tactics. "Be reasonable. What if something happens to me? Without me, who's going to," he grimaced, "care for her? Are you going to do it?"

A voice came in from the doorway. "I could do it."

Nora looked up. It was Cindy; Nora wasn't certain, but that may have been the first thing Cindy said to her since arriving at the Fort. Nora had been busy, and every time she caught a glimpse of Cindy she'd had her hands full of various crops and a three year old.

Cindy was looking straight at Katherine. "What kind of help do you need?"

Katherine pointed at the fork she'd dropped on the floor. "I can't pick it up." Her voice shook. She yelped when Cindy bent and grabbed the fork. "Don't bring it near me!"

"Not bringing it near you." Cindy's voice was steady and calm. "What do you need me to do?"

Katherine took several deep breaths. "Wash it with soap. And your hands, too. I won't look. Then give it to me."

Harrington burst out with, "This is insane."

Katherine stared at him with wide eyes. "Did you just notice that? Then what was all that research about?"

Nora spun around to stare at Harrington as well. "Yeah, how about we discuss that. What research?"

It wasn't hard to figure out that Katherine had some species of OCD: Nora didn't know much about mental illness, but all the hand washing was kind of a dead giveaway. She didn't know synths could have that. Apparently, neither did the Institute: Michael told her he'd thought Katherine had been destroyed as a defective specimen.

The ugly ramifications of what the Institute might have done to her instead were too easy to imagine.

Harrington flushed. "I protected you," he told Katherine. "Remember that. The others would have wiped you, at the very least left you to die."

Katherine looked down. "I know."

"So what?" Cindy's voice was high and sharp. "Gee, thanks a lot, how nice of you not to kill someone who depended on you. Real sweet of you."

Harrington gave her an incredulous look. "Do you know what I've done for her? I've bathed her when she soiled herself. I've--"

"Yeah, I raised a baby," Cindy said, before Nora could burst into flames of sheer fury. "You're not going to make me think you're a saint because you helped someone with bathroom stuff. Also, bringing it up like that is super shitty."

There was a stiff silence, which Katherine broke by chuckling.

"What?" Cindy said, wary.

"Shitty," Katherine repeated. Then she flushed. "I'm sorry."

Cindy smiled at her. "What for? You're not the one making unintentionally terrible puns." She turned back to Harrington and the smile fell off her face. "She's not a child, and maybe she wasn't born, but nobody asked her if she wanted to be made. You're the one who had a choice, you deal with it."

Harrington stormed off in a huff. Cindy looked at Katherine, then looked at Nora. "Uh, sorry?"

Katherine took a step forward towards Cindy. "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen, and I want to hug you now."

Cindy's face blanked and she started crying. Even as Katherine retreated in alarm, Cindy waved her hands. "I'm fine, you didn't say anything wrong." She sniffled. "Sorry. I don't know, I start crying when people are nice to me."

"You've cried every time I talked to you so far," Nora said, alarmed. "Are you calling me nice?" Cindy looked at Nora and started sobbing harder, clutching herself. Nora raised her hands and stepped back. "Sorry! I'm sorry I said anything!"

Cindy stood up. "I'd like you to hug me," she told Katherine, "if I'm, uh, not too gross."

Katherine hugged her without another word.

"You too seem to be doing okay," Nora said, feeling unnecessary and extremely proud. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

Cindy, still crying, gave her a thumbs up. After a moment, Katherine copied her.

#maculategiraffe #i post #fallout 4 fanfic #nora bowman #my fic

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thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog · 7 years

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LAW # 22 : USE THE SURRENDER TACTIC: TRANSFORM WEAKNESS INTO POWER

JUDGEMENT

When you are weaker, never fight for honor’s sake; choose surrender instead. Surrender gives you time to recover, time to torment and irritate your conqueror, time to wait for his power to wane. Do not give him the satisfaction of fighting and defeating you—surrender first. By turning the other cheek you infuriate and unsettle him. Make surrender a tool of power.

TRANSGRESSION OF THE LAW

The island of Melos is strategically situated in the heart of the Mediterranean. In classical times, the city of Athens dominated the sea and coastal areas around Greece, but Sparta, in the Peloponnese, had been Melos’s original colonizer. During the Peloponnesian War, then, the Melians refused to ally themselves with Athens and remained loyal to Mother Sparta. In 416 B.C. the Athenians sent an expedition against Melos. Before launching an all-out attack, however, they dispatched a delegation to persuade the Melians to surrender and become an ally rather than suffer devastation and defeat.

THE CHESTNUT AND THE FIG TREE

A man who had climbed upon a certain fig tree, was bending the boughs toward him and plucking the ripe fruit, which he then put into his mouth to destroy and gnaw with his hard teeth. The chestnut, seeing this, tossed its long branches and with tumultuous rustle exclaimed: “Oh Fig! How much less protected by nature you are than I. See how my sweet offspring are set in close array; first clothed in soft wrappers over which is the hard but softly lined husk. And not content with this much care, nature has also given us these sharp and close-set spines, so that the hand of man cannot hurt us.” Then the fig tree began to laugh, and after the laughter it said: “You know well that man is of such ingenuity that he will bereave even you of your children. But in your case he will do it by means of rods and stones; and when they are felled he will trample them with his feet or hit them with stones, so that your offspring will emerge from their armor crushed and maimed; while I am touched carefully by his hands, and never, like you, with roughness”

LEONARDO DA VINCI, 1452-1519

“You know as well as we do,” the delegates said, “that the standard of justice depends on the equality of power to compel, and that in fact the strong do what they have the power to do and the weak accept what they have to accept.” When the Melians responded that this denied the notion of fair play, the Athenians said that those in power determined what was fair and what was not. The Melians argued that this authority belonged to the gods, not to mortals. “Our opinion of the gods and our knowledge of men,” replied a member of the Athenian delegation, “lead us to conclude that it is a general and necessary law of nature to rule whatever one can.”

The Melians would not budge. Sparta, they insisted, would come to their defense. The Athenians countered that the Spartans were a conservative, practical people, and would not help Melos because they had nothing to gain and a lot to lose by doing so.

Finally the Melians began to talk of honor and the principle of resisting brute force. “Do not be led astray by a false sense of honor,” said the Athenians. “Honor often brings men to ruin when they are faced with an obvious danger that somehow affects their pride. There is nothing disgraceful in giving way to the greatest city in Hellas when she is offering you such reasonable terms.” The debate ended. The Melians discussed the issue among themselves, and decided to trust in the aid of the Spartans, the will of the gods, and the rightness of their cause. They politely declined the Athenians’ offer.

A few days later the Athenians invaded Melos. The Melians fought nobly, even without the Spartans, who did not come to their rescue. It took several attempts before the Athenians could surround and besiege their main city, but the Melians finally surrendered. The Athenians wasted no time—they put to death all the men of military age that they could capture, they sold the women and children as slaves, and they repopulated the island with their own colonists. Only a handful of Melians survived.

Interpretation

The Athenians were one of the most eminently practical people in history, and they made the most practical argument they could with the Melians: When you are weaker, there is nothing to be gained by fighting a useless fight. No one comes to help the weak—by doing so they would only put themselves in jeopardy. The weak are alone and must submit. Fighting gives you nothing to gain but martyrdom, and in the process a lot of people who do not believe in your cause will die.

Weakness is no sin, and can even become a strength if you learn how to play it right. Had the Melians surrendered in the first place, they would have been able to sabotage the Athenians in subtle ways, or might have gotten what they could have out of the alliance and then left it when the Athenians themselves were weakened, as in fact happened several years later. Fortunes change and the mighty are often brought down. Surrender conceals great power: Lulling the enemy into complacency, it gives you time to recoup, time to undermine, time for revenge. Never sacrifice that time in exchange for honor in a battle that you cannot win.

Voltaire was living in exile in London at a time when anti-French sentiment was at its highest. One day walking through the streets. he found himself surrounded by an angry crowd. “Hang him. Hang the Frenchman,”they yelled. Voltaire calmly addressed the mob with the following words: “Men of England’ You wish to kill me because I am a Frenchman. Am I not punished enough in not being born an Englishman?” The crowd cheered his thoughtful words, and escorted him safely back to his lodgings.

THE LITTLE, BROWN BOOK OF ANECDOTES. CLIFTON FADIMAN, ED., 1985

Weak people never give way when they ought to. Cardinal de Retz, 1613-1679

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

Sometime in the 1920s the German writer Bertolt Brecht became a convert to the cause of Communism. From then on his plays, essays, and poems reflected his revolutionary fervor, and he generally tried to make his ideological statements as clear as possible. When Hitler came to power in Germany, Brecht and his Communist colleagues became marked men. He had many friends in the United States—Americans who sympathized with his beliefs, as well as fellow German intellectuals who had fled Hitler. In 1941, accordingly, Brecht emigrated to the United States, and chose to settle in Los Angeles, where he hoped to make a living in the film business.

Over the next few years Brecht wrote screenplays with a pointedly anti capitalist slant. He had little success in Hollywood, so in 1947, the war having ended, he decided to return to Europe. That same year, however, the U.S. Congress’s House Un-American Activities Committee began its investigation into supposed Communist infiltration in Hollywood. It began to gather information on Brecht, who had so openly espoused Marxism, and on September 19, 1947, only a month before he had planned to leave the United States, he received a subpoena to appear before the committee. In addition to Brecht, a number of other writers, producers, and directors were summoned to appear as well, and this group came to be known as the Hollywood 19.

Before going to Washington, the Hollywood 19 met to decide on a plan of action. Their approach would be confrontational. Instead of answering questions about their membership, or lack of it, in the Communist Party, they would read prepared statements that would challenge the authority of the committee and argue that its activities were unconstitutional. Even if this strategy meant imprisonment, it would gain publicity for their cause.

Brecht disagreed. What good was it, he asked, to play the martyr and gain a little public sympathy if in the process they lost the ability to stage their plays and sell their scripts for years to come? He felt certain they were all more intelligent than the members of the committee. Why lower themselves to the level of their opponents by arguing with them? Why not outfox the committee by appearing to surrender to it while subtly mocking it? The Hollywood 19 listened to Brecht politely, but decided to stick to their plan, leaving Brecht to go his own way.

The committee finally summoned Brecht on October 30. They expected him to do what others among the Hollywood 19 who had testified before him had done: Argue, refuse to answer questions, challenge the committee’s right to hold its hearing, even yell and hurl insults. Much to their surprise, however, Brecht was the very picture of congeniality. He wore a suit (something he rarely did), smoked a cigar (he had heard that the committee chairman was a passionate cigar smoker), answered their questions politely, and generally deferred to their authority.

Unlike the other witnesses, Brecht answered the question of whether he belonged to the Communist Party: He was not a member, he said, which happened to be the truth. One committee member asked him, “Is it true you have written a number of revolutionary plays?” Brecht had written many plays with overt Communist messages, but he responded, “I have written a number of poems and songs and plays in the fight against Hitler and, of course, they can be considered, therefore, as revolutionary because I, of course, was for the overthrow of that government.” This statement went unchallenged.

Brecht’s English was more than adequate, but he used an interpreter throughout his testimony, a tactic that allowed him to play subtle games with language. When committee members found Communist leanings in lines from English editions of his poems, he would repeat the lines in German for the interpreter, who would then re-translate them; and somehow they would come out innocuous. At one point a committee member read one of Brecht’s revolutionary poems out loud in English, and asked him if he had written it. “No,” he responded, “I wrote a German poem, which is very different from this.” The author’s elusive answers baffled the committee members, but his politeness and the way he yielded to their authority made it impossible for them to get angry with him.

After only an hour of questioning, the committee members had had enough. “Thank you very much,” said the chairman, “You are a good example to the [other] witnesses.” Not only did they free him, they offered to help him if he had any trouble with immigration officials who might detain him for their own reasons. The following day, Brecht left the United States, never to return.

Interpretation

The Hollywood 19’s confrontational approach won them a lot of sympathy, and years later they gained a kind of vindication in public opinion. But they were also blacklisted, and lost valuable years of profitable working time. Brecht, on the other hand, expressed his disgust at the committee more indirectly. It was not that he changed his beliefs or compromised his values; instead, during his short testimony, he kept the upper hand by appearing to yield while all the time running circles around the committee with vague responses, outright lies that went unchallenged because they were wrapped in enigmas, and word games. In the end he kept the freedom to continue his revolutionary writing (as opposed to suffering imprisonment or detainment in the United States), even while subtly mocking the committee and its authority with his pseudo-obedience.

Keep in mind the following: People trying to make a show of their authority are easily deceived by the surrender tactic. Your outward sign of submission makes them feel important; satisfied that you respect them, they become easier targets for a later counterattack, or for the kind of indirect ridicule used by Brecht. Measuring your power over time, never sacrifice long-term maneuverability for the short-lived glories of martyrdom.

When the great lord passes, the wise peasant bows deeply and silently farts.

Ethiophan proverb

KEYS TO POWER

What gets us into trouble in the realm of power is often our own overreaction to the moves of our enemies and rivals. That overreaction creates problems we would have avoided had we been more reasonable. It also has an endless rebound effect, for the enemy then overreacts as well, much as the Athenians did to the Melians. It is always our first instinct to react, to meet aggression with some other kind of aggression. But the next time someone pushes you and you find yourself starting to react, try this: Do not resist or fight back, but yield, turn the other cheek, bend. You will find that this often neutralizes their behavior—they expected, even wanted you to react with force and so they are caught off-guard and confounded by your lack of resistance. By yielding, you in fact control the situation, because your surrender is part of a larger plan to lull them into believing they have defeated you.

This is the essence of the surrender tactic: Inwardly you stay firm, but outwardly you bend. Deprived of a reason to get angry, your opponents will often be bewildered instead. And they are unlikely to react with more violence, which would demand a reaction from you. Instead you are allowed the time and space to plot the countermoves that will bring them down. In the battle of the intelligent against the brutal and the aggressive, the surrender tactic is the supreme weapon. It does require self-control: Those who genuinely surrender give up their freedom, and may be crushed by the humiliation of their defeat. You have to remember that you only appear to surrender, like the animal that plays dead to save its hide.

We have seen that it can be better to surrender than to fight; faced with a more powerful opponent and a sure defeat, it is often also better to surrender than to run away. Running away may save you for the time being, but the aggressor will eventually catch up with you. If you surrender instead, you have an opportunity to coil around your enemy and strike with your fangs from close up.

In 473 B.C., in ancient China, King Goujian of Yue suffered a horrible defeat from the ruler of Wu in the battle of Fujiao. Goujian wanted to flee, but he had an adviser who told him to surrender and to place himself in the service of the ruler of Wu, from which position he could study the man and plot his revenge. Deciding to follow this advice, Goujian gave the ruler all of his riches, and went to work in his conqueror’s stables as the lowest servant. For three years he humbled himself before the ruler, who then, finally satisfied of his loyalty, allowed him to return home. Inwardly, however, Goujian had spent those three years gathering information and plotting revenge. When a terrible drought struck Wu, and the kingdom was weakened by inner turmoil, he raised an army, invaded, and won with ease. That is the power behind surrender: It gives you the time and the flexibility to plot a devastating counterblow. Had Goujian run away, he would have lost this chance.

When foreign trade began to threaten Japanese independence in the mid-nineteenth century, the Japanese debated how to defeat the foreigners. One minister, Hotta Masayoshi, wrote a memorandum in 1857 that influenced Japanese policy for years to come: “I am therefore convinced that our policy should be to conclude friendly alliances, to send ships to foreign countries everywhere and conduct trade, to copy the foreigners where they are at their best and so repair our own shortcomings, to foster our national strength and complete our armaments, and so gradually subject the foreigners to our influence until in the end all the countries of the world know the blessings of perfect tranquillity and our hegemony is acknowledged throughout the globe.” This is a brilliant application of the Law: Use surrender to gain access to your enemy. Learn his ways, insinuate yourself with him slowly, outwardly conform to his customs, but inwardly maintain your own culture. Eventually you will emerge victorious, for while he considers you weak and inferior, and takes no precautions against you, you are using the time to catch up and surpass him. This soft, permeable form of invasion is often the best, for the enemy has nothing to react against, prepare for, or resist. And had Japan resisted Western influence by force, it might well have suffered a devastating invasion that would have permanently altered its culture.

Surrender can also offer a way of mocking your enemies, of turning their power against them, as it did for Brecht. Milan Kundera’s novel The Joke, based on the author’s experiences in a penal camp in Czechoslovakia, tells the story of how the prison guards organized a relay race, guards against prisoners. For the guards this was a chance to show off their physical superiority. The prisoners knew they were expected to lose, so they went out of their way to oblige—miming exaggerated exertion while barely moving, running a few yards and collapsing, limping, jogging ever so slowly while the guards raced ahead at full speed. Both by joining the race and by losing it, they had obliged the guards obediently; but their “overobedience” had mocked the event to the point of ruining it. Overobedience—surrender—was here a way to demonstrate superiority in a reverse manner. Resistance would have engaged the prisoners in the cycle of violence, lowering them to the guards’ level. Overobeying the guards, however, made them ridiculous, yet they could not rightly punish the prisoners, who had only done what they asked.

Power is always in flux—since the game is by nature fluid, and an arena of constant struggle, those with power almost always find themselves eventually on the downward swing. If you find yourself temporarily weakened, the surrender tactic is perfect for raising yourself up again—it disguises your ambition; it teaches you patience and self-control, key skills in the game; and it puts you in the best possible position for taking advantage of your oppressor’s sudden slide. If you run away or fight back, in the long run you cannot win. If you surrender, you will almost always emerge victorious.

Image: An Oak Tree. The oak that resists the wind loses its branches one by one, and with nothing left to protect it, the trunk finally snaps. The oak that bends lives longer, its trunk growing wider, its roots deeper and more tenacious.

Authority: Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let them have thy cloak also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain. (Jesus Christ, in Matthew 5:38-41)

REVERSAL

The point of surrendering is to save your hide for a later date when you can reassert yourself. It is precisely to avoid martyrdom that one surrenders, but there are times when the enemy will not relent, and martyrdom seems the only way out. Furthermore, if you are willing to die, others may gain power and inspiration from your example.

Yet martyrdom, surrender’s reversal, is a messy, inexact tactic, and is as violent as the aggression it combats. For every famous martyr there are thousands more who have inspired neither a religion nor a rebellion, so that if martyrdom does sometimes grant a certain power, it does so unpredictably. More important, you will not be around to enjoy that power, such as it is. And there is finally something selfish and arrogant about martyrs, as if they felt their followers were less important than their own glory.

When power deserts you, it is best to ignore this Law’s reversal. Leave martyrdom alone: The pendulum will swing back your way eventually, and you should stay alive to see it.

#power #seduction #love #relationships #self-help

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talabib · 5 years

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Rules and Practical Advice To Help Guide You Down The Bumpy Road Of Life.

In the story of Pinocchio, a little puppet gets his wish: he loses the strings that had been used to control his life, and gets the opportunity to be a real, independent boy. But what Pinocchio didn’t realize was that this also meant coping with all the dangers of real life, as well as the painful lessons to be learned through honesty, friendship and family.

Classic stories like Pinocchio, as well as many other popular myths, fairy tales and religious parables, all portray the task of finding meaning in life as a balancing act between order and chaos, the familiar and the exotic, or security and adventure.

People continue passing on and rereading historical texts, along with the works of philosophers such as Socrates and Aristotle, because we yearn for universal values and rules to give our lives meaning.

Hierarchies are a common facet of life in societies around the world, so give yourself an advantage with good posture.

You’ve probably heard of the phrase, “the pecking order,” right? But do you know where it originated?

It comes from the Norwegian zoologist Thorleif Schjelderup-Ebbe, who was studying barnyard chickens in the 1920s when he noticed that there was a clear hierarchy among these birds. At the top were the healthiest, strongest ones that always got to peck first when the chicken feed came. At the bottom were the weakest chickens, with their feathers falling out, who only got to peck at the leftover crumbs.

Pecking orders like this aren’t limited to chickens; they occur naturally throughout the animal kingdom. Lobsters, for instance, whether they’re in the ocean or raised in captivity, will aggressively fight over the best and most secure spots for shelter.

Scientists have found that these competitive conflicts will lead to the winners and losers having different chemical balances in their brains. Winners will have a higher ratio of the hormone serotonin to octopamine, while the ratio in losers will tilt in the opposite direction.

These levels can even affect the posture of lobsters: more serotonin will lead to the winners being more agile and upright, and more octopamine makes losers tense and curled up. This difference will factor into further confrontations, as the upright lobsters will appear bigger and more intimidating, causing the tense ones to remain submissive.

As you may have guessed, similar hierarchies and cycles of winning and losing play out among humans. Studies have shown that those in the grips of alcoholism or depression are less likely to enter a competitive situation, which only reinforces more inactivity and continued low self-esteem and depression.

Conversely, those on a winning streak often present a swaggering and confident body language, which can help them keep their streak alive. Just like lobsters, humans are constantly measuring themselves up against each other, and we associate a person’s intelligence with their physicality.

So if you’re trying to give yourself an advantage, follow the first rule: hold your head high and strike the posture of a winner.

Care for yourself with the same tenderness you would a loved one.

If your dog was sick and the vet prescribed it medication, you wouldn’t second-guess the doctor and leave the prescription unfilled would you? And yet, one-third of people ignore the medical prescriptions they’re given by doctors, which begs the question: why do we take better care of our pets than ourselves?

Part of the reason is that, because we’re always conscious of our own flaws, we feel self-loathing, which, in turn, can lead to unnecessary self-punishment and a sense that we’re unworthy of feeling good. Thus, we take better care of others than ourselves.

This belief that we’re unworthy goes at least as far back as the story of Adam and Eve being exiled from the Garden of Eden. In this metaphorical tale, Adam and Eve represent all human beings, and they’re tricked into eating the forbidden apple of knowledge by an evil serpent. By following the advice of the snake, humans are seen as being forever corrupted with wickedness.

While the story of the Garden of Eden makes us self-conscious about this dark side within ourselves and can reinforce the sense that we don’t deserve good things, it can also be read another way: it’s not just us, but the whole world that is corrupted. The humans and the serpent of the garden can be seen as the entire world’s natural mix of order and chaos.

This duality of nature can also be seen in Eastern philosophy as well, and represented in the two sides of the Yin-Yang symbol: there’s a light and a dark side, yet both sides contain a portion of the other within them, and neither can exist without the other.

In this scenario, harmony is achieved by finding the healthy balance between light and dark, and one should strive not to go too far in either direction.

For example, if a parent were to try and protect their child from being exposed to anything “bad,” they would only be replacing that chaos with the tyranny of too much order. In other words, it’s futile to try to be perfectly good.

This leads us to the second rule: care for yourself like you would a loved one.

So, look after yourself, but don’t fight against chaos, as this is an unwinnable fight. And rather than only doing what makes you happy, try to do what is best for you.

As a child, you may not have wanted to brush your teeth or wear your mittens, but these are things that should be done. As an adult, you must determine the goals that help define who you are and the direction you want to take in life. Then, you will find the steps that you should take, and the actions that are best for you.

The wrong companions can drag you down, so choose your friends wisely.

One of my childhood friends never left the prairies of a northern Canadian hometown, Fairview, Alberta. Instead, he stuck around and ended up among the town’s other ne’er-do-wells.

Every once in a while, I would return home and catch up with my friend – and each time, my friend’s slow, sad decline became more apparent. What was once youthful potential became aging resentment.

For me, it became clear that those ne’er-do-wells were bringing my friend down and holding him back in life. And this is something that can happen to anyone anywhere.

In a workplace setting, a similar dynamic can play out when an underachiever is put into a team of high performers. The manager might think that this will result in the problematic employee picking up good habits from the others. But studies have shown that the opposite is more likely to happen, and the bad habits will start to spread and bring down everyone’s performance.

This is why the third rule is to make sure you surround yourself with supportive friends, as these are the kinds of friendships that can bring about positive change.

Being picky about your friends is a smart move and is not selfish or snobby. Supportive and encouraging friendships run both ways: when you need a boost, they’ll be there for you, and if your friend needs help to rebound from a setback or make an improvement, you’ll be there for them.

This dynamic can encourage individual success and, as part of a team, it can lead to great social accomplishments.

When john left Fairview for college, he joined a group of like-minded individuals who helped each other in their studies and in many other accomplishments, such as creating a newspaper and running a successful student union.

You’ll know you have good friends when they don’t tolerate your wallowing in negativity; they’ll want what’s best for you, so they’ll encourage you to snap out of it and get back on track.

Progress is made by comparing yourself to your past achievements, not to others.

There used to be such a thing as being a big fish in a small pond. But now, thanks to the internet, even the concept of a small community is a thing of the past. These days, we’re all part of a global community, and no matter where you are, there is always someone better than you.

This brings us to the issue of self-criticism. Now, it’s important to be critical of one’s self – if we weren’t then we’d have nothing to strive for, no motivation to better ourselves and our lives would quickly become meaningless.

Luckily, it’s a human tendency to always see the present as lacking and the future as promising much better. There’s a reason for this tendency, as it helps us stay motivated to push forward and take action.

However, self-criticism can get ugly when it becomes all about comparing ourselves to others. When this happens, we quickly lose sight of our progress.

First of all, this leads to thinking in black-and-white terms: we’ve either succeeded or failed. This prevents us from seeing the incremental improvements that are often small, but nonetheless important.

Comparisons also lead to losing sight of the big picture by focusing on a single aspect of our lives and blowing it out of proportion.

For instance, let’s say you’re reviewing the past year and notice that you weren’t as productive at work as some of your peers. You could instantly end up feeling like a total failure. But if you were to zoom out and look at all the aspects of your life, you might realize that you made some real improvements in your family life.

This is why the fourth rule is to never compare yourself to others, and to always judge yourself against your own prior accomplishments.

Comparing current results to past ones will also keep you moving forward. If you start to think that you’re always winning, this is a red flag that you need to do a better job of taking risks and giving yourself challenging goals.

When checking in on your progress, think of yourself as a home inspector. This means looking at things from top to bottom and categorizing every problem. Is it a cosmetic or a structural fault? Before you can give a stamp of approval, make a list of things that need to be improved.

This detailed approach is likely to keep you so busy on yourself that you’ll be unconcerned with how you stack up against others.

It is a parent’s duty to raise a responsible and kind child.

If you’ve ever seen parents ignoring a child who’s wreaking havoc, you may have wondered: are they just bad parents or are they being clever by allowing the child to tire himself out?

Approaches to child-rearing have changed over the years, often as a result of the age-old nature-versus-nurture debate, and differing opinions about the kinds of instincts we’re born with.

In the eighteenth century, there was a popular belief championed by the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau that suggested our prehistoric ancestors were sweet, gentle and child-like. They blamed our history of war and violence on the corrupting influence civilization has had on us.

But nowadays, we have a clearer understanding of the fact that people are indeed born with aggressive instincts, and must learn how to become kinder, gentler, more “civilized” adults. After all, you likely remember how vicious kids on a playground can get; most workplaces are a picture of tranquility in comparison!

According to experts, it’s really up to parents to make sure their naturally aggressive youngster learns how to be a well-adjusted adult, which brings us to the fifth rule: parents need to be more than a friend – they need to raise a responsible and likable human being.

This can be a challenge since no one likes being the “bad guy.” But children are aggressive because they have the natural instinct to push boundaries so they can find out where society’s lines are drawn. So a parent must be firm and decisive in drawing those lines.

While this may not sound like fun, think of it this way: if they don’t learn these things from a loving, understanding parent, they’ll learn it later on in a way that’s sure to involve less love and understanding.

So let’s look at three key methods for good parenting:

The first is to limit the rules. Too many rules lead to frustrated kids who are constantly hitting barriers. So limit things to a few basic, easy-to-understand principles, such as don’t bite, kick or hit anyone unless in self-defense.

The second is to use the minimum necessary force. Effective and fair discipline can only be applied when consequences are made clear. The punishment also needs to “fit the crime,” which means it should only be as severe as necessary for a child to learn not to break the rule again. Sometimes a disappointed look is all that’s needed; other times it might be a week without video games.

The third is to come in pairs. Children are clever and will try to get their way by playing one parent against the other – so a unified front is important. Also, every parent makes mistakes, but if you have a supportive partner, you’ll be likelier to notice and catch those mistakes.

The world is filled with injustices, but we should not blame others for our lot in life.

There’s no point in mincing words: the world is full of challenges and suffering – but this isn’t cause for despair.

Nevertheless, many people throughout the ages have seen life as so cruel and unfair that drastic responses are justified. The Russian author Leo Tolstoy saw existence as so absurdly unjust that he suggested there were only four valid responses: childlike ignorance, hedonistic pleasure, suicide or struggling on despite it all.

Tolstoy analyzed these positions in his essay “A Confession” and concluded that the most honest response was suicide, while struggling on was a sign of his weak inability to take the appropriate action.

Others have responded in a similar fashion, yet decided to take other lives along with their own, in acts known as murder-suicides, such as the Sandy Hook or Columbine school shootings. In June of 2016, there had been a thousand shootings in the United States over the preceding 1,260 days, in which someone had killed four or more people before, in many cases, shooting themselves.

But despite Tolstoy’s bleak worldview, and no matter how much you’ve suffered or however cruel and unjust you find life to be, you shouldn’t blame the world.

This is the gist of the sixth rule for life, which states that you should take responsibility for your own life before you judge the world.

There’s another Russian writer, by the name of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who believed it was possible to reject the cruelty of life, even when it’s being cruel to you.

Solzhenitsyn was among the communists who fought against the Nazis during World War II, yet despite his service he ended up imprisoned by his own state after the war. And as if life in a Russian gulag wasn’t bad enough, he found out he had cancer while serving his sentence.

But despite all this, Solzhenitsyn didn’t blame the world for his lot in life. He accepted his role in supporting the Communist Party that had imprisoned him, and took it upon himself to use the time he had left to contribute something good and meaningful to the world.

What he did included writing the book, The Gulag Archipelago, which provided a history, as well as a damning indictment, of the Soviet camps he’d experienced firsthand. The book played an important role in extinguishing any lingering support that Stalin’s brand of communism had among intellectual circles worldwide.

Sacrifice can be a meaningful act, and we should seek meaning over immediate pleasures.

Have you heard the story about the monkey who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar? As the story goes, there was a cookie left inside an open jar, and the opening of the jar was just big enough for the monkey’s hand to enter – but not big enough for his fist to come back out with the treat in it. So, if he insisted on trying to hold onto his treat, he would be stuck.

The moral here is that there is a price for greed: the monkey got himself captured because he refused to just let go of the cookie.

How different is this from human behavior? How many people pursue pleasures every day that aren’t in their best interests? And how many are unwilling to make sacrifices that are in their best interest?

One of the side effects of seeing the world as a pit of despair is that it makes it especially easy to justify a life based in immediate pleasures that will make it more bearable. Plus, if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad, right? This is the logic behind binge eating and drinking, drug use, sexual debauchery and other self-harming behaviors.

The other side of this argument is sacrifice, the kind that brings better things in the future by giving up something now. This goes back to ancient times, where tribes would put food aside to make it through the winter or to help those in the community who couldn’t hunt or farm.

This is another topic heavily represented in the Bible. When God kicks Adam and Eve out of paradise, it’s made clear that their original sin is the cause of the harsh and cruel life that everyone must face. However, our suffering in life is the sacrifice we must make so that we may experience the joys of the afterlife.

This brings us to rule seven: seek meaningful goals over instant gratification.

Now, you might think this is a simple concept and something that most people already do. After all, we sacrifice our time to go to work and put in hard hours now so that we can take a vacation later on or relax on a beach in the summer.

But this goes deeper than sacrificing for your personal gain; there are big and small things we can sacrifice for the greater good, and the bigger the sacrifice, the more rewarding it can be.

It can help to think of the lotus flower. This plant starts its life at the bottom of a lake, and inch by inch it escapes the darkness until it breaks through the surface of the water and blossoms in the sun’s rays.

In other words, stick with something and be ready to make sacrifices to reach your goal, and you will be rewarded.

Lies are a common tool of self-deception, but we should strive toward truthful living.

The German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche believed that you could measure the strength of a person's spirit based upon how much undiluted truth they can tolerate. While truth is often considered a valuable commodity in our culture, we nevertheless tell lies all the time.

One of the main reasons for lying to ourselves and to others is to get what we think we want. The Austrian psychologist Alfred Adler called these life-lies, and they’re characterized as the things we’ll do and say to turn a poorly-thought-out goal into a reality.

For example, you might picture your retirement as taking place on a secluded beach in Mexico, with an infinite supply of margaritas. This kind of goal can be so attractive that you’ll continue fooling yourself into thinking it’s possible, even as events pile up that make it increasingly far-fetched.

You could even develop allergies to sun, sand and booze, but continue lying to yourself about this perfect plan – even though it’s not really a plan at all, since you haven’t identified any concrete steps that could potentially make it a reality.

These kinds of delusions often go hand in hand with our ability to fool ourselves into thinking we already know everything we need to know. This is an especially foolish perspective to have, since it shuts off our natural desire to learn and grow.

But worse, and far more evil, things can happen when you’re living a life-lie and unwilling to recognize the truth. In John Milton’s epic poem, Paradise Lost, Lucifer is portrayed as a reasonable character, but one who becomes too proud and enamored with his talents – so much so that he and his followers are kicked out of heaven for daring to challenge God’s ultimate truth.

This sets up rule number eight: stop lying and be truthful.

You don’t need to give up each one of your ambitious goals, but you should be flexible so that your goals are realistic and reflect the truth. So, as your understanding and worldview changes, so should your goals. And if your life is off track, it might be time to challenge the current truth you’re following, the one that has you feeling weak, rejected or worthless, and reaffirm your personal truth so that you can get back on the right track.

Conversations are an opportunity to learn and grow, not compete.

Thousands of years after his death, the ancient philosopher Socrates is still considered one of the wisest men who ever lived. One of the reasons for this is his belief that the only thing he was certain of was that he knew nothing, and this was a driving force in his conversations and his openness to learn.

When you engage in genuine conversation, it should be a similar process to thinking. Thinking things over is essentially listening to yourself as you explore two sides of an issue. So, in a way, you’re creating your own internal dialog, which can be difficult since you need to accurately represent both sides while also remaining objective in your conclusion.

This is one big reason why people talk to each other, so that they can more easily present the two sides of an issue and come to a conclusion. Even children will do this: if one kid thinks it would be fun to play up on a roof, they might suggest this idea to a friend who then points out the dangers of this idea. The conversation that ensues allows the child with the original idea to take in the new perspective, consider how likely it is that someone will fall and hurt themselves, and hopefully make the right decision.

However, conversations often don’t go this way. Instead, one person – or perhaps both people – will refuse to listen and treat the dialog as a competition they need to win, in order to validate their preconceptions. So, rather than hearing what the other person has to say, they’ll be thinking about what to say next or act like it’s a contest of one-upping each other.

This is why the ninth rule is listen to what others have to say, while presuming you have something to learn from them.

An easy tip for being a better conversationalist is to listen and then summarize, or recap out loud what the other person just said. This serves multiple purposes: it helps assure that you’ve heard things correctly, while also helping it stick in your memory; it also reduces the likelihood of distorting or oversimplifying details in order to suit your side of the conversation.

Sometimes the truth hurts, and it’s painful to take in information that means you have to change your ideas and preconceptions. But this is the price you pay as part of the beautiful process of learning and growing.

The complexity of life should be confronted with clear and precise language.

Life truly is an enormous and complicated tapestry, and yet we tend only to see the isolated parts we need to see. If you’re walking along and see an apple on the ground, you probably don’t think of the branch, tree, roots and soil that were all connected before it fell.

The reason is that we tend only to recognize or pay attention to the things that are either useful to us or stand in our way. The apple catches our attention because it represents food and sustenance. But we don’t consider the tree and the soil because they are of no use for satisfying our needs.

Of course, we can’t be thinking of everything all the time – the world is far too complex for that, so the mind simplifies things and makes it easier for us to get on with our lives. However, every once in a while, something can happen to shatter our conception of the world and make things seem chaotic.

This is why rule ten is extremely important: use precise language.

How does this help? Well, think of the word “car.” You know what a car is right? It’s a vehicle that gets you from point A to point B. But when this vehicle breaks down halfway between A and B, do you know the precise ways in which a car works? Can you pop the hood and fix this piece of complex machinery?

There’s a good chance that when your car breaks down, you feel primal urges to curse and maybe even kick the car for not being such a simple thing anymore. This is what happens when things get complex and chaotic, so in order to recover, you must reestablish order by clearly and precisely explaining what went wrong.

The same thing needs to happen when your body breaks down and you get sick. There could be any number of problems going on, so you need to tell your doctor the precise symptoms. Does your stomach hurt or is it a fever? Did it begin after you ate something? What was it? By being precise, you can restore order and take steps to start feeling better.

Precise language can make your relationships run more smoothly as well. Does your partner do something that bugs you, like failing to clean up after themselves? The sooner you’re honest and precise with them, the easier life will be.

There are bad and oppressive men, but we must avoid suppressing human nature.

In George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier, experts come to the conclusion that socialism was attracting defenders in England, not because of sympathy for the harsh conditions facing miners, but out of hatred for the rich and powerful.

Today there are similar attitudes toward the male-dominated leadership known as the patriarchy.

One influential source of this hatred for the patriarchy is Max Horkheimer of the Marxism-based Frankfurt School, a proponent of so called “critical theory”. He felt that education and intellectualism should focus on social change, and, instead of working to empower women, it should seek to combat and destroy the powerful oppressors in a culture – i.e. the ruling males. Likewise, in humanities courses around the world today, the recommended political action is the dismantling of our macho culture.

Everything is about destroying rather than fixing or creating, and according to experts it has left us with an outrage directed at male behavior that can tend to be excessively harsh and shortsighted.

For example, many male students are regularly confronted with hostile accusations of being part of the patriarchy – but the path of righteous change shouldn’t involve treating every man as a potential sex offender.

While it’s true that many men have behaved deplorably, expert argues that men have also used their naturally aggressive attitudes for good, like engaging in healthy competition, exploring dangerous areas and making much-needed progress.

Outside some of the buildings on the University of Toronto campus, there were amazing skateboarders showing off admirable fearlessness and a willingness to embrace danger. But then, city officials decided to prohibit skateboarding on the campus.

Which brings us to rule number 11: don’t bother young people skateboarding.

We can’t establish rules that go against the very nature of who we are as people. Our rules should definitely protect us, but they shouldn’t do so in a way that suppresses the good qualities in people.

We’ve actually seen a fairly good fictionalized account of what can happen when men are stripped of their masculinity. As the story in Fight Club shows us, aggression can then become a forbidden fruit that manifests itself in fascist tendencies. Another, real-world reaction to emasculation is the current resurgence of right-wing politics.

The truth is, women don’t want boys to grow up without a chance to learn things for themselves and be independent. He posits that every boy has a mom, and what kind of mom would want to care for a dependent man-child?

Life is hard and full of sorrow, so it’s important to celebrate the small joys in life.

Have you ever had to care for a sick person? It can be one of life’s more difficult challenges. Charles’s daughter has been coping with severe arthritis since she was six years old. She has suffered from constant pain, requiring frequent injections and multiple surgeries for joint replacements.

If you had a daughter in this situation, you might think life is unfair – but it’s important to recognize that the dark bits of pain, suffering and sorrow are what give the good moments their value.

Consider Superman. When this character was first introduced, he was hugely popular. But then, the comic book writers kept giving him power after power until he was virtually invincible. Naturally, readers starting to find him super boring.

If there is no risk of danger, Superman’s victories are hollow. And in the same way, good moments would be meaningless if we didn’t have to fight through difficulties and suffering to reach them.

This is why it’s important to follow rule 12: make the best out of even the smallest joys that life offers.

By following this rule, you’ll be sure to embrace life and appreciate every good thing that comes your way. You’ll also be sure to see yourself through the tough times, even when they’re prolonged.

After years of pain and discomfort, charles’s daughter eventually found a new physiotherapist who helped her find greater mobility, a fair amount of normality and a lot less pain. There may be further complications down the road, but they’re both happy to enjoy the improvements for as long as they last.

This is the best attitude to have; it’s the kind that makes you take your time to stop and pet a cat when you cross one on the sidewalk.

Remember, there is no day without the darkness of night, just as there’s no order without chaos. There is suffering in life, but it’s also what gives meaning to our perseverance and makes the moments of peace so rewarding.

Navigating through life is a constant struggle filled with trials and tribulations, and if there’s any guarantee in life, it’s that there will likely be more troubles around the corner. But there is also beauty and joy to be found, however fleeting these moments may be. All you can do is try your best, be honest and truthful, and avoid being selfish and prideful. It’s also important to take responsibility for your own lot in life, and not blame the world or others for your shortcomings. Ultimately, it is only you who can improve your life.

Action plan: Ask yourself, “How was I wrong?” You may not like the answer, but this is a way to keep improving and stay truthful. By asking yourself this question on a regular basis, you’ll be able to enjoy the satisfaction of making progress every day as you keep striving to be a better human being.

#Rules and Practical Advice To Help Guide You Down The Bumpy Road Of Life.

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