#god please do not flay me alive for this. i hope there is no random intense hatred of the adhd/btw creature in the community

[i-am-creacheur]

as a person with adhd, i have a proposal for the ADHD council! we all know the "yippee" sound goes with the tbh or autism creature, but what about our beloved btw creature? what sound do they make?

well, i have created a sound i think embodies this perfectly. thoughts?

[punemy-spotted]

A Worthy Grave - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Everybody Dies Alone

Pairing: Federal Agent!Ari Levinson x Witch!Reader

Warnings: THIS IS A HORROR FIC, True Crime Elements, Police Procedural Elements, Possibly a little Twin Peaks, Violence, Murder, Death, Flayed Bodies, Ghosts, Ghouls, Violence Against Women, Violence Against Random Hikers, The Woods are Dangerous, Serial Killers, Choking, Gutting, Witchcraft, Blood, Appalachian Gothic Horror, Eventual Smut, Plot with Porn

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: Any place with enough history in it is gonna have ghosts. And sometimes they call your name.

O Mother It is that fear that moves both heart and tongue To draw tight curtains so that we might let the darker hours pass unseen. We hear you call in the deepest night. We hear you call to us in voices that belong to our dead and gone And we know better, but we follow you into The darkened woods all the same.

— Old Gods of Appalachia Episode 31: Season 3 Prologue

Notes: I’M BACK, BITCHES. This fic is a sort of direct sequel to Glory, Amen, so keep that in mind as you read it, except I decided to include MORE CE babes into this fic and may also include other CE babes in the future. This is gonna be more Twin Peaks inspired than anything else, and I hope you enjoy it! I crave feedback, so tell me what you think!

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

Any place with enough history in it is gonna have ghosts, and these mountains in particular — being the oldest mountains in the world — have the type of ghosts that predate the very humanity the spine of this land is afflicted with. The type of ghosts that — if you’re good and careful, if you find the right gaps ‘tween then and now t’slip between, say the right words to invite ‘em into your space — might just come pay you a visit.

Other times, you don’t gotta say shit.

These woods’ll keep you safe, if you keep ‘em safe, your momma would warn you with all the gravity of a stormcloud, wrist-deep in the rich black earth of her garden, digging out root vegetables and other sorts of magic from that treasure trove of life she’d spent more years cultivating than you’d actually been alive, This mountain will sustain you proper, if you sustain it.

These woods are deep and dark an’ full of the type of demons even your daddy’s Bible would have been scared to name, but you are the blood of both an’  your momma feared no man, woman, or haint in these or any mountains.

Which is why, when the specter shows up on your front porch, screamin’ for blood an’ justice, all you do is give her a name and offer her a plate of cornbread she’d never actually be able to eat.

Stops the screaming though.

Trouble with small towns — especially small towns in mountains like yours — is that sometimes, people go missing. People take walks out in the woods, fall into some mineshaft the State forgot to tag or get got by some apex predator lookin’ to prove just how wild God’s own country really is. People get lost, people just plain die. Nine times outta ten, nobody finds the body but the beasts an’ eventually nobody looks, all chalkin’ the loss up to some mountain sacrifice.

Blood for blood, what you make, I will take.

You’re no stranger to death — Hell, Cocke County coroner, you might almost call it your life’s work — but some parts of the job you could do without.

Parts which occasionally — and currently — include a sobbing woman sittin’ translucent an’ bloody in your kitchen.

You call her Janey, on account of the Jane Doe #117 title stamped on the manila folder sittin’ in your office, the one with the photos of a body that probably once belonged to the unsettled soul you’d invited inside and offered a sacrifice of fresh-baked bread. It ain’t her real name, but that’s what the boys over at Park Services are still trynna find out.

Ain’t nothin’ I can do about your body, honey, you tell her, sitting across from the glum-faced woman and trying to decipher the words she means to say between the static that just can’t stop pouring from that hollowed-out mouth.

Your daddy tried teachin’ you the language of the other side, all deep snarls an’ buzzin’ shadows, but sometimes it’s the words that manage to spill out that tell the truth, those last vestiges of humanity bubbling bloody an’ baleful from a tongueless mouth before death takes its last due.

You know her secrets.

You know she wore heels more than hiking shoes. You know she’s not from these mountains, not anywhere near these small towns. You scraped the dirt from under her fingernails and know she fought to survive with everything she had and you know, gut-sinkin’ and stomach churning, that she was not the first body her killer left behind.

You know you could write her name out on your paperwork and give her family some peace, tell ‘em she didn’t run away, tell ‘em she loved ‘em more than anything in the world.

You know you could tell her boyfriend she wasn’t cheating on him, that the man who picked her up and left her here for the beasts to find was someone she thought she could trust. You could tell her momma she was comin’ home from a good job, that she stopped drinkin’ four months ago, that therapy was goin’ well and she was gettin’ better. You could give her daddy a body to bury long before its time, an’ if this were the Holler you grew up in, you know that would be that.

But it ain’t, so nothin’s ever over, and now you’ve gotta figure out how to prove this shit.

You pour yourself a fourth cup of coffee, watching your cornbread offering slowly begin to mold, decay following death as it must always do. You gotta give me something to go off of for the Feds, honey.

You get static in return.

Well. That and the shrill ring of your landline, that old rotary thing you bought from a thrift shop on the other side of the state, kept connected just in case the towers don’t reach you through the early morning mist.

There’s only one goddamn asshole who’d call you on it at six in the goddamn morning.

You ever sleep, Levinson?

Could ask you the same thing, Doc, how long you been up?

Clockwork. The same conversation you’ve had every morning since Ari Levinson transferred from some national park you didn’t give a damn about up north, his drawl about as much a part of your morning routine as coffee and keeping Goatrude out of your vegetable garden.

You want something, Levinson, or you just callin’ to ask about my sleepin’ habits?

What, can’t check in on you, Doc? You can almost hear the casual smugness in his voice, imagining the way he might speak around the cigarette he’s probably smoking at too-early-in-the-morning, I got an update on Jane Doe. You need to get out here.

The grind of gravel tells you just how much choice you have in the matter, your houseguest disappearing the moment she realizes you are not about to be alone for much longer, Jesus, Levinson, you gotta give a lady some warning, you slam down the receiver with a satisfying sound, grabbing the thoroughly-molded cornbread and throwing the plate wholesale into the bin and dumping the rest of your coffee pot into a thermos, listening for the sound of his engine roaring to a stop as you rush through the rest of your morning.

You grab your bag as you leave, stalking your way down the gravel walk and flashing Ari Levinson — parked halfway up the driveway and mercifully blocked further by Goatrude doin’ her best guard dog impression — a hard glare in response to his lazy grin, One day I’m gonna have you arrested for trespassin’, you threaten as you get into the too-fancy-for-a-city-slicker truck he drives.

He doesn’t say a word as you get in, just turns the key in the ignition and with a wink and backs away from Goatrude threatening to headbutt his front bumper.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get to the scene, where your crew and work truck are already waiting, jumpsuit and booties prepared for you to pull on before you’re allowed past that yellow tape and allowed to face the scene before you.

And just what the Hell m’I supposed to do here?

Well, Doc, I’m pretty sure you’d say the next step’s the autopsy, Agent Ari Levinson, Park Services Investigation Division — or whatever the hell that formal title is that he handed off to the poor rookie trying to keep curious hikers away from the yellow tape — saunters up behind you, his cigarette put out so as not to contaminate the crime scene, taking it in with you.

Helluva scene too, with its most pertinent part — for you, right now — currently including a body layin’ pretty as a picture on a flat slab of rock, eyes closed and lips blue, naked as the day it was born.

Which all would’ve been fine, save for the lungs, kidneys, liver and contents of a final meal neatly poured from a stomach into a tupperware container and placed around the meatsack-that-had-once-been-a-human-being like an offering to some great and terrible mortician God.

If you got all the answers, Agent Obvious, you wanna explain to me just how the hell I’m supposed to autopsy a body that’s already been done?

Oh, we got a whole lot better than that. You contemplate turning him into a crime scene with your own gloved hands as he turns, gesturing towards the far side of the slab, just past the edge of a cluster of trees, where two of your staff stand with two large black dogs seated patiently in wait.

Surrounding a lump hidden by a big white sheet.

You can guess what’s underneath that sheet even before they remove it, like every shitty horror film you’ve seen. A chunk of meat vaguely shaped like a human, wearing none of its features, nothing identifiable ‘cept raw. meat.

We’ve been callin’ it Jekyll and Hyde all morning, Ari Levinson tells you, Deputy coroner’s fifty yards back dry heaving, so we—

Y’all brought in the big guns. Don’t tell me — that’s the same body.

Got it in one.

You close your eyes for a moment and take several breaths before looking at the scene once again, trying not to curse yourself or your momma for the way your day’s turned.

You got any more bad news for me, or am I allowed to start gettin’ in there and doing my job?

You try to ignore the way Ari Levinson’s gaze holds yours… and the way Jane Doe #117 shows up from over his shoulder, her hollow-mouthed scream silenced the moment the Agent starts to speak again, We got an ID on last week’s vic.

The thing about names is how much power they hold. Your daddy took his name, stole it off the corpse of a man too broken with hunger to protest. Your momma abandoned hers, becoming more of a title than a name, markin’ herself as matriarch an’ Queen of the verdant kingdom she clawed out from the hands of the ungrateful and the undeserving. Both of ‘em agonized over yours, planting seeds of bloom and prosperity in every theoretical letter before they finally settled on somethin’ proper.

Only for you to change it the moment you were old enough to move outta the family home, disappear to the big city an’ make a name for yourself, choosin’ to hide any connection you had to that Holler you called home, not outta shame but outta knowing.

And now it’s back. Starin’ at you from the ID card of a once-unidentified murder victim who’d spent your morning destroying a plate of your favorite cornbread recipe while her physical form remained in stasis in your morgue.

Rogers.

Bein’ the daughter of the town pastor and the town witch came easy for you, just like it did all your sisters. But outside the boundaries of the Holler where everybody knew to respect Ma an’ Pastor Rogers, you knew your family’s ghosts would be all too happy to eat you right up.

Ari Levinson brings you a cup of coffee as you step outside the cold storage of your morgue, looking a bit like you’d seen a ghost and like you’d suddenly regressed to being afraid of them. Alright, Doc?

Stupid questions ought to deserve stupid answers, but you have the good sense to nod your head and busy your mouth with scalding itself on fresh-brewed water somebody whispered about coffee to. Somebody contact her next of kin? You haven’t gotten used to saying her real name, your real name, so instead you just gesture vaguely at the morgue behind you, hoping the agent will have enough sense to use context clues and get to the point.

Thankfully, he does. Family’s coming down tomorrow. Folks live in North Dakota — got no idea how their girl ended up down here. Dad kept askin’.

You tell ‘em we got no idea?

You really think my bedside manner’s that bad, Doc?

Stupid questions ought to deserve stupid answers.

You continue to have the good sense to not respond, leaving Ari Levinson looking slightly more than insulted as you pretend to have heard your office phone ringing and walk right back into the icebox.

That night, the spirit formerly known as Jane Doe #117 comes with a friend. John Doe #43 is… less pleasant lookin’ than the girl whose ID he had hidden inside his flayed jaw, eyeless face staring at you from your kitchen window and tapping on the glass to be let in.

You don’t. Victims of violence like that come with haints attached to ‘em and you’re not about to invite that into your home. The offering of cornbread is left on your back porch instead, with a light left on so he wouldn’t get lost on his way to a meal that didn’t consist of Cliff bars and spinach tortellini. It doesn’t stop his knocking though, insistin’ that your presence alone is enough reason to get in here. That the door is only a few steps away.

As if you’ll risk getting hurt by this ghost who probably won’t even remember attacking you.

Maybe he’s the one that attacked her, maybe he never even saw her, maybe he just wants the same comfort she must’ve craved during her final minutes on this Earth, or maybe he’s just a figment of your imagination as you ruminate on why the idea of a dead girl sharin’ your old last name — not an uncommon last name either, owned by more than a hundred thousand people in the country alone — bothers you so goddamn much.

Whatever the case, you won’t open the door for him, not now. Not ever. You just keep your charms on you when you step outside and feed the goat before lockin’ up the house and going upstairs to go to bed, biddin’ them both goodnight and, We’ll do our best.

The knock on your front door comes not long after midnight, loud enough it echoes all the way to your bedroom, persistent and steady as a drum.

And when you don’t respond at first, it keeps right on banging on the damn thing until you’re convinced you’ll soon see a fist makin’ a dent through that thin wood as the sound becomes a steady pounding.

Doc! Doc, it’s Ari, you gotta let me in.

You’ve heard of haints makin’ mimics of voices, memories, an’ hell, even whole faces of both the living and the dead, so you know better than to fling that door wide open and let him in to see you in your nightclothes before he’s ever even bought you a damn dinner, but that tone of voice he bears chills you to the bone somehow.

Doc, I know you’re in there, you gotta—

Prove it’s you.

What?

You heard me. Tell me somethin’ only Ari Levinson would know I know about him.

Oh c’mon, Doc. I don’t fuckin’ know. Do you even know my birthday?

Okay, so he’s got a point. You don’t admit that.

Fine, fine. What’s the hurry, couldn’t this have waited ‘til tomorrow?

Ari Levinson looks half-wild as you let him in, glancing outside briefly to see the flayed figure of your most recent unwanted visitor still seated mutely on the porch, cornbread rotted to dust and Goatrude holding him at bay. The Agent either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, eyes fixed on you instead, You got a gun?

Got a gu— the hell sorta shit are you up to, Levinson?!

His lips curl back from his teeth in a sort of grimace before he turns, glancing out your front windows and then back at you, You know you have a skinless corpse on your porch?

Oh, so he noticed.

I’ve been trynna ignore it. That’s besides the point, the fuck are you doing out here and why do I need a gun?!

Personal protection, why else? There’s two dead bodies less than ten miles out from your property, Doc, or did you not notice?

The point. You need him to get to the point, and you might actually kill him if he doesn’t, arms crossed over your chest and trying not to let your scowl get too deep. Please don’t tell me you came all the way over to my house just to tell me to use protection.

No, it’s cuz I figured out how to measure distances, he retorts, before… drawing himself up to his full height and letting his jaw set properly, Fine. You gotta promise not to say I’m crazy first though.

Not crazy, says the crazy motherfucker bangin’ on my front door at one in the goddamn morning. You take in the seriousness of his glare for a moment, processing how many times you’ve actually seen him be serious before, Fine. Fine, I got a skinless guy on my porch anyway. Nothin’s gonna beat that.

Famous last words, you know, as you head to your kitchen to start up coffee. There’s no sleep to be had for you tonight.

So you’re tellin’ me you’re the one who found this morning’s corpse?

You watch him, stirring about three tablespoons worth of honey into your coffee in a vain attempt to use the added sugar in your caffeine to stay awake, watch the way his eyes glance askance like he could hide the gears turning in his head, coming up with an excuse for his confession that doesn’t sound as insane as he feels.

You got no idea, you almost tell him, but it’s almost funnier to watch him sweat.

I was investigating a hunch on… the girl, he’s as used to calling her Jane Doe as you are, the name slipping from his mind.

You don’t tell him you appreciate it it.

A hunch. What, you got an informant I don’t know about?

He looks sheepish, which is new for a man you didn’t know had any concept of shame, I told you not to call me crazy, Doc.

So you did. Fine. Just go over this again for me — you went out lookin’ for clues on the Jane Doe cuz you just… thought you missed somethin’, four miles away from where they found her body?

I said I went to the crime scene, Doc. And then I walked for four miles… on a hunch.

You’re going to need more coffee.

Well. Gotta hand it to you, Levinson, you weren’t wrong on that one.

See? Told you. Found the body, but knew I wasn’t gonna be able to justify why the fuck I was out at the ass-crack of dawn, four miles away from the scene and following a hunch so…

So you just got lucky with the hikers comin’ up the way?

He nods, dragging his tongue along the inside of his cheek while he chews over what to say next, looking both thoughtful and displeased, Figured I’d be investigating the scene anyway, any bootprints I had could be explained later.

You have to hand it to him, he did think it out. You sit back, listening to him continue, go on about calling you to the scene — helps to call your partner out, you suppose — and then going back to both scenes to figure out the connection between the dead girl and the skinless meatsack.

Figured that if it worked once, it’d work for Flayed Doe over there, so I just… walked. Followed the hunch, and ended up here—

The Flayed fucker’s been here since sundown — it happens.

You eye him, watching the way he doesn’t react to your casual explanation of why there’s a skinless corpse on your front porch, measuring his words, letting coffee scald your tongue and pretending it doesn’t bother you none as you consider how much you should believe him.

Or how much of his own grave you should let him dig.

You’re pretty calm about the dead guy, Ari’s voice is halfway to an accusation, watching you right back as he processes, measures you up, weighs the way you glance past his shoulder to the thing still knocking at your window and the girl still hiding from the agent in your kitchen.

You don’t answer, not right away, grabbing the biscuit jar and half-slamming it down on the table between the two of you instead, figuring you’ll both need something to fill your bellies on top of the coffee while you so something close to talkin’ about… this place, an’ whatever  the hell it’s doin’.

You’re not the only one telling lies, Levinson.

[necros-writings]

Anti meets John

(I know the SepticArt event is over and all, but all that beautiful artwork and just the sheer joy people got out of it, and @therealjacksepticeye ’s enthusiasm over his fans and the art, got me in the mood to do what I do best: fanfiction! So enjoy!)

The building groaned for the fourth time since John, the Master of Thieves, and Harold, the Master of Science, had stepped foot in it nearly an hour ago. Harold glanced around quickly and rushed forward to stand closer to John. “I hate this. I hate old buildings. Especially big ones! It could fall on us at any moment!”

“Harold, I’m going to say this one more time: based on the sound of the walls around us, this building won’t fall for the next seventy-five years, at least! Please just trust my hearing and stop worrying. You’re making it difficult to concentrate.” And concentrating was what John needed to do. It was so important, in fact, that he had even dropped the affected Scottish accent he had grown so attached to, and instead spoke in a sort of monotone, a result of speaking English.

“And why should I trust your hearing? That thing in your ears hasn’t been scientifically proven!” He all but yelped just as the building groaned again.

“It’s specifically designed to hear atomic vibrations and send the signal to the visual cortex of my brain. Just because it hasn’t been proven to YOU, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Now, do you want my help or not?” He growled.

“You’re helping whether I like it or not, since the various Masters of all things tech are looking at my EMFD.” The EMFD (or Electromagnetic Field Detector as Ethan, the Master of Inventors, named it) was an interesting little device that could sense even the smallest change of an electromagnetic field and predict what was causing it. It took many years of testing and input from the various scientists that worked with Harold, who really only oversaw the different branches of science departments since there were too many to have a Master for all, and was supposed to be ready by that day. Unfortunately, Ethan was not the best at wiring and the poor thing gave out just before Harold was meant to leave for a field assignment. (He also served as an errand boy for the other scientists, who weren’t quite fond of the man.)

“Yes yes, because my body is essentially a living EMFD. Ethan’s gonna-oh, look, my hand.” John said suddenly, holding up his right hand, which had begun to shift like gravity defying sand, at least where his skin was.

“God, it’s….disintegrating! We need to go back!” Harold cried, turning to run back the way they’d come, only to be stopped by John.

“No no, that’s just my body reacting to some sort of EM field disturbance nearby. I can purposefully rip my atoms from each other and move to another location, thanks to the special electrical field I produce, but it makes me sensitive. If something disturbs the EM field near me, my body does this.” He pointed at spots of his body where the outer skin layer was, in essence, disintegrating and floating around in a form of black smoke or sand. “I’m glad I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt today. This sort of disturbance would ruin my usual outfit…” He sighed.

“So….that means we can find this EM field distortion and get out of here! The others simply want a fixed location, so this makes it much easier. But….are you sure you’re alright?” Harold hated to admit it, but the exposed bits of muscle beneath the Master of Thieves skin was making him feel a little ill.

“Oh yes, it doesn’t even hurt. A little strange to feel the air on my muscle tissue, but once we’re done and get back, my skin should reintegrate with the rest of the my body. Ah,” he glanced down at his hand, not that he could honestly see it, and frowned. “The field distortion is…moving? This way, too?”

“What? Surely that’s normal? After all, the team back home is pretty sure it’s something to do with this building’s person power grid.” And, as if on cue, the lights above them flickered briefly.

“I suppose. It would explain why the lights have been coming on on a schedule despite no one being here to make good use of them. Guess whoever left it here forgot to shut down the grid.” John turned and started walking, heading for their original destination: the power grid control room. Not fifteen minutes later, he stopped, maybe five or six feet in front of a darkened doorway, Harold bumping into him.

“What’s wrong? The power grid control room is still at least thirty minutes away.” It would’ve been shorter, but the building had been abandoned in a hurry over a century ago and there desks and chairs and some random bits of furniture and boxes strewn about, even blocking doors at points, especially some stairwells. And the elevators were unlikely to be in working order after so long. If only their drop off point hadn’t been the roof.

“Hey, Harold, you remember how we got here?”

“Yeah. Why?” He looked over John, the small man’s stature making it a simple thing to do, and frowned at the darkness.

“Good. Because I need you to start running.” John replied as he slipped a knife out from under his shirt, grateful he always kept one on him, though this one’s five inch blade wasn’t likely going to be much help.

“Why?” Harold insisted, before the answer to his question stepped out of the doorway. At first, the man that stood before them didn’t seem all that dangerous. He was, maybe, two or three inches taller than John, nearly half a foot shorter than Harold, and his vibrant green hair spoke of a fun personality. Even the shirt he wore, despite saying ‘No Fun’, seemed rather welcoming. It wasn’t until Harold noticed the rather large kitchen knife in one of the man’s hands and disturbingly green eyes that he realized something wasn’t quite right. And no, dear reader, the green is not a reference to the man’s irises, but rather to the sclera, or the, usually, white part of the eye. The two most prominent features, however, that convinced poor Harold to heed John’s words were the long, poorly stitched slit alone the man’s throat and the smile that promised nothing but pain and death to those within reach. “Good luck!” Harold shouted as he took off sprinting back the way they’d come.

“You’re gonna need it.” The man said, his voice like something heavy and made of metal scraping the ground.

“Probably.” Joh agreed as he spun his knife so the blade pointed down as he moved into a loose stance. “Got a name?”

“Most people call me Anti.” The man giggled as he took a step forward.

“Anti? Well…what are you the opposite of?” He asked, taking a step back. His skin prickled when Anti moved closer. Whatever he was, he was responsible for his body reacting like it was. Even now, the patches of his skin that were turning into the sand-like substance were growing at a concerning rate. If he didn’t deal with it soon, he would be flayed alive by his own ability.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s gone now, because he was weak! And now I’m all that’s left.”

“All that’s left? You make yourself sound a bit insignificant, but given the size of the EM field you’re throwing out, you’re anything but.” He spun his knife again and changed his grip on it. John was certainly all for banter, but even he had to admit that the lack of knife fighting was making him antsy. And also his skin was slowly peeling away, so that was a problem too. Well, if at any point in his life he needed to just say ‘fuck it’ and dive into a dangerous situation without thinking, now would probably be it. So that’s what he did.

Anti easily blocked his first few swipes and countered, earning a shallow cut on John’s cheek. “You bleed pretty easily.”

“You cut pretty quick. For an amateur.” John may have said this in a joking manner, but he was quite serious. He needed to step further in with his strikes, thanks to the damned too short blade, but Anti had no problem reaching him with his knife. And the speed with which he moved had been surprising to say the least.

Anti frowned and moved in this time, swinging wildly at John. “Hey, I got a question for you.”

“We’re fighting to the death right now. Do you really need to ask me a question?” Oops, there was another cut on his forearm and right through a patch of missing skin. That was gonna hurt like hell once the adrenaline wore off.

“Why ya wearing that mask?” Anti asked, swinging again and onoy barely missing John’s neck.

“Why does everyone care about the fucking mask!” He groaned. He was slowing down. As tended to happen even when he was in control, his body was beginning to break out in various spots within as well as without, meaning, in some cases, less muscle to move him the way he needed to move. “Can you even die, by the way?”

“Don’t know. Never tried. Ask the Reaper when you see him!” Anti lunged forward, eyes glinting madly and gleefully as he aimed right for John’s neck.

“He’s not very forthcoming!” John replied, ducking under the lunge and stabbing up, his knife easily piercing the other man’s skin and muscle, but glancing slightly off target after hitting a bone and instead lodging itself in a lung, rather than the heart. Taking his chance, John grabbed for the nearest electrical wire and fed a pulse of his own electrical field into it. To Anti, his target suddenly disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. To John, he suddenly found himself in the power grid control room. “Well. That’s not where I wanted to go.” He huffed.

(Alright, I’m gonna call it here. I’ve been writing this for a bit and need to step back from it. I will probably continue this in a part 2. Until then, enjoy Anti meeting my own character John. Fuck, I wish I could draw, cause the fight scene looks soo cool in my head. Anyway, @therealjacksepticeye, hope you see this too, cause I think you’ll get quite the kick out of it.)