#he could theoretically just keep walking until he's in and the bomb goes off | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heyheydidjaknow · 4 years ago

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It is 6 am. I know that it reads like I’ve never heard of pacing. Trust me, I’m aware. Quite frankly, I am entirely too tired to care. It might not even be as bad as I think it is. It’s possible, I guess, but not likely, I don’t think. I don’t have proofreaders, and it’s probably too edgy or too soon for more edge but you’re along for my ride and I’m sorry. I’ll probably rewrite it at some point, but right now I’m happy I’m even awake right now to post it. My eyes hurt and I'm a little queasy but we are powering through. Having said that, let's torture some fucking teenagers.

Chapter 12

Donatello stares at the small knife intensely.

It is an incredibly boring-looking one. Knowing as little as he does about culinary arts, he does not know the exact use of it, its size and shape giving him very little insight into its use in that environment. He is willing to make an educated guess and assume the blade itself is made of carbon steel, which is not exactly a strange choice for a knife in his opinion. It is not a combat or survival knife. It is hardly sturdy enough to last long in a combat setting. He is tempted to call Mikey to ask him to identify it for a second but thinks better of it.

After all, it fell out of your pocket. Questions would be asked.

He picks it up off the floor, weighing it in his hand. ‘This is a kitchen knife, right?’ He picks your jacket off the floor, folding it neatly and placing it on the back of a chair. ‘Why would she carry around a kitchen knife?’ He rests his head on his arms, holding the offending tool in front of his eyes, continuing to analyze it. ‘To fight? She knows carrying around a knife like this with no combat experience is a bad idea, right? Don’t people usually use pepper spray or something when they want to defend themselves?’

An image flashes into his head. You, standing alone in an alley, pointing this poor excuse of a weapon at a member of The Foot or the Purple Dragon. You, falling back and hitting your head and bleeding out with a knife sticking in your side because you fell on it wrong—‘It’s not even in a sheathe’—and trying to crawl back out into the street, begging to god not to—

He blinks, noticing his knuckles going pale around the handle, mouth weirdly dry.

He swallows. He forces his grip to loosen. ‘That’s dramatic.’ He gets up, slipping the knife back into the pocket of your jacket, hoping he put it in the right one. ‘She’s fine. She’s probably just scared after everything that’s happened. It won’t come to that.’

He sets back down, picking the last gas mask up and turning it over in his hands to give him something to do. He will not have time to properly test whether it works exactly as planned, but he is fairly certain that it and its brothers should allow them to breathe with little difficulty when they need to go into the TCRI building through the elevator shaft. If that is the plan they go with, anyways-- he had elected to stay out of the planning party, seeing as creating explosives strong enough to destroy the portal is enough of a challenge on its own, and he has faith in you and his eldest brother to come up with a good course of action. You guys always did. Bradford was dead after all, a fact that he had been informed made their lives considerably easier. In your words, “Mousers are the fucking worst, and if Bradford had gone off and recruited Stockman, we would have to deal with all of that way sooner.” You had quickly admitted that you did not know how long the peace would last, but you seemed pretty satisfied by the way things were happening overall, despite his accidentally causing the power cell to be stolen—“We’ll have the whole thing under control after this mission, don’t you worry.”

You had also claimed that you had the staking out of Shredder’s lair under control, but that is neither here nor there.

The door to his lab slides open. “Donnie,” you call, “we need to go over the game plan. How’re the explosives coming?”

‘Why is there a knife in your pocket instead of a taser?’ “Theoretically? Well.” He shrugs, getting to his feet. “I can’t really test if they work, but they’re good to go, probably.”

You smile teasingly. “They’re not gonna go off randomly?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?” Your smile widens.

“No promises.”

“Well,” you grin, “I sure hope they’re good explosives in that case; wouldn’t wanna almost bleed out again.”

His stomach churns. “For sure,” he agrees, crossing the room as you start to “walk” back to the war room/kitchen. “Have you guys decided on anything?”

“Well,” you sigh, “Leo’s bein’ Leo if that’s what you mean. I don’t mind their plan, mind, but it seems a bit silly.” You hold the door open for him. “After you.”

“Dude, totally.” Mikey nods eagerly in agreement to something someone said. “I can get him on board, on prob.”

“Good.” Leonardo taps his finger against the blueprint splayed across the counter. “Now all we need is a big enough box.”

“There should be crates down by the docks.” Raphael looks over at you. “Any stores up top sell ‘em that big?”

“Probably.” You lean against the doorway as Donnie steps past you. “You guys know we don’t know what they’re breathing, right?”

“Yeah. So?” The green-eyed brother gestures to him. “He can figure out letting us breathe.”

“Can and did, but I’m not sure that’s what she’s talking about.” The tall boy crosses his arms across his chest absentmindedly. “If the gases they’re breathing are highly flammable—which, knowing the absurd biology of the Kraang, isn’t out of the question—” You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth, “using explosives in there might blow the roof off the place.”

“That’s good, ain’t it?”

“Not If you don’t want to be pressure cooked, no.”

“Is there some other way to destroy the portal?” Leonardo laced his fingers together, leaning his elbows on the worn island.

“Without knowing the metal they’re using?” He shakes his head. “Even if we did, I’m not sure if I could safely create hydrochloric or nitric acid, especially on such short notice, let alone transport it.”

“Then we’re screwed.” Raph looks off. “Perfect.”

“Unless you feel confident in busting out of that building on a time crunch, we’d need someone to be close enough to the bomb to actually use the detonator. Seeing as we need all hands on deck, we really don’t have anyone that could fit the bill.” Even with his back to you, you notice his tension. “Unless you guys just want to crack a window or something, but that would kinda negate the point of doing the whole stealth thing, setting off an obvious alarm.”

“That’s not true.” Mikey points out the obvious. “Y/N could do it.”

“I’m down,” you shrug, moving your hands to slide in your nonexistent pockets. “You’d need to let me know when to do it so I don’t fry you guys, but I might as well add domestic terrorism to my non-existent rap sheet.” You smile wryly at that.

You think you hear Donnie mutter something before speaking up. “I’m not sure there are any buildings high enough up or close enough to be an effective--”

“Sure there is.” Mikey, again. “There’s that apartment building across that alley. It’s plenty tall.”

“Oh yeah, huh?” Raph smiles sharply. “Even has a fire escape to climb.”

The idea of climbing anything anywhere makes you want to vomit, but the idea of having to deal with whatever goes on with the saving of Leatherhead later is enough to ignore it. ‘Stop being a pussy,’ you reprimand yourself, feeling vertigo already. ‘It’s a fucking ladder. A twenty-story high ladder, yeah, but it's still just a ladder.’

“She can’t use a ladder,” the tallest brother protests. “She can’t use one of her legs.”

“Then she can take the stairs, or we can carry her there before we go.” You take slow, deep, quiet breaths. “It’s no big deal. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind doing it, right?”

You are suddenly incredibly grateful that you are leaning against a doorframe. The idea of being carried over buildings, twenty stories into the air, makes the ground sway underneath you. You subtly dig your fingernails into the walls on impulse, trying to slowly relieve the pressure.

“It’s not about—What are you even talking about?” You barely register his bashful embarrassment, swallowing thickly. “I’m just saying…”

You can barely hear them, shutting your eyes as you feel sticky, warm blood on your fingertips, dripping down in between your digits. You wipe the phantom liquid off on your jeans quickly, thoroughly, opening your eyes to see what you register as the other three ragging on Donnie about something you do not catch. You lock your knees to keep them from shaking as bad as your hands, ignoring the nausea and staring straight ahead. ‘Your folks didn’t raise a wuss. Your hands aren’t wet. Snap out of it.’

You force yourself to focus on counting threads in your sleeves. You get to thirty-five before you feel someone shaking your shoulder.

“Dude, you alright?” Mikey was waving a hand in front of your face, having apparently crossed the room from his seat on the counter. “Hello?”

Your eyes snap up from your wrist to look at him. “Hm? Yeah, totally.” You nod. “Just zoned out is all.”

He put the back of his hand to your forehead as if he knew what he was looking for. “You sure? You look sick.”

You nod again. “Just didn’t sleep well last night. I’m fine.”

“Do you plan on zoning out during the mission?” Raphael smirked. “Don—”

“No,” you cut him off sharply. “I’ll be fine. When are you guys going?”

“A couple of hours.” Donnie is staring holes into you. “The hours listed online say actual people work until then, but the actual building is open for another few hours, so by the time we get far enough down to hopefully not feel the effects of the blast, we won’t have to worry about witnesses or people getting caught up in it.”

“Awesome.” You start out the door, using the walls to limp back to the lab. “Meetcha back here in an hour.”

He runs after you. “Need me to come with you? I can help pick a crate out.” The way his words spill out is not lost on you. “O-or I could drive you there if you want—it’s bad to walk around so much on your leg, especially at night.”

“If you don’t mind vomit in your party-wagon, sure.” You slip through the gap in the door, grabbing your jacket and pulling it on. “Honestly, Donnie, I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I walk home all the time.” You use the chair to roll over to your walker, snapping it open and getting to your feet. “I’m just going to go to a hardware store, buy a couple of the largest boxes they have, grab some dinner, and come back. Besides, you have to worry about getting in, right? I’ll be fine, really.”

He wants to argue. He does not.

“Text me if you need anything while I’m out.” You maneuver past him with a bit of difficulty. “Want me to pick up some pizza while I’m out?”

“… yeah.” He nods, shaking off the feeling sinking into his gut with a bit of difficulty. “If you want some, you’ll have to eat it on your own, though.”

You smile back at him. “I’ll get something else to eat,” you roll your eyes, voice oozing with honey seemingly unintentionally. “Don’t you worry too hard about me, now; your brothers give you a hard enough time as is.”

“Don’t get yourself killed and I’ll think about it,” he jokes, mostly serious.

You laugh. “I’ll try, Dad.”

He has never noticed how loud you walk until today. Maybe it is just that it is unusually loud in comparison to him and his brothers, or maybe it is the sound of it knocking around the concrete walls of the lair bouncing the sound off the walls, but he cannot help but notice it, how easily he can identify where you are just by listening. How has he never noticed that? ‘You could hear her down the street, walking past. Anyone with ears could tell where she is, no problem.’

He feels himself grip onto the door to keep himself from running after you and insisting he come with you. ‘If someone can hear her walking down the street, someone can hear her scream. They’ll call someone. Who would leave a teenage girl to get attacked?’ He does not answer his question.

He shuts the door. ‘And she has a point. I still need to figure out how to get us into TCRI without the cameras catching us.’ He sits back at his workstation to think. ‘It doesn’t have to be too advanced. A remote-controlled dolly wouldn’t take much time to build, and I have the code already.’

It is not an effective distraction, but it is enough to preoccupy him for a solid half an hour.

You are back at the time you say you are going to be back. The trip did not take you long, although carrying the boxes and food was an unforeseen challenge, and you bought yourself a burrito and soda, so all is well. You and the guys eat in the kitchen, you do not have another episode and, all in all, you almost forget about the fact you will have to be carried up a twenty-story building.

Standing and staring up at the building they had ended up next to is an easy reminder.

You swallow your dinner back, mouth dry. ‘Commit.’ You fold your walker up, hiding it behind a dumpster and hooking your arms around Donnie’s neck before you can chicken out, shutting your eyes tight, the humming of their van—you had walked—doing nothing to ease your nerves. You hear the others say something before the engine roars back to life, the tires squealing against the asphalt as they drive off.

“I’m not going to drop you,” he promises, barely noticing the extra weight as he hooks one of his arms under your thigh to pull your body flush against his. Your legs immediately tighten into a vice-like grip around his middle, pulling him even closer.

“Fucking better not.” He starts to scale the building with a bit of difficulty, with one arm otherwise preoccupied. “I’ll haunt your ass.”

He smiles at that. He jumps up, grabbing onto the railing of a fire escape and earning a squeak of terror and a quiet string of obscenities from you. He takes longer than usual out of necessity but finds a quiet joy in how hard you cling to him, swallowing laughs drawn out by your swears—his personal favorite is, “Oh fuck me Mother Mary!” which is a result of him overshooting the railing, resulting in both of you violently swinging back and forth for a time.

“Are we on solid ground?” Your voice is pleading.

“We’re on the roof, yeah.”

You let go, sliding down to your knees and lacing your fingers together behind your neck, breathing for the first time in the eternity—two minutes—it had taken to get there. You want to cry, your heart pounding out of your chest as you try to catch your breath.

“Are you okay?”

You nod once, shifting back and putting your head between your knees to regain your head.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ He crouched down in front of you, concerned. “You sure?”

You nod again.

“Are you being honest?”

“I will be in a sec,” you snap shakily.

He backs off, staying in that position.

You give yourself a count of fifteen before looking back up at him. “I’m good.” You take a deep breath, pulling yourself into him again. “Let’s do this shit before I’m not.”

The journey over is painfully silent, other than your guys’ breathing. Balance is the only real problem throughout. Holding you and making sure not to crush you makes the normal measures he would normally use to soften his falls impossible, meaning his jumps cannot be as high or far as normal—the last thing you need on top of everything else is a concussion. The trip might have been rendered shorter had it not been for the need for the Kraang to know nothing of their whereabouts, but he does not think it is too long until he moves to let go of you.

You do not let go of him.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

“Y/N,” he says again, “we’re here.”

You do not move to let go of you, your heartbeat thundering against his chest.

“I’m going to set you down.” He unhooks your legs, lowering himself and setting you on the floor. “See?” He unlatches your arms, gently pulling you away from him.

Your face is white as a sheet, mind only barely registering the fact you were on solid ground. He would be concerned you were dead had it not been your incredibly fast pulse. You stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused.

You blink, pushing the hair out of your face as you get to your feet. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Zoned out. Tired.”

He hesitantly gives you the detonator. “Alright,” he relents. “You know the plan, right? You remember it still?”

“I’m scared, not dumb.” Your face flushes. “Sorry. That was mean.”

He blinks, confused. “It’s fine,” he shrugs. “Lack of sleep can cause irritability, especially in teenagers.” His voice is soft despite his own anxiety about the whole plan. He hands you your phone. “I’ll come back to pick you up. If I don’t in two hours, text me. If I don’t respond…” he trails off.

Your stomach drops. “You will,” you assure him firmly. “I know you will.”

“If I don’t,” he nods in agreement, if only for your sake, “hell will’ve frozen over anyway.”

You chuckle nervously at that. You reach over, cupping his face in your hands. “Seriously, though,” you make him look at you properly, “kick their asses for me.”

He smiles, his face heating up under your hands. “You got it.” He gets up. “See ya, then.” He smiles tipsily, waves, and runs off.

You watch him bound rooftops, grateful he had seemingly not noticed the violent shaking of your hands as you set the electronics down. You swallow again, dragging yourself and leaning your back against the ledge, crossing your legs in front of you. You lean over, placing the detonator down next to you carefully and picking your phone up. You shakily input the passcode, turn the volume as low as it would go, and press the speaker to your ear, sinking into a song with a slow exhale of breath. While you had refused yourself any illicit substances for the same reason you had gotten rid of your sleeping pills, you saw no issue with relying on music for some stress relief, the familiarity of the slower song letting your heartbeat match its rhythm.

You reach down, pulling your pant leg up and carefully peeling the tape from your good leg, wrapping your fingers around the handle of the paring knife and holding it at your side. Sure, you know, logically, it would do little but hinder you in a fight, but you felt as though you needed something, anything to make you feel less weak. You already feel the embarrassment from clinging onto him so tightly, tears pricking at your eyes. “You’re the literal definition of a damsel in distress,” you mumble, scoffing at yourself. “A young, unmarried woman who is in distress. A crazy damsel in distress at that.” You blink them away. “God, you’re really fucking pathetic, huh?” You chuckle, swallowing again and pressing the phone closer to your ear. “You’re almost a fucking adult and you’re scared of a little height and a little blood. Perspective, Y/N.”

It feels like an hour of sitting, knees now at your chest as you listen to music to take the edge off—‘Like taking ibuprofen for an amputation.’ Regardless of how effective it is, it does something, at least, and that is all you can ask for right now.

You jump out of your skin when your phone buzzes with a text. You fumble with it, pulling it to your face to read Casey asking if you were still free next Tuesday for his stupid fucking game. You text him back that, yes, you are, and hope he stubs his toe for the false alarm.

The text comes at eleven-o-three.

You almost drop the phone, the message “NOW” crossing your screen. You pick the device up carefully, craning your neck back to glance at the building across the street, feeling as though you missed something incredibly important despite knowing the contrary. You swallow one more time and slam your hand down on the button.

The sound of the explosion roars in your ears, your eyes widening at the light now illuminating the roof, images of that night burning in your head and squeezing your throat. You drop the detonator, covering your ears as the ground in front of you is seemingly set alight. It barely registers to you that it is a cold autumn night. Why would you care when all you can hear is screaming? Why bother when your heart is begging to be let out of your chest, when your blood is pooling under you and all your scars are open? All you can see as you shudder, shutting your eyes tightly, is that man’s sides slashed with glass, warm red dripping out of him and onto the dashboard.

You look up, choking on your fear.

You remember what you forgot.

The walls of the top three floors of TCRI?

They are made entirely of the glass now showering down on you.

Table of Contents

Chapter 11

Chapter 13

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years ago

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Humans are Space Orcs, “For Peace.”

Some more stuff involving humanity and the Drev war.

WARNING: this may be graphic? It wasn’t meant to be that, but I just thought I should warn you there is blood involved.

She definitely had not intended come. She wasn’t a soldier, and the idea of the war made her sick to think about, she knew it needed to happen, but that didn’t mean she lied it. The Runi weren’t exactly known for their war practices. In fact, in their history war had only been talked about as a theoretical possibility based on the idea of outing a poor government structure, but since the rundi had never had a poor government structure, there was no need for war.

But this was different, the Drev had only recently managed space flight, and because of their nomadic clan-like life no one had assumed their planet was inhabited . There was no infrastructure, and with the volcanic activity…. Well.

They generally tried to avoid meeting new species when they were at this point in space travel development. However, the Drev were smarter than they first appeared. They had had the ability to go to space for a long time, but never bothered to test it because it just wasn’t important to their culture. When they finally had left their planet, they ended up running into a Tesraki ship, which was trying to requisition precious metals from one of their moons.

Contact had been made peacefully enough with linguistics experts from the GA appearing and easily figuring out the Drev language.

It was a simple thing, very straight forward.

But the Drev just couldn’t fight their baser instincts, and that was to make war. After a slight insult based on cultural misunderstanding, the Drev leaders had promised to turn their sights to the stars conquering and fighting where they went. The GA had made a decision to push to destroy the technology that would allow them to do such a thing, but based on atmospheric composition, and the way they had hidden their technology deposits, this was about more than carpet bombing their facilities.

They had to actually go in.

And that was determined to be harder than they intended. The Drev War practices may have appeared primitive, but their tactics were not. They had been losing the battle, and even with the augmentation to their army with human troops and technology, they were being pushed back every day.

Officers were threatening to pull back off planet and just wait for the Drev to leave before blasting them to bits, but Drev shield technology was actually rather advanced and would take more than a little work to destroy.

Now she was here, having landed in one of the desolate lava fields before being secretly transported by hovercraft towards the very back of the front line. They could have landed closer, but the amount of ash towards the front was unprecedented and there were warning against trying to fly in such conditions

Her arrival was kept quiet, as she was ushered into what they had dubbed the FOB (forward operating base). Humans in strange patterned uniforms marches past in groups carrying their strange explosive sticks their heads covered by helmets and their face by masks. Little flakes of ash were falling from the sky and coating the ground in a thick layer that covered her feet as she walked.

The soldiers themselves were smeared with the ash, and blended heavily into the background making it difficult for her to make them out.

Large tents had been set up, and she could hear the strange guttural chant of human voices from inside. A tent flap was pushed back, and she looked inwards to see ash stained humans sitting around fires talking and interacting with each other.

Guards stood on lone vigils at the corners of the camps.

They had made it some way onto the base before being met by a familiar face. The human admiral was looking somewhat worse for wear, his face was covered in a layer of stubble, and his skin was covered in a layer of grime. His eyes once so gleeful were cold and hard almost haunted.

“Chairwoman.”

“Admiral…. How goes the battle.”

He man turned motioning her further into the camp, “I’m afraid not very well. We had assumed based on their more primitive war practices, that this would be an easy fight, however with the thick clouds of ash visibility is drastically reduced, and our ranged weapons become…. Almost pointless. They are generally right on top of us before we know they are there, and in that case they have the advantage. Their tactics are swift and brutal, they don’t necessarily aim to kill for some strange reason, but to brutally incapacitate usually by taking off limbs.”

She felt herself grow uncomfortably sick, “They take of limbs?”

“Yes dismemberment seems to be their favorite war tactic if they can manage it, and because we can’t see through this damned ash, not even our drones can, they always seem to have the upper hand, we've been pushed back almost constantly over the past month, and our soldiers are in pretty bad shape.” he walked further into the camp explaining how things ran and how the battle was fairing.

From his accounts, though he did not say it.

Not well.

The line had pulled back, and there were only three bases in operation aside from this one. Communications were being stalled do the volcanic activity, and that included satellite communications. They had no GPS no radar, and the drones wouldn’t fly in such thick ash.

All together it was as the human had put it

‘a shit show.’

He motioned her to follow after him.

“There is something…. I think you need to see.” Nervously she followed after the human’s long powerful strides easily able to keep up on her own long legs, but finding she was nowhere near as graceful as the human.

She watched him quietly from behind noting the slight slump of his shoulders and the weary way in which he walked feet dragging through the ash leaving long trails behind him. Had the human been so droopy before?

She couldn’t remember.

She wasn’t aware that humans could wilt?

They made their way past a group of men heading back from patrol. They were covered in ash and conversing quietly amongst one another. Her translation software had only so far a range, but she thought she heard them speaking about dismemberment.

They walked past another set of tents before stopping by a more established building.

He motioned her to step inside with him, and together with her guards they walked inside. Greeting them was a troop of humans and a Tesraki wearing HAZMAT gear.

They were ordered to gear up in protective covering before stepping into a second room where they were hosed off from all the ash. Spinning tendrils of dark ash spun towards a drain in the floor until the outside of their suits were relatively clean.

He paused before the door turning to look back at her from behind the surgical mask he wore, “What you are about to see ...is the epitome of the cost of war.” With one hand, he pushed the curtain aside and they stepped into a long, dark room lined from beginning to end with dozens of mats spaced evenly over the floor, and on each one of the mats lay a body.

She froze in the tent staring suddenly caught by the sound.

Soft moaning.

Keening

And the horrific wheezing gasp for air.

Other humans wandered through the triage tent tending to their wounded with soft words.

The man’s face had twisted into an angry snarl, “Fo the past few months the ash has restricted our access to supplies. Our ships can’t land for fear of gumming up the engines. We have been unable to replace our lost equipment, and so have only rudimentary medicine in order to treat our wounded.” He stepped up a row of wounded shivering under emergency blankets faces covered in light layers of sweat.

“This will be the first supply run we have received in weeks and with it the ability to take some of our wounded back to where they can get proper medical attention. Infection has been rampant despite our best efforts. Without modern technology, it’s like we are living in the goddamned dark ages.”

“Did you not bring these supplies when you first started the campaign.”

The man sighed in frustration, “We did but we, ‘I’ was overconfident. Our first three outposts were overrun by those beetles and with it most of our medical supplies.” he motioned around the room, “Those you see here are the men and women who managed to survive despite proper medical attention.”

The Rundi chairwoman tried not to look, tried not to see the horror that was in front of her, but there was no use, there was no turning away from that which she did not want to see. She glanced down at the humans splayed on piles of blankets and shivering with fever. She didn’t know much about humans, but she was vaguely aware of their ability to fight off infection by heating their bodies to unusual heat in order to burn off the infection.

It was supposedly an unpleasant process.

The human paused kneeling down next to one of the bodies pulling a blanket over the chest of a shivering human, “We ran out of painkillers two days ago.”

She was unable to keep her eyes away falling on one of the humans to her side. What she saw nearly had her running form the tent in shock and horror. The human that lay before her…. Was missing both of its legs. She…. at least she thought it was a she, opened feverish eyes mouth opening and lips trembling before her eyes rolled back. Bandages dark with ash and stained with red were tied about the stumps of her legs.

She lay on the floor quiet and unaided by medical technology.

Technology they should have had

Her vision widened finally forcing her to take in the view around her to match a symphony of moaning agony, guttural animal sounds to signify their pain. Whimpers and groans and weeping that died away only to be replaced by more.

The pitiful wailing of the dying.

“We are losing men, and we are doing it fast. A good portion of what we originally sent to you have either died or are in states like this.” A moan from her side, and she looked down to find a young man missing an arm, a rag covering both of his eyes. A yellow liquid stained the cloth.

She felt sick.

“With the transport you brought us a lot of our people will be able to get off and get medical attention. We have people moving them now. If all goes well, most of them should live.”

“And…. what about these?” She asked trying to keep her mind of the scene. A human just to the side of her missing an arm and a leg lay moaning pitifully on the ground. One of the hazmat dressed humans sat next to him gently holding his remaining hand.

The human didn’t appear to be doing anything medically relevant, but gently using their thumb to rub slow circles on the palm of the man’s remaining hand. It seemed strange, but that simple motion seemed to calm the human.

She was greeted by the feeling of horrible sadness as she looked.

“These…. Well. They have graciously volunteered for something special.”

They had almost reached the end of the tent now when, looking down at the floor, something caught her eye. The rundi chairwoman pulled to a stop staring at one of the humans. He was laid in the shadow of the tent at a distance from the lights. A roll of blankets had been propped up under his head and the stump of one of his legs, or what used to be his leg.

It was the right leg, and it had been severed an inch or two above the knee. A rag wrapped around the stump of his leg was red with blood.

His breathing was ragged and labored coming in forced gasps against what must have been excruciating pain, his face screwed up in agony

But it wasn’t that which had caught her attention.

“I…. I know him.” She stammered, stepping forward, “I know this one.”

The agitation in her voice must have been enough to rouse the human, who opened his eyes bleary and out of focus.

Even in this dim lighting she knew those eyes, a shade of bright, emerald green.

The young man turned his head blinking as he tried to focus on her, on her voice. His lips quivered his hands twitched at his sides, “Chairwoman?” He croaked.

The admiral hurried forward kneeling next to the young man as he began to shiver breathing growing more ragged, “Shhh lieutenant, it’s alright.” With surprisingly gentle hands, the man adjusted the boy’s pillow laying one hand on his shoulder, again making that slow rubbing motion that had been demonstrated earlier, “Shh, just relax, don’t try to talk ok.”

She stared on in confusion, and the admiral looked up, “You know him?”

She nodded her head in horrified confusion, “He…. he piloted the jet that saved my planet from an asteroid. He was….. He was one of the first humans we met. I I could be wrong.” She stared onwards knowing she wasn’t wrong.

The man looked on sad, “Yes, he wasn’t supposed to be on the frontline. The atmosphere has too much ash, so all our pilots were thrown back into ground divisions at the rear of the line for administration. When the Drev pushed back they were all that was left, and were forced into combat.”

The admiral looked up at her hand still trying to comfort the young soldier, “We were-”

“Admiral.” The boy’s voice was thick, slurred straining. She didn’t know much about human language, but the way he said the word made the admiral respond, and he leaned forward quickly cutting off and turning his focus.

In those few moments his breathing had grown more ragged.

“Yes.”

“It ... hurts.” His voice came between bursts of air forced from his lungs, a hutch as the muscles in his abdomen contracted and released, “Please…. Make it…. Stop.” Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead and his head arched back. The rest of the body followed suit writhing in slow agony, the remaining foot kicking at the ground in a show of the most visceral agony she had ever seen.

She was sick.

The admiral leaned in using one hand to pin the boy to the ground to stop the writhing, the other hand to the side of his face, “Hey Hey, look at me…. Look at me. Shhh…. There we go.” the young man let go of the contraction on his neck and looked the admiral in the eye face still twisted in pain.

Little droplets of fluid rolled from the eyes and down both sides of his face.

The two humans sat on the floor together, one gently wiping moisture from the other one’s face. His remaining foot grew still and went limp against the ground tilting outward.

Speaking so softly she could barely hear the admiral continued, “You’re gonna be alright kid. The ash is clearing up, and we got a troop transport in. You can go back home, we will get you some painkillers, get some rest, and you can go home…..just a few more minutes.” He dropped one hand back to the kid’s shoulder patting it gently. He turned to look for one of the attendings when, A shaky, clammy hand reached upwards grabbing the admiral by the arm.

He turned to look down.

“I…. I said I would do it.”

His voice was forced, it seemed like every time he was asked to speak the pain only grew worse.

“You don’t have to lieutenant. No one will blame you.” “NO!.... I said…. I would… do it.” His hand quivered and then fell back to his side eyes squeezing shut.

The man kept a hand on his shoulder, turning to look at the chairwoman who had been forced to look away unable to keep eye contact with the scene. He motioned one of the other attendees over to him, and she took his place. With soft hands she slid next to the young man resting his head in her lap posing no more than a comfort to the human as he sunk back into his pained trance.

Murmuring softly and gently stroking a gloved hand through his hair.

Outside in the air though it was ashy and grim, she could finally breathe staggering to the side feeling as if she was about to fall over.

The admiral followed her.

“Why… why did we have to see that.”

The man’s face was stern and unyielding as he held a palm out to face the building, “Every last man and woman inside that tent was willing to DIE for you, for peace, and now….

Now they have volunteered to do it again.”

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thanksjro · 5 years ago

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More Than Meets the Eye #2- Yet Another Robot Falls Out of the Sky

Issue #2 opens with a phone call between Brainstorm and Rodimus, and it’s going well, all things considered. They only get sidetracked twice in their 30 second conversation, which is honestly pretty good for them.

Brainstorm and Perceptor have managed to suss out what exactly happened to make the quantum generators explode as fantastically as they did. Brainstorm’s calling now as opposed to after all the testing Perceptor wants to do, because he’s impatient and is so self-assured that he’s already got the answer, it might actually kill him to wait.

Yep, Brainstorm’s that guy who walks around talking on speakerphone in the middle of work. Is he doing it to keep Perceptor in the loop while he’s busy working on the generators? If he is, he’ll never admit it, because he’s too tsundere to admit he wants to be noticed by his science senpai.

Brainstorm, much like a majority of the Lost Light crew, has a complicated relationship with relationships.

Rodimus tells Brainstorm to get his butt out in the field, so they can find the rest of the ‘bots who got thrown through the stratosphere after the quantum jump, then takes another call from Chromedome, who’s over with Rewind and Hound pulling Cyclonus out of a lake. Chromedome and Rewind have run into the guy who committed an act of terror on their former place of employment twice in the last few hours. We’ll see just how the hell he wound up there a bit later on. What’s important in the here and now is the fact that we’ve gotten our first glimpse at Rewind’s magic color-changing pants.

Issue #1

Issue #2

What a strange and terrible power this tiny robot holds.

Up in the sky, a small yellow ship vops into existence from a portal that looks very similar to the one the Lost Light went through during their quantum oopsie. Inside, we find a guy who apparently fell asleep while holding a lit weld torch and a gun. He’s got no idea what’s going on, or who he is, or that he’s in grave danger.

Honestly, not the WORST name I’ve ever heard out of Transformers.

No, actually, that’s not his name, but rather some repressed trauma trying to work its way back up to the surface. His real name is Skids, and he’s just kind of making it up as he goes at this point, as he sets the ship to crash into the planet below and jumps out.

Now that’s just gratuitous.

This is about par for the course when it comes to Skids- he’s just so very extra, all the time.

The ship crashes behind him, and it would appear that vague sense of paranoia was completely justified, as the burning remains reconstitute themselves into multiple giant robots with swords.

So we’re gonna have to deal with that.

Back over on the Lost Light, Rung’s getting patched up by Ratchet, and we get our first taste of his perpetual forgettability. Of course, Rung knows who Ratchet is, because everyone does, and butters him up for no real reason other than he can, I suppose. Or rather, because Roberts was feeling a bit cruel.

Twist the knife a little more, why don’t you?

Of course, Rung’s assumptions are quickly dashed against the rocks, as Ratchet proceeds to loosen up his sticky fingers by smashing his hand with a mallet right beside him.

As Ratchet reattaches Rung’s arm, they get to talking about their new friend, Tailgate, who’s still passed out. Swerve’s watching over him, because he’s just a nice guy like that.

That’s the smallest Tailgate’s feet will ever be.

Drift calls the medical bay to let him know that they’ll be bringing in the guys who fell out of the ship, so Ratchet should put on a smile so they’ll feel better. This, of course, doesn’t sit well with Ratchet, who starts griping about Drift’s newfound hippy-dippy state of mind, a result of him having almost died back during the Chaos storyline. Swerve, never one to miss out on a good trash-talk session, starts feeding the fire, until Ratchet gets distracted and burns Rung by mistake.

Then Whirl wakes up and starts strangling people.

Whirl wasn’t meant to be on board this ship, and he probably hasn’t seen Rung since he got booted from the Wreckers, so waking up from a fight still raring to go and finding the guy who tried to make him connect with his Feelings™ hovering over him was bound to start some nonsense.

Ratchet tries to talk him down again, with Swerve “assisting”, but nothing seems to be getting through to Whirl until Rung threatens him with prison time. Whirl doesn’t like prison, to put it lightly, so he snaps out of his stupor, drops Rung, and leaves the medibay. No one is particularly sad to see him go.

All this commotion must have woken up Tailgate, who’s introduced to the others. He asks if he’s on board the Ark- you know, the one from roughly six million years ago- and suddenly all the weirdly ancient internal parts Ratchet found inside him start making a lot more sense. Swerve bribes Ratchet with food to get to be the one to break the news to Tailgate.

It goes about as well as one could expect.

Back over with Skids, we see that not everyone survived the fall through the stratosphere, as the burning bodies of Hyperion and Polaris sit in the foreground as Skids prepares to face off with the giant yellow robots.

Corpse desecration! Fun for the whole family!

Polaris slams into one of the yellow robots. Thinking quickly, Skids makes a makeshift bomb out of Polaris and a gun, blasting his fuel tank and making a very big explosion.

There’s still another robot to deal with, but it looked pretty cool.

Back on the Lost Light, Cyclonus seems to have recovered from his dip in the lake, and he’s finally getting his meeting with Rodimus.

They’re so awkward. I thought you two were supposed to cool.

Also, major dumbass points to Cyclonus for tying himself to the roof of the ship like camping gear on the top of a family sedan, and making it through a goddamned quantum jump.

Here we get a glimpse at the thought process behind Rodimus even bothering to be in the same room as this guy: Cyclonus turning on Galvatron back in Chaos probably gave him and Optimus an extra few seconds to save the entirety of reality from the Dead Universe. That’s a pretty big solid, and he recognizes that. However, there’s still the whole Kimia thing, which was pretty un-chill of Cyclonus to have been a part of.

It probably doesn’t help that the Venn diagram for “Lost Light crew-members” and “dudes who were on Kimia when shit went down” is practically a circle.

Yeah, Cyclonus kind of isn’t allowed to have friends until issue #21.

Cyclonus isn’t going to apologize for what happened on Kimia, because- and this is honestly a pretty fair point- virtually everyone on this friggin’ ship is a war criminal and ought to know the score by now. War is hell, y’all. He doesn’t want a fight, he just wants to cruise around on this space-yacht and chill out for a little while.

Like, perhaps love?

Nah, that’s crazy-talk. He’s too stoic and emotionally-dead inside for all that.

Rodimus hears him out, and agrees to let him stay on the ship, on the condition that he’s going to have to deal with Rodimus being the guy who’s going to judge his every move, like an easily-disappointed father. Rodimus will be Cyclonus’ Optimus.

Ultra Magnus comes in to add that if Cyclonus screws up, he’ll be breaking out the heavy hammer of justice to pound him flat.

Also, he brought Whirl. It’s time for Cyclonus and him to kiss and make up.

What a beautiful start to this friendship.

Back outside, Swerve’s accompanying Tailgate on a cool-down walk, so he doesn’t pass out due to stress twice in a 24-hour period. He’s probably uncomfortable when people start crying, which is a staple of the Tailgate-brand freakout.

I looked into this, and unless I missed something, the “overheating optical filaments due to emotional stress fizzing up and away from the eye” thing is the only real instance of Transformers being able to cry. Roberts really made the robots have a physiological response equivalent to crying so he could hurt them more thoroughly.

As they walk, Swerve starts asking questions, because he’s incapable of shutting up- literally, he has logorrhea. He asks to see Tailgate’s alt-mode, what he did for a living before he fell in the hole, what the ruined decal on his arm used to say, and it turns out that Tailgate’s a pretty interesting little dude. He was on a bomb disposal squad with the Primal Vanguard.

The two of them catch sight of Rewind and Chromedome on a cliff, and Swerve makes introductions, comparing the pair to Rack’n’Ruin in terms of closeness, Rack’n’Ruin being two robots who share a lower body.

You know, when it’s put like that it sounds a bit dirty, doesn’t it?

Skids falls into the scene, and demands that someone take the Inhibitor Claw off of his back. Chromedome obliges, because he’s the only one tall enough to reach Skids’ upper body. Once the thing’s off, Skids’ can activate his onboard weaponry, which he does with aplomb.

Chromedome, you fool! You’ve made him too cool!

As Skids kicks the ass of this mystery ‘bot, more of his memories come back, until all he’s missing is the short-term stuff. Once he’s done, everyone tells him how awesome he is, Swerve having maybe fallen in love just a bit, as he asks just what Skids’ whole deal is.

Skids is a theoretician, which means he forms/develops/studies the theoretical framework of a subject. I can’t imagine that pays too well, maybe that’s why he’s moonlighting as a hired gun or whatever.

Chromedome seems to know Skids, and invites him back to the Lost Light so they can try and figure out what exactly is going on with his brain, and also that gun that he’s been holding in his hand this entire time, but never noticed or used.

Yeah, that one.

Tailgate’s wandered off to get a closer look at the robot Skids annihilated, getting its last words: nineteen eighty-four. Guess he really likes Orson Welles as an author.

The Lost Light takes off, and as everyone congregates on the bridge, Rodimus wonders just what the hell he’s going to say to them all. Between Ultra Magnus’ bleak starkness and Drift’s blindingly sunshiney outlook, he figures that he’ll just wing it.

Down below, Swerve’s managed to convince Tailgate to try transforming, by way of talking his ear off, then walks away the moment he begins the conversion- he’s a little stiff, so it’s going to take a minute. Swerve starts chatting Skids up and poking him in the ass, because that’s what you do when you want to be friends with someone. And Swerve really, really wants to be friends with Skids.

Skids doesn’t really cotton to this whole questing thing the Lost Light’s trying to do, and asks for a little more clarification on just what exactly they’re trying to accomplish. He’s not super impressed with the information once he has it.

Rodimus, having collected himself enough to face the crew, announces the deaths of Ore, Polaris, and Hyperion, and that while their collective passing is very sad, they’ve got to press on with their journey. Their next scheduled stop is Crystal City, once they figure out where the hell that quantum explosion dumped them.

Whirl brings up the fact that every good adventure team has a sweet name. Swerve tries to pull a Chaos Theory Optimus and take back the suffix -cons by calling themselves the Crusadercons, but nobody seems too keen on that idea. Don’t worry, Swerve, you’ll get there one day.

While the boys try to name themselves, Rodimus is given the phone. Red Alert’s on the line, and he’s freaking out, because there’s a murderous monster on board the ship.

You can tell the art style hasn’t settled yet, because they’re still photoshopping the insignias on after the fact.

A sparkeater is a major problem, but it’ll have to wait until next month to be dealt with, because that’s our cliffhanger ending for this issue.

#transformers #jro #mtmte #liars A-to-D #issue 2 #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing

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bi-outta-cordonia · 5 years ago

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I wish I could say that I’m intoxicated right now but I’m super not. Also take into consideration that most of this rambling is heavily predicated on people’s TRR MCs being married to Liam.

Anyway, theory time:

It’s been long explained that TRM is vessel that connects TCaTF and TRR/TRH and the historical aspects that influence aspects of both stories. Cordonia’s origins as a nation starts with the unification of the Five Kingdoms and the current history of Cordonia is set by the events of the 1600s that make up the crux of TRM’s story. It’s very likely that the book we are playing is the book that explains Liam’s immediate family history and is traced to our MC, who is probably going to end up Queen of Cordonia. With that being said, there’s a likely chance that Liam is going to be blood related to the MC of the book.

This is important.

So... Today....

The chapter of TRM opens with MC screaming while a burning tent collapses on top of her. She has that narrative moment of closing her eyes, opening them--and realizing that she hasn’t been hurt. A sort of magical barrier thinly surrounds her, thwarting the blaze and keeping her from becoming harmed. Interestingly enough, this isn’t the first time that some odd power of sorts has protected her. While she was climbing the ladder to get onto Hunter’s yacht, the wind catches and she winds up clinging to it for life. By all accounts, she should have died or been hurt on two separate occasions, but she winds up walking away from both situations unharmed.

We’ve seen the magical connection between TRM and TCaTF. While the magic of TCaTF was far more open and involved in the day to day aspects of life, within the Cordonia of 1600, only nobles posses magical items that emit obscure and very niched magical properties--such as a comb that gives a person perfect hair, cleans stains from dresses, or forges the perfect outfit from thin air. These house charms seem more like novelties of status than of anything particularly useful in a manner exceeding practical use. It’s a status symbol.

It’s been said on numerous occasion that the incredible magic of the Five Kingdoms era has been lost, both in the most modern version of Cordonia and in the version set in the 1600s. And yet...

TRM MC is capable of some form of magic. On two occasions, she has been imbued with a power that has specifically protected her from harm. Two occasions she has been faced with circumstances that should’ve killed her and twice, this form of hard magic has surged up and protected her from said harm. Now, the theory that TRM MC is actually Queen Kendra’s blood daughter is still up in the air for me until we start seeing some actual hard proof, but let’s jut focus on the fact that TRM MC is capable of a form of magic that keeps her from being harmed.

Liam. He’s a Crown Prince--the Crown Prince of Cordonia.

Throughout much of Liam’s life, danger has always lurked right around the corner. Assassination attempts were a part of his childhood enough to the point that he was specifically trained to protect himself in situations where someone was trying to make an attempt on his life. As the prince, he had the King’s Guard and, as the King of Cordonia, he has them and the years he’s spent training in various disciplines, self-defense tactics, and weapons training to keep him safe. Danger has very much fallen unto Liam in various situations.

So here’s the part of this where the rambling starts making sense as I, completely sober, say this with my chest--

There is still magic in Cordonia.

And Liam possesses some of it.

TCaTF depicts Cordonia before it became Cordonia, when it was the Five Kingdoms and Queen Kenna united it. TRM depicts Cordonia in a more modern time frame that eventually gives birth to the version of Cordonia we know in the modern day. Assuming that the TRM MC is possibly the birth daughter of Queen Kendra, or somehow related to Kenna nonetheless, and assuming that the MC of this book is one of Liam’s blood related ancestors, I believe that this magical power that she possesses may have been passed on to him through the blood and he now possesses a very latent and subtle version of this power.

My evidence: literally look at the trajectory of Liam’s life.

At some point in his younger years, an assassination attempt was made on him and his family by way of the Nevrakises. They, along with their allies, attempted to stage a coup and eliminate the royal family so that they could inherit control of Cordonia through the ancient law that existed between their house and the house of the Crown. Their attempt failed, the assumption being that the King’s Guard and Constantine’s vigilance may well have kept the family from facing any further harm. The coup was dismantled, the Duke and Duchess of Lythikos were executed, and Liam went on living alongside his family.

Later, another assassination attempt was made on Liam’s life when he was in either his late teens or early twenties. He survived this attempt as well though it left him shaken. So far, this is twice that he’s been attacked.

The next time that an attempt is made on Liam’s life is during the Homecoming Ball when he’s introducing his nation to his future queen. The lights cut, when they cut back on, assassins with weapons ranging from guns to knives have overrun the ballroom and Liam has to defend himself while his guard scrambles to get him to safety.

See. Guns. The Sons Earth possess weapons that can harm people from long ranges. Ignoring the fact that PB didn’t want to deal with widespread murder and whatnot, say that the attackers were in fact shooting at Liam. How could they miss that many shots at a man who was locked in once place while his guards fought to get to him? How could he dodge that many bullets coming at him?

Maybe. Just maybe. He didn’t have to.

Because his blood is the blood of TRM MC, the potential blood of Queen Kendra, and the blood of Queen Kenna even further back. A subtle buzz of the magic could be passed off as nothing more than adrenaline and the build up of energy as he fights. But maybe some of the attackers were dumbfounded at how none of their bullets touched him. Maybe some of them traded strange looks as they realized that shots that should’ve definitely connected and killed him were straight missing him.

Liam is ushered into safety eventually as the King’s Guard reaches him and he lives to rule another day.

The second time he is put in immediate danger happens during the Costume Ball. Liam is standing in the ballroom conversing with his father, brother, and his fiancé. Things seem to be fine until a serious of explosions rock the palace and sends patrons screaming. Another bomb goes off, sending chunks of the building hurtling towards him. By all accounts, he would’ve been crushed under the debris.

But he gets shoved to the side. And the debris instead falls on top of Constantine.

Constantine has not always been a good husband, father, or king, but what he was was devoted to his family. We read the scene as a father devoted to protecting his child, which it was. If there was any moment that Constantine would’ve seen the only choices as being saving Liam over saving himself, he would’ve chosen saving Liam very easily. But what if...

What if part of Liam’s shield works like a geas. Magic still exists in some form in Cordonia but with the passage of time, it has weakened considerably. It would’ve been in its strongest form during Kenna’s reign, held left overs in regards to what remained during the 1600s, but in its modern iteration it has adapted to the lack of either energy or other magic it can pull from. Perhaps this shield adapted other qualities, such as a geas to help it perform its duty to the blood it courses through.

In that it provides very distinct, subliminal message that may compel people and have them assist in the performance of his duties. Perhaps the shield is strong enough to protect it from smaller versions of harm, manipulate outcomes so that certain death inducing events do not happen. And maybe, it can also compel people to provide assistance in ways that it is not powerful enough to do so--such as a pillar or large piece of debris hurtling towards him.

That perhaps the shield did in fact protect Liam and did so using his father as a vessel to achieve this.

The next time that Liam is explicitly attacked is when he goes to retrieve his wife, who has been kidnapped by Anton. The ensuing fight has him outnumbered and outgunned. He walks away from it with hardly a scratch on him, both a testament to his fighting prowess but also possibly the work of the shield.

We see how it works in the physical sense and in ways that are far more psychological in nature, such as through the work of geas.

So let’s throw another dart at the board-- MC got into a car accident as a fully pregnant woman.

Remember that homage to the tragic death of Princess Diana? The fact that the car was run off the road and MC, who by all accounts could’ve been seriously injured or could’ve been forced to deliver her child early walked away with only but a few scratches?

Well. If that child is Liam’s...

Perhaps the fact that MC walked away completely unharmed had less to do with Bastien and more to do with the child. As Liam’s blood, potentially the blood related descendant of TRM MC who possesses the shield, TRM MC potentially being Kendra’s actual daughter, and Kendra herself being Kenna’s descendant, perhaps the magic inside the child has passed from father to baby and they too are capable of invoking the shield at such an early age.

Magic existing in subtle aspects of modern Cordonia is a possibility and, theoretically, Liam could have it but it works in a way that it has been forced to adapt to as a result of magic diminishing over time. Perhaps it isn’t as prominent as it was in Kenna’s day, or as it does with TRM MC, but it is there. It is more subtle than at the height of its true power but just enough that it provides enough protection to its host as it sees fit.

Anyway, it’s gonna be funny when TRM MC is revealed to not be related to Kenna or Kendra at all and I look foolish for this lol

#playchoices #choices #the royal romance #the royal heir #king liam

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ut-paper-story · 5 years ago

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Undertale: PaperStory - Hotland Story

(I have decided to split Hotland and the CORE into separate story parts so as to not make the post like a million words long. I apologize for the inconveniences this may cause.)

Here you’ll find: -Beginning -Hotland -MTT Hotel & Restaurant

-Beginning-

After having barely escaped Undyne's wrath, the group takes a small break by the water dispenser, and have some water before continuing on. It is then that Paper notices that Chara has finally appeared again, where were they?! Chara doesn't really bother explaining, so Paper doesn't ask... Cue Stemphany tries to lead the group to the elevator, but then the blocking beam appears.

"WeLL, OkAY then." The crew tries to have Kongo fly everyone over it, and it works!.... Except, the elevator doesn't work. So much for that plan.

The crew walk into the lab, and they spot Alphys, the Royal Scientist, currently bickering with Mettaton about wall-related topics. When Paper and his friends try to get the duo's attention, Alphys and Mettaton awkwardly turn at the group, and Mettaton suddendly is like "..." "OH SHOOT, I ALMOST FORGOT, I NEED TO GO SET UP A DRAMATIC BATTLE SOMEWHERE ELSE. TODDLES!" And he just ditches Alphys and leaves her to try and make sense of what just happened.

Alphys introduces herself, and explains that that was Mettaton. "I-It's likely you guys know him..." She mentions to Paper's partners. (Theoretically, depending on your active partner, there'll be a different reaction. Kongo doesn’t care, and Merry’s just not a fan. Stemphany loves MTT tho.) Alphys upgrades Paper's phone, and sends the crew on its way, and warns them about the danger that is Mettaton.

-Hotland-

All in all, hotland does stay relatively the same. At least, up until you arrive at the first show: Cooking with a killer robot! In this show, there's no jetpack, but napstablook is going to be the cake tester! The crew must put together a cake to cheer up this SAD, SAD GHOST ;-;. You only get one try to make the cake, and napstablook will either give you a smile of approval, OR... dissapear through the ground because paper's baking skills are debatable at best. Should the latter happen, Mettaton will ask you to get an ingredient for him, as he will make the cake so that it doesn't actually kill ghosts, which will lead into the jetpack minigame.

The bomb game has the added twist that you have to actually fight off the bombs, not just deactivate them. And the final bomb becomes a mini boss whose timer you have to increase to be able to beat it, think King Bob Omb from Paper Jam. Once the crew manage to defeat the bomb bot, Mettaton opens a trap door under their foot, and make them fall into a deeper, hotter cavern section of hotland.

The area is a dungeon-like section, and there are torches that need to be lightened up. Somehow, though, they were already turned on when they got here... They decide not to think too hard about it, and keep going forward. Eventually, though, they come across Pyre whilst in the middle of trying to reach out for a flame a bit too high up for her liking. The crew approach Pyre, and he asks "How'd you guys end here? I was just trying to get home and chill out. You know, playing games, eating sweet coal... But then the trap door just, opened out of nowhere!" The little flame seems a bit exasperated, and she asks the crew for help which, Paper and the crew accept to do.

* Pyre has joined your party!

Pyre can light up torches, melt snow and ice, and can do stylish moves much more easily.

With the little one's flames, and the crew's skills, they manage to open the staircase that leads to the exit. Merry seems kind of cautious, since Mettaton could be just around the corner, to which Pyre is like "Wait, you guys are with METTATON?!" Paper is like "Well yes, but--" and Pyre instantly joins the party for real despite them telling him that MTT's kind of out for Paper.

The crew arrive into Mettaton sing along musical, Paper surprisingly seems to get stage fright, so he tries to hide behind mettaton for most of it. Meanwhile, Pyre is just dancing along with Mettaton- much to the robot's surprise. After the song ends, it leads into the tile puzzle section, but THIS time, Paper can't just fly over it with Kongo, as the ceiling was brought down a bit. He's gonna have to do it legit. He obviously fails, and it leads into a fight against MTT. Which is short lived because of the yellow mode. Pyre is not happy with Paper for having """defeated""" MTT, meanwhile Paper just feels something is off.

-MTT Hotel & Resort-

The crew arrive over to the hotel's doors, and what do you know- Sans is standing by the entrance. He offers the crew a nice meal, which Paper agrees to almost inmediately- so the gang kind of just follows as well. They all go inside the restaurant, and have a relatively nice meal. After they finish eating, Sans asks Paper to go out with him for a moment. Paper's a bit weirded out, but agrees to anyhow.

Once in the bridge that connects hotland to the CORE, Sans asks whether or not going back "home" really is worth it. He's got friends, food, and he could offer a place to stay... Paper nods, he is very well aware of that, but he'd rather be back on the surface. Sans just sighs, and shrugs. "welp, i tried." he says. He then goes on to talk about his relationship with the old lady behind the big door in the Ruins, and yada yada yada.

After their chat is over, Paper and Sans make their way back with the gang, who's almost done eating. And then Sans lays the bone-chilling question:

"so, who's gonna pay for all o' this? i only offered you to come, i never said i'd pay."

Everyone stays dead silent for a good bit, but Sans laughs his ass off, as he then says that he'll pay for them. The crew sighs in relief, and a bit later, the skeleton makes his way out of the restaurant, wishing good luck to the team. After they're all well rested, the group packs up their stuff, and heads into the CORE...

#undertale #undertale au #paperstory au #story outline #frisk #Pyre (paper story)#sans #mettaton #alphys #merry (paperstory)#stemphany (paperstory)#kongo (paperstory)#chara

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ckret2 · 6 years ago

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The Door In Petrex’s Quarters

So there’s a cool new blog on Tumblr called @tfspeedwriting where they post a bunch of prompts on Saturday and you choose one and writing something! There’s basically no rule except that you have to do it in under two hours. So anyway this took me about four hours, which were spread out over a total of ten hours.

I’m good at this game.

(If you're on mobile, the readmore malfunctions, and you gotta scroll past all this, I'm sorry for your suffering.)

Prompt: Pick a music playlist on a device of your choice. The second line of the third song is your prompt. (“Song 3”—I swear the title’s a coincidence—by Stone Sour: “So I'll keep you close, and keep my secret safe.”) Continuity: made-up Shattered Glass AU for IDW continuity Ship: Prowl/Tarantulas, but you’ll wish it wasn’t. Wordcount: 5200-ish Summary: They say that Petrex, leader of the Autobot Justice Division, can’t feel love. Petrex prefers it that way. Or: how Prowl tamed his pet scientist. Tags: Angst, abusive relationship, all hurt no comfort.

They say there's a doorway in Petrex's private quarters where his berth is supposed to be.

It's an empty metal doorframe. The space where there should be a door is filled by cement mixed with strange, dark, multicolor rubble. They say that Petrex sleeps on it, curled up on his side, a hand pressed against the surface of the shut doorway like he wants to press through to the other side.

They say the door still works. They say it goes somewhere. They say all you have to do is turn it on.

They say a lot of things about Petrex.

They say the reason that he wears a cold white Autobrand-shaped mask is because he has a cold white Autobrand-shaped face underneath, and that he'd rather people think he's hiding his expressions than let them know he doesn't have any expressions at all. He is as icy, and as hard, and as unmovable, and as implacable as marble; and Terminus save your ember if you dare try to chip that marble.

They say that nobody has ever joined the Autobot Justice Division willingly—nobody except for Petrex, its founder, its leader, and its symbol. They say that every member of the Autobot Justice Division is someone who tried to flee or betray the Autobots, but who had potential, had a use; and so, as their punishment, instead of adding them to the AJD's list for retribution, Petrex added them to the AJD itself, chained them in service to himself, and turned them into essential cogs in the machine that grinds up other criminals and turncoats.

They say he's not a person, but a drone, a machine designed for order and logic and laws, capable only of understanding emotions in a theoretical sense, and then only far enough to determine how he might make use of them.

Petrex doesn't deny anything anyone says about him.

"Mesothulas. Mesothulas!"

Mesothulas started, almost dropping his welder. Terminus below, he wasn't expecting Prowl so soon—he wasn't supposed to come for another two weeks, was he? Why was he early? Had something gone wrong, had his latest offering malfunctioned? Part of him hoped desperately that it had; the rest of him dreaded the consequences of such a failure. Maybe Prowl had forgotten their schedule and come early? Mesothulas had never known him to do so before, but oh, if he had, if he was expecting Mesothulas's next work to be done today and it wasn't— Or, even worse, what if Prowl was right on time, what if Mesothulas had forgotten the schedule—

"I'm here!" He dropped the welder to the floor, ran for the stairs to the lab entryway, skidded an about face to go turn off the welder, and sprinted for the stairs—woe to him if he kept Prowl waiting a second too long. "I'm here, I'm here, I—I'm so sorry, Prowl, I didn't know you were coming. I was working, I'm sorry."

Prowl was standing, waiting, in the middle of the entryway. (Ostaros was so close to him, just a few feet to Prowl's left. Mesothulas's plating crawled—he shouldn't have left Ostaros out in the open like that. What if Prowl spotted him, decided after all that work that he didn't like the result? If anything happened to him—) His helmet was already off, tucked under one arm, and his red optics were so bright they were pink, nearly the same shade as Mesothulas's armor. Was he mad or happy? Mesothulas couldn't tell from the top of the stairs.

"I should hope you were working," Prowl said. "You've only got a couple of weeks left to finish the guilt extractor." So Mesothulas hadn't forgotten their schedule—that was a relief. But then why was he here?

"Yes, I know, I—I'm right on schedule, it'll be done in time." He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and waited, his heels pressed up against the bottom step, not taking a step closer.

And then Prowl walked toward him. Mesothulas's ember jumped into his throat. The way Prowl moved—even in armor—Mesothulas could practically visualize how his joints moved underneath it. There was such control, such confidence, such precision in his motions; he radiated such strength that Mesothulas felt weaker just for being in his presence. Everything Prowl did made him feel weaker. His fuel tank fluttered, his ember guttered, his fans sputtered.

When he was alone, he told himself that it was fear—very rational fear, for more than once he and his slipped schedule had been on the receiving end of the infamous wrath of the Autobot Justice Division's Petrex.

("I'll teach you to keep on schedule," Prowl had said before; and it was both an indulgent offer to take him under his wing and a threat. "Every cog ticks in time around me. I make sure of it.")

Yes—Mesothulas told himself the weakness he felt around Prowl was born of fear. But when he was in Prowl's presence, he knew that was only half true.

When he was with Prowl, he was almost desperate to impress him.

Words tumbled out of him: "I'm—I'm almost done with the guilt extractor, actually. Ahead of schedule." It was risky business to tell Prowl when he was ahead of schedule. On the one hand, yes, he'd be immediately gratified with Prowl's approval—and oh, when Prowl approved of him, it was heavenly. For a moment, on the timepiece that was Prowl's carefully-wound life, Mesothulas was a jewel mounted in the center of its face, sparkling in the light of Prowl's delight. But Prowl never forgot a promise; and when Mesothulas promised a faster delivery, Prowl updated his expectations accordingly. If he fell behind again, it meant Prowl's wrath was twice as hot; because now, not only had he failed to meet Prowl's schedule, he'd also lied about getting ahead and maliciously stolen some of Prowl's approval.

(So Prowl made him feel, anyway. Sometimes Mesothulas nearly believed it.)

But the way Prowl's optics lit up made Mesothulas immediately forget the consequences. The consequences would come later. Today—now—Prowl's arms were outstretched, and he said, voice a little louder, "That's wonderful!" Prowl's tone of voice never changed; it only got louder or softer, and either direction could be good or bad; but whichever direction it went, it could make Mesothulas's ember flicker with fear or blaze with joy and longing for more. "I can expect it sooner, then. Would you say by the end of the week."

Without stopping to think, Mesothulas said, "Without a doubt," and immediately felt faint; although he wasn't sure whether it was from the monumental scale of this promise, or from the way Prowl's arms wrapped around him: one pressed to his upper back, pulling Mesothulas's face against the chest of his armor; and one pressed lower on his back, so suggestively low that Mesothulas's armor burned where Prowl's fingers touched him. Mesothulas's own fingers burned as well, itching with the urge to wrap his arms around the thick waist of Prowl's rad suit—but to do so without explicit permission was dangerous. Mesothulas had courted enough danger by promising the guilt extractor so soon.

"Good," Prowl said—his voice was so soft now, and Mesothulas's legs were weak. "I'll hold you to it."

Mesothulas's ember filled with dread, and he wanted even more to wrap himself around Prowl—not just physically, but spiritually, to bind himself to his... to his perverse muse, the walking inspiration for all the most wondrous things he'd ever created.

"But that's not what I'm here about."

... And the most horrible things. He tensed with the urge to pull back, but couldn't. Not until Prowl was ready to let him go.

"Oh, I've—" Mesothulas spoke quickly, "—I've been working on another project too, since I'm getting so far ahead on the guilt extractor—you'll be pleased, I'm sure—it's the one you thought up, to make use of all those scraps of reality I've got sitting around—"

"I'm sure I will be pleased." Prowl finally let go, and stepped back, and Mesothulas wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. "But that's not what I'm here for, either." His head dipped down slightly, and not for the first time Mesothulas marveled through his fear at how much Prowl could express through nothing but the tilt of his head and the way his gaze came through his mask. "And I know a distraction when I hear it."

"I—I'm sorry, I just thought you'd want to—"

"Mesothulas."

"Yes! Forgive me! Y-you were saying? You're here about—?"

"Carpessa."

Mesothulas's fuel tank twisted. He had heard of the neutral city. He'd never been there before. He had no connection to it. Prowl had never mentioned it before. Mesothulas knew exactly what happened to it. "Th... The bomb...?"

"Worked flawlessly," Prowl said, and the bottom of Mesothulas's twisted fuel tank dropped out completely. "I don't know how you managed to cobble together a bomb out of pathetic Decepticon parts that has such explosive capacity, and yet can still be mistaken for something they made—but I must hand it to you, everyone was fooled. Even the Prime is marveling at their unanticipated savagery. This will throttle their chances to get any interstellar allies rallying behind their cause, when they can't play the poor innocent victims. A job well done, Mesothulas. For the most part."

Every word was an icicle through Mesothulas's ember. It took him several tries to choke out the word, "S-survivors?"

Prowl hesitated. "Too many," he said. "There were less than fifteen hundred fatalities. That's why I'm here, to discuss my requirements for the next model. Which I'd like you to get to work on as soon as possible. I was going to give you an extension on the guilt extractor so you could begin to work on the bomb immediately, but if you think you can be done in a week, then you can finish it first and get to work on the next bomb—"

"No."

He hadn't planned it. He hadn't meant to say it. And if he had the choice, he'd rather throw himself on Terminus's teeth than spend one more nanosecond watching in horror as Prowl's head slowly tilted down, and his optics blazed brighter.

Quietly, Prowl said, "No."

For a moment, the lab was so quiet, Mesothulas could hear Ostaros's vents cycling air. Ostaros. Never mind what Prowl might do to him—what might he do to Ostaros? Prowl could rip Mesothulas to shreds, but the mere thought of him scratching Ostaros's soft paint, the enamel hadn't even cured yet—

"Well," Prowl said, just as quietly, "if you'd rather keep to the original schedule, then—take the extension on the guilt extractor, and work on it and the bomb simultaneously..."

For a moment, the heavens opened up, a beam of light shone down on Prowl, and a holy chorus played. Prowl didn't offer second chances. Never. The Autobot Justice Division culled and amputated all limbs of the Autobot Army that no longer served what Petrex considered to be their appropriate purpose. Weakness was to be eradicated. Mesothulas should have been honored to be so indulged after wavering from the path Prowl had assigned him. All he had to do was accept it, and get back to work. Continue singing the songs his muse wrote for him. All would be well and beautiful, and if Mesothulas was good, every once in a while Prowl would touch him as kindly as he had a moment ago.

And there would be more Carpessas.

No. No, he couldn't, not again. Damn whatever Prowl might do to him—to them—oh, Ostaros, Mesothulas is so sorry—but Mesothulas and Ostaros were only two people. How many had died in Carpessa? He couldn't let it happen again.

His voice was barely a whisper. "I can't."

Prowl's optics flashed brighter, and Mesothulas flinched. "Excuse me." Yet another chance to correct his errant wording. Mesothulas was drowning in indulgences today. He wondered if Prowl had ever before been so lenient with anyone else. If he was smart, he'd take this chance.

But Carpessa. "Forgive me, I'm sorry, I—"

Prowl lunged forward, seizing him by the collar of his chestplate, and Mesothulas cried out, nearly sobbing. "You've always been so obedient," he hissed. "You've done your job so well. It's what I like so much about you." (Even now, ready to die, Mesothulas's ember blazed brighter at the praise. Terminus, Terminus, Mesothulas would do anything for Prowl—not just out of fear—but he couldn't do this. Over a thousand lives were already on his hands.) "After all that, you haven't suddenly developed a streak of naughtiness, have you."

"No! Never!" Mesothulas grabbed at Prowl's gauntleted hand. "I—I'm still useful to you, I swear! I can build you more troops—reliable troops—without waiting for Terminus to reawaken—"

"Surely you're not referring to your vapid pet project that smiled at me when I came in."

"He's not done. When he's finished—"

"I asked for a bomb!" He shook Mesothulas to emphasize the word. This time Mesothulas did sob.

"Wh-w-what about the guilt extractor? Or—or the project with the reality scraps? I've stitched it into a serviceable prison, I—I could show—"

Prowl shook Mesothulas again, and he fell silent. But Prowl said nothing. It was more terrifying than anything he might have said. Even a death sentence would end the suspense.

But finally—voice back at its usual volume—he said, "Show me."

Surely, no one in all of Cybertronian history had been shown as much mercy as the merciless Prowl had shown to Mesothulas today. "Oh—th-thank you—you'll be so pleased, I'm sure of—"

"Just move." Prowl let go of Mesothulas, and shoved him backwards. He tripped backwards on the stairs, crashed down, and for a moment in his panic actually tried to clamber up them backwards on his hands and heels before he managed to roll over and rush to his feet.

"This way!" He took the stairs two at a time, and heard Prowl following heavily behind.

He had to get out. He couldn't stay here, not like this. This would only work as a distraction, and Mesothulas couldn't risk Ostaros's life again. He'd done it in the spur of the moment, but next time he'd be weak, he knew it. It wouldn't be long before Prowl figured out he could get whatever he wanted if he threatened Ostaros.

He'd get through this. He'd hand over his prison if Prowl asked for it. And then he and Ostaros had to disappear.

"I call it the Noisemaze. It's—I-it's—" He'd had a description of it he'd been working on, trying to figure out how to convey what it was while leaving out all the words like horrifying and monstrous and unconscionable, all the little descriptors that Prowl didn't like to hear Mesothulas say; but the words failed him now, and all he could say about it was, "it induces sensory overload."

"Is that it."

"Extreme sensory overload," Mesothulas protested. Keep talking, keep talking, impress him. "The kind that—that completely fills your RAM. You can't think through it. It destroys all higher rational thought." He entered the room where he'd been working on the Noisemaze, looked around for something other than the doorframe to focus on—there was the welder he'd discarded, he should pick it up—and tried not to think about whether offering Prowl this torture prison was any less evil than bombing civilians. At least a bomb was quick. (Evil, that was what it was—that was what he was, now—he'd done evil. He'd done evil for Prowl.)

"How painful."

"I can think of nothing more painful." He set the welder on a workbench, and climbed up the two-step pedestal so he could flip the switch on the side of the frame. A hum, and the shadows of the room were stirred with soft, moving turquoise and orange lights. "It's—unending torment. It skips straight past the more fragile vectors for pain—limbs, nerves, all of them are things that can be destroyed, turned off, or burned out. But the Noisemaze attacks your mind directly. It harms you through your senses without harming your senses. Nothing you can do will turn off or block the barrage except destroying your own senses, all of them—but the Noisemaze would leave your mind too addled and overloaded on pain to even think of such a thing." It wasn't the description he'd meant to go for, but he was fairly certain he'd left out any words that would make Prowl tetchy. Prowl didn't care how awful it sounded, as long as Mesothulas didn't imply that to do it was wrong.

Prowl ambled around it, examining the controls. "And it's finished, you say. You certainly showed initiative."

"Well—the hardware used to access it needs some refining—the prototype is practically held together with hot glue and scotch tape—but the Noisemaze itself, it'll hold together indefinitely." He leaned an elbow on the doorframe to gaze into the Noisemaze. The landscape shifted and the sky spun, and even with the thin membrane of the doorway separating him from the maze, watching it undulate and roil made him dizzy. How many would Prowl put in here? Maybe he could find a way later to steal it back. Once he and Ostaros were out of here—he could get Ostaros with one of the neutral populations fleeing the planet, he could join the Decepticons, use his inventing abilities and knowledge of Prowl for good—

He heard Prowl climbing the doorframe's pedestal, right behind him; and yet, he still flinched when Prowl's arms wrapped, slowly, gently, around his waist. "It's beautiful." Prowl's voice was a whisper; and his fingertips grazed across Mesothulas's stomach so softly, so tenderly, it almost made him cry. "The perfect prison for the Autobot Justice Division's needs. The ultimate tool for reform—destroy their mind and remake it."

Mesothulas's abdominal armor trembled under Prowl's touches, and the Noisemaze spun nauseatingly before his optics. Oh Prowl, love him, praise him, use him, keep holding him just like that. Mesothulas couldn't leave, he couldn't leave. He'd get Ostaros away and bear the punishment for it, but he couldn't leave. "Is—is th... I didn't think the AJD focused on reform? Just punishment?"

"We reform a few," Prowl said. "The few cogs that aren't too broken or too dull to be of use, but rather would help the Autobot machine tick more efficiently, if only the rough edges could be sanded smooth." One hand grazed Mesothulas's waist, leaving a path of tingling light in its wake as it languidly circled around to the small of his back. "The ones like you."

Mesothulas's spark froze. "Wha—?"

He tried to twist at the exact moment Prowl shoved him. He grabbed Prowl's gauntleted wrist. "Prowl!" He hung by one hand and the tip of one foot in reality; his other arm and leg wheeled wildly in the Noisemaze, trying to help him keep balance, but he couldn't even tell which direction he was spinning them. A dozen directions at once. Prowl's mask melted and twisted in front of his optics. "Please! Don't— I— Take me— Ostaros—"

"When you get out," it looked like the Autobrand had melted onto Prowl's face, like it moved and shifted with his words, like he spoke through its mouth, "I expect your head to be empty of everything except thoughts of obeying me. If your Noisemaze works as well as you say, that should be no problem."

"No, no, no no no no—" He managed to get his other hand back through the portal, and the tip of his other foot, and he grabbed Prowl's hand. Prowl's optics blazed bright, the same pink as Mesothulas's armor. (Was it still pink? He couldn't see himself anymore, he was turning black, only his hands and the tips of his feet still looked pink.) "Please." He squeezed Prowl's hand. "Please."

Prowl stared at him, even as the edges of his face started to fall apart. And then he squeezed Mesothulas's hand back. Hope surged. Was he reconsidering? He was going to pull Mesothulas back in, this had just been to scare him, he still had one more chance—

"When you get out, you're going to make me an army, Mesothulas. Just like Ostaros." With his free hand, Prowl unlatched his gauntlet. It slid off and Mesothulas tumbled into madness.

The lab was dusty; the lights were out. Everything that Prowl could find an off switch for had been shut down months ago; everything he couldn't, had been left to run or burn out. Something had exploded. A couple of wings of the lab were rubble, now. Radiation from outside leaked in through a destroyed wall. Prowl had sealed all the doors he could between here and there, but he still wouldn't dare so much as take off his rad suit's helmet inside the lab.

A second suit was settled against the wall, waiting for a passenger, as Prowl ascended the pedestal to the Noisemaze's doorframe. Six months was long enough. Mesothulas was ready to come back.

Prowl pulled the lever to open the door.

Nothing happened.

He turned it off, and back on. And again. And again, more forcefully. "No." He looked down, getting off the pedestal, dropping to his knees to check the power cables. He grabbed every point at which they connected and twisted them together, tight, making sure the connections were secure. He risked exposing a sliver of armor under one gauntlet so he could hold his wrist against the cable, checking to make sure he could detect a flowing EM field through it. He latched his gauntlet back in place, and walked up to the doorframe again, to flip the switch one more time.

Sparks flew from the frame. Prowl stumbled back as something popped, and smoke spewed from behind the switch. "No!" He waved the smoke away and stormed up to the frame again, flipping the switch over, and over, and over. "No, no, no—" his voice got louder with every word, "—give him back, give him back. This is incarceration, not an execution!"

Nothing. He waved an arm wildly through the doorframe, ducked through it, quickly examined the doorframe from the other side, circled around it, circled around it faster. "No! Dammit, he's—he's mine, he's—give him back! Give him back to me!" He grabbed the frame, shook it—the lever coughed out a sad puff of smoke—and he leaned through it again. "Mesothulas!" As though the Noisemaze was still right through the doorway. "Mesothulas!" As though he could reach him from here, if only he was loud enough.

There was silence in the abandoned lab.

Prowl's hand slid off the doorframe. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the dead portal to the Noisemaze, cradled his head in his hands, and rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

They say that the doorway in Petrex's room goes somewhere—or it would, if only somebody knew how to turn it on again. They say that it's a prison; they say he keeps something terrible locked away, and woe to anyone who's there when he unlocks it. They say that when Petrex sleeps on his doorway, hand pressed to its cement-and-rubble surface, sometimes something on the other side will scratch at it, desperate to get out; and sometimes, in his sleep, Petrex will scratch back.

They say many things about Petrex. A few of them are true.

Here's what they don't say about Petrex, but perhaps they should: he is icy, and hard, and unmovable, and implacable in public; but in private, he screams, he rages, he cackles, he dances, hot and explosive as a fire raging through a fuel refinery. You can see his optics behind his mask, wide and wild and red, but sometimes they're white-hot, and at those times his mask doesn't look icy but white-hot too. Here's what else they don't say: nobody has ever joined the Autobot Justice Division willingly; and most of those who join are criminals and turncoats that Petrex has reassigned to more important functions; but a few, a few are those who he has not chained to himself with invisible ununtrium links, but rather tied to himself with sinewy red threads. A few are those that he's loved too much to ever let escape.

Nobody says that about Petrex because nobody knows that he can feel love.

Petrex prefers it that way.

"What's the point of all this, Tarantulas."

Even when Prowl was on the ground and Tarantulas—what a stupid name, a grotesque alien name for an animal, a name that clattered and chattered against the back of Prowl's teeth, t-t-t—Tarantulas was pulled up high, huddling like a fearful creature against the wall—even at this range, Prowl had mastered the art of tilting his head just so, so that the way his mask framed his optics made it look like he was glaring down at Tarantulas. And he was glaring down at Tarantulas. Because no matter what a putrid beast he'd made of himself, no matter what a lowly bug he was now compared to Prowl, no matter all Prowl had achieved or all the power he'd amassed or all the soldiers at his beck and call—Autobot and Decepticon alike, now—the truth was, Tarantulas had blackmail, and Tarantulas had an invisible army, and Tarantulas had a prison in a pocket dimension where he'd trapped Prowl and where nobody knew how to find Prowl—and Prowl was terrified. And he would never, ever let Tarantulas know that.

"The point?" Tarantulas drew back, visibly surprised, and Prowl was pleased by his confusion even if he didn't understand it. "I—Isn't it obvious?"

"As obvious as you are pink." Tarantulas wasn't pink, anymore. He was black, all but for red biolights and the cotton candy pink on his feet and the filthy fuzzy tips of his new spidery limbs. Tarantulas flinched, looking down, self-consciously running a—it wasn't a hand, was it?—a hairy sausage over the black fur on one thigh, and Prowl made note of the insecurity to exploit later. "So what is this. Explain yourself."

"This is..." For a moment, Tarantulas wilted, visibly bewildered. "This is... what you asked me for."

Prowl stared at him, just as bewildered but much less visibly. "Explain more."

"You... you told me to empty my thoughts of everything, except obeying you." Tarantulas crept down the wall, his many legs squirming agitatedly. "You told me when I got out, I'd make you an army. And I—I have. I am."

Prowl stared at Tarantulas, as he lowered himself back to floor level. "You don't mean the Chimeracons. I thought they forced you to make their meat suits." The damage they'd left Tarantulas with was still visible, the melted and matted fur, the breaks in two of his spider legs. Of all the mysterious affairs surrounding Prowl's kidnapping, Prowl still couldn't figure out why, when Tarantulas commanded the Noisemaze and could shrink to the point of invisibility, he had put up with their abuses. Perhaps Prowl had trained him to tolerate too much. "They've already kidnapped me. They'd have tried to kill me if you hadn't intervened. What kind of army is that."

And once on the floor, Tarantulas kept lowering himself, kneeling at Prowl's feet. "I had to let them use me, to get the resources I needed to get close to you. They're irrelevant—they're only the start. Now that I've perfected the technology, I—I can pick up where I left off with Ostaros—y-you remember Ostaros, don't you?—just like you wanted. Making your army from scratch. Yours to do with as you please—overthrow the Prime, vanquish the Decepticons, reorder Cybertron to your specifications—all yours, Prowl. All of it. All—all of me." Prowl's ember leapt into his throat.

So he grabbed Tarantulas's. "Don't play with me."

Tarantulas flinched, but he didn't even try to pull back. "I'm not." His voice was shaky—Prowl couldn't see the fear on his face, he didn't know how to make sense of his new features yet, but he could hear it. "I'm not, I would never. I—Prowl, you're—you're all I thought about in the Noisemaze. When I could think. I—I was wrong to challenge your orders. I'm sorry. You're everything to me. You're my muse, my inspiration, my life, I—I'm yours. Anything you want from me, it's yours."

Prowl stared at him. And swallowed hard, trying to put his ember back where it belonged. He squeezed tighter. Tarantulas's visor widened, but he didn't even grab at Prowl's hand.

"Anything."

"Anything," Tarantulas whispered. It was the most beautiful word Prowl had ever heard.

And funny. Because Prowl remembered how it had been "anything" before, too—up until suddenly Mesothulas changed his mind, and then it wasn't.

Last time, Prowl had been too soft on Mesothulas—he'd liked him too much. He'd eased him into his new duties, slowly escalating the amount of energon he had to spill. That worked on most people. They'll commit any atrocity you ask for, as long as it's only just a little bit worse than the one before.

He wasn't making that mistake this time. While Tarantulas was still malleable, still vulnerable, still dizzy with adoration and desperate to regain Prowl's approval—Prowl had to make him do the worst thing he could imagine. Something so awful, that nothing else Tarantulas could possibly do would ever be worse.

"I do remember Ostaros." Prowl let go of Tarantulas's throat. Tarantulas swayed forward, following Prowl's hand, as though he wanted to be choked again. Pathetic. Gorgeous. "I took him with me. He's an Autobot now."

"He's—still alive?"

"He is. He's named Springer, now. 'Ostaros' was a stupid name." (Tarantulas flinched, gaze wavering, but he didn't argue.) "He'll be coming to rescue me as soon as he figures out where I am, I'm sure. You'll get to meet him."

Tarantulas's visor practically sparkled. "Oh! I—"

"When you do, you'll kill him."

Tarantulas stared at him. His strange rows of mandibles were frozen at irregular angles, as though he'd been caught with his mouth hanging open. "I... I don't understand, I..."

"I will not have divided loyalties." Prowl cupped Tarantulas's face in his hand, running a thumb along a ridge over his cheek. "If you're mine, then you're mine. No part of you will belong to anyone else."

Prowl could see the exact moment Tarantulas decided he would obey Prowl's order. It was the moment a light behind his visor died.

"... What does he look like, now." Tarantulas's voice was as hollow and toneless as Prowl's.

Prowl tilted his helm in just that right way to imply a smile. "I'm sure you'll know him when you see him."

The Noisemaze was falling apart. From Prowl's vantage point in Debris, he could see it convulsing and collapsing on itself. With one hand, Prowl stroked Tarantulas's head, as Tarantulas sobbed brokenly. Tarantulas's arms were flung around Prowl's waist, filthy claws clutching pitifully at whatever kibble he could latch onto, rocking back and forth as he wailed. Prowl had heard the wail of a grieving parent before, but never from a Cybertronian. He wondered if Tarantulas even counted as a Cybertronian now.

With his other hand, Prowl carried Springer's head.

Prowl was sorry for Tarantulas. He truly was. Prowl had always hated hurting him the most. But after this, everything else would come so much easier.

The Noisemaze was nothing but shreds and void by the time Tarantulas's sobs grew silent and his convulsions reduced to mere trembling. Only then did Prowl speak.

"Welcome to the AJD."

Tarantulas was silent.

After a long moment, he said, hoarsely, "I—w-we... we're named for our hometowns, aren't we? In the AJD. I... I was... truly... truly born in the Noisemaze, s-so... so, I guess..."

"No," Prowl said. "No, people get names. You're no longer a person. You've turned yourself into a beast."

Tarantulas didn't even wince. Something in Prowl shuddered at it—had he gone too far?—but he consoled himself: maybe Tarantulas was beyond pain, now. Everything would be easier from here on. Everything would be easier.

After another long silence, Tarantulas asked, "Then... what...? What's my...?"

Prowl rubbed a thumb affectionately over one of his horns. "You're my Pet."

Now, they say there's a monster in Petrex's private quarters that lives under his berth.

It's as black as Terminus's gaping maw and has just as many fangs, and it's just as likely to kill you. It's a freak that used to be Cybertronian, but now it's made of meat and metal, the metal rotting the meat and the meat rusting the metal, and it shambles around in the dark on too many legs, and it climbs the walls and ceiling and nests in the corners like a ghost trapped in the room where it died, trying to get free.

They say that Petrex can love; but his love is cruel, and cold, and it will suck the life out of you and leave you a husk of the mech you used to be before you caught his fevered gaze.

They say that when he finds somebody he wants, he chains them to himself with invisible ununtrium links, or ties them to himself with sinewy red threads, or, in one special case, webs them to him with sticky white silk.

They say that Petrex sleeps on a doorway, filled in with cement—a door that doesn't go anywhere. He presses his hand to it when he sleeps.

Sometimes, something scratches on the door from underneath.

Also on AO3.

If you want a tiny fic/story, buy me a coffee and leave a prompt in the comments!

(Feel free to reblog/add comments)

#prowl #tarantulas #transformers #maccadam #shattered glass #prowlrantulas #my writing #tfspeedwriting

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sleeplessinsiswati · 6 years ago

Text

Toxic Masculinity—A Contagious Kind of Pollution

Yeah, yeah, yeah. My bad, I know I’m late.

*grumble and murmuring*

My bad. Look, i said my bad.

*lower murmuring*

Look, in my defense, I had the post locked and loaded on the queue and then my internet went out. Boom. Now can we get on with what we came here for?

_________________________________________________

As you may know about me, bell hooks is one of my favorite authors. She has inspired me, moment after moment and time after time, to grow and love myself and others more wholly and fully. In her writing she uses a combination of autobiographical, common-sensical language and academic, theoretical research to shed light to the various topics. Here, I will attempt to scratch at the masterpieces of her work, and use both theory and my experience to shed the light of truth concerning what I know about what the world has come to refer to as toxic masculinity.

Your story may be different than mine, but toxic masculinity is something that affects each and every one of us. Let me state again, masculinity is not the issue here; there is nothing wrong with “being a man” or being strong or having power. The issue comes in when notions or ideals of manhood force boys and men to be emotionally unavailable, makes us believe we are not enough as human beings, or encourages us to exploit and take advantage of others in an ultimate quest for power. There’s no way around the reality that this is no way to live, and there is the crux of the argument—living. Most of the things that we come to know and associate with being a “man” and “manhood” have to do with survival. Hunting, fishing, fighting, scanning a room and sizing people up, sports, fitness, taking a hit and not complaining, the list goes on and on. Most of these are guys grasping at straws, trying to get a piece, a bit more power than they had before, in order to survive. But this is not living.

This is why the first step to growth, and leading a healthier life absent of toxic masculinity, is reflection. You must look over your life, your experiences and genuinely ask are you living or are you surviving. Patriarchy, being a system where men and masculine energy dominate spaces of power or with power and women, children, and weaker men are seen as inferior and vessels willing to be dominated or controlled, makes us believe that survival is the ultimate resource and that there are constant, looming threats to us accomplishing this goal. Though at times this may be true, it is not always true, and if we walk through life always scanning rooms with balled up fists we doom ourselves to early graves filled with bitterness, emotions we’ve never experienced, and a life devoid of love. There is more to life than reliving childhood traumas day in and day out, but that more does not come without being able to reflect and to heal.

I don’t remember at what point in my childhood I started hating my dad; I know that it was not always that way. There’s a distinctly fond memory I have with him—wrestling my older brother and I, both of us no older than seven at the time, he pinned us down and stood on our chests saying, “ Who’s the man? Who’s the Man?” Gerald and I were half hysterical laughing, half having an asthma attack, and shouting, “ You’re the man! You’re the man!” He laughed saying, “ No, God’s the Man. Say, God’s the Man.” We giggle between gasps, “Okay, God’s the Man!” Mom came on to the scene from the back room of our duplex and looked at Dad with that look that only Black mommas can deliver; we were sorry that we got dad in trouble, but to this day I love that time in my life, I love that memory.

Perhaps it was the pressures of two lives, two similar personalities, and an age difference spanning over three decades that caused there to be so much friction between us; don’t ask me what the first argument was even about, because I couldn’t tell you. I think that it was the silence that ultimately led to it all. Questions not asked by a son out of fear, and questions left unanswered by a father unaware of the shadow his figure casted. What I do know is that early on in my adolescence I became disillusioned with childhood, with being looked down upon and thought to be foolish, and I know it had a lot to do with Dad and things he said, or how he said them. Something as simple as walking into the room that Gerald and I shared, looking around and making an expression, and finally looking at us and shaking his head was all Dad needed to do to express his disappointment. Honestly I appreciated the silent expressions a lot more than the verbal ones, which seemed to have a back-breakingly painful bite to them. Gerald grew to be calloused and joke about it, but I was raw to it; words more than belts and punishments are what would break my spirit. Around fifth grade I realized that love didn’t really matter, or at least it didn’t mean anything—I loved my dad and he kept smoking cigarettes even after my brother and I begged him to stop; I loved my mom but I couldn’t tell her what I felt about the world because she couldn’t protect me from it; I loved my brother but I felt he constantly belittled me, silenced me, and made me feel like I was stupid (I’m sure he took a few pages from Dad’s book, in this way); I loved myself, or I thought I did, and yet I constantly belittled myself, telling myself that in this world I would have to be stronger. Love could not change anything about life, it just made you feel like you couldn’t even more.

Eventually I gave in to this belief system—years passed and I graduated to full blown “I don’t give a fuck about anything”. I was afraid, powerless and with those tools as weapons I was ready for anything at any time because I felt I had nothing to lose; I felt I had lost so much of my soul already, it wouldn’t matter even if I lost my life. Hotheaded athlete, I knew how to mask my shrewd and heartless demeanor with cool, chauvinistic locker-room thuggery. I acted chill, I wanted to be chill, but in my mind, at any moment I was a shoulder bump away from a full blown “nigga moment”, as so accurately defined in The Boondocks. I was a ticking time bomb, an emotionally unavailable mess all throughout high school, and college was more the same with less of the guard rails.

But before we keep going forward, let’s go back. Black Baton Rouge has become well-known in modern society (before the Alton Sterling murder) for one reason in particular, as far as I am concerned, —Lil Boosie. Now, I’m not talking about “Zoom” or “Wipe Me Down” Lil Boosie, that’s mainstream Boosie. I’m talking “Set It Off”, “Murder Was the Case” Lil Boosie; Boosie that I met that one time at the Mall of Cortana and he said, “Wassup, lil niggas” Lil Boosie. That one. The Boosie BR natives knew growing up was trap before trap was cool. Street, gutta, whatever you want to call it, Black BR loved it and they had to have it. Hell the whole world came to love it, but Baton Rouge had to have it so much that they had to mimic it; kids, even, began to walk with certain swaggers, talking lingos picked up from lyrics. It was a damn masterpiece from a mastermind, and there was no escaping it. The problem though, is what this success for one man meant for many boys (like me and unlike me) growing up in that era. Is being a man being that kind of man? The kind of man in these songs? Why do these boys think less of me because I’m not a “man” like they think they are? Do they know they’re faking?

These were the type of thoughts that got me chin-checked on more than one occasion, questioning what someone saw as their manhood, or them thinking I was calling them soft. I was a huge fan of Dr. King in my younger days, nonviolence and all, but I made up in my mind after one good fight that Dr. King must have never been to Scotlandville, Baton Rouge, a day in his life, and that was that for nonviolence as a way of life in my mind. In a classic case of if-you-can’t-beat-them-join-them, I entered the wade pool of cool poses and posturizing. If a scrap came I didn’t think twice about it, and I was willing to take whatever bruises and lumps came with it from the school or the fight. Not like I was built or raise for all’lat, but didn’t seem like there was much other option.

Now let’s press play, back at the start of my university academic career. I had finally made it to the platform where I wanted to be—college freshman, class president, track team, chapel assistant, so on and so forth. And the shit felt as plastic as a maxed out credit card. The aggression, the fight that I had come to know and hate and love—for all its pain and all its suffering, I missed it; it was home, my home. Not much more than a self-righteous leader already, I quickly threw off the mask of who people wanted me to be as the smart, politically correct leader after freshman year, and allowed my passions to roam freely. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, for no reason other than I wanted to.

It wasn’t until I nearly lost my opportunities to continue my studies and was threatened with the potential for never finishing undergrad, that I sat down and contemplated what went wrong, and why. It was then that I had to take a journey through my mind, into my past and confront the decisions I made, the reasons I made them, and the consequences of those actions. It was here that I discovered and acknowledged the pain in my past. The memories of desperately wanting the approval of my father, and simultaneously being pained by not living up to his seemingly impossible expectations; Times where he seemed to be emotionally unavailable hurt me more than any belt whooping ever could; fleeting thoughts of being silenced or crying inconsolably from feelings of inferiority or brokenness. From these starting points I came to resent the presentation of manhood before me in my father, and the power that came with it, with hoping to one day overcome (or overpower) it by whatever means necessary. That bitterness spilled over into other systems of power and I came to resent almost all, if not all, forms of leadership. Being on the lower rungs of the power dynamic at home and the frustration that came with it did not get any better in the world beyond those four wals; I was short, readily referred to as “nappy-headed”, and emotionally vulnerable. The ego bruises and self-esteem damage I received from early on in my public school career led me to believe that I had to become someone powerful, or to have power, in order to not be disrespected. This belief would haunt me from the moment of its beginning up to this very day.

Once I realized this, and I was able to accept that for the vast majority of my life I had been living in my past burdened by unforgivness, that I had not been the person I really wanted to be, I began a journey of learning to become for the first time. It was exciting being able to unlearn ways in which I had limited my own humanity for fear of not being perceived as manly or displaying some form of power, but it has also been very painful at times. Admitting to yourself the damage that you have done to others, the damage you have done to yourself, and the damage that has been done to you is not easy. There are people who to this day I feel I owe apologies to, for things that I said or ways that I treated them, Black women in particular; for the sake of recovering acknowledgement I didn’t receive in my youth but desperately wanted, I took advantage emotionally of women who otherwise loved me, cared for me, and wanted to see the both of us to succeed. Some people, most people, are afraid to look into their pasts and examine the truth of their actions because they do not want to face that there may be consequences to their actions; even towards themselves there is unforgivness and bitterness. The truth is, without confronting our past we are bound by them and they have power over us. Only by being able to non-judgementally examine our actions, accept that they were wrong, and pay whatever toll to move forward, can we begin our journey of healing.

Even I was afraid to begin my journey of unlearning toxic masculinity thinking that I may be vulnerable to the world and it’s threats, but I have come to find my wife and best friend, a life of love and laughter and carefree living, and wholeness through this adventure of learning. Yes, I am now more likely to cry in public and yes I share my feelings more with others, but I now see that instead of living a life silencing parts of who I am and distorting other parts of me to seem more angry or more threatening than I feel, I can just…be.

And that, for me, is enough.

Pain is universal: we all experience it, feel it, and suffer. But the only thing equally as universal, and infinitely more powerful is the healing from that pain; that healing is love. I challenge you to ask what ways has toxic masculinity been a part of your life, and then challenge your self to live a more whole, more alive life. Only by ending this vicious cycle can we stop the pollution of toxic masculinity, and breathe the fresh air of self-acceptance, self-love, and truly show our love for others.

Peace.

#growth

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morfinwen · 7 years ago

Note

For the headcanon ask: Sarah (Chuck), Steris, Anakin, and then any OC you would like to answer for, please. :)

So i’ve been sitting on this for i don’t know how long, chipping away at the answers, and this is what i got. It doesn’t cover everything for every one you asked, but it covers a fair amount. At any rate, it’s enough that i’m putting it under a read-more.

Sarah Walker

Headcanon B: [hilarious]

Despite being the daughter of a con man and a trained CIA spy for her entire adult life, post-series Sarah gets a deer-in-the-headlights look whenever some chatty new acquaintance asks how she and her husband met. Unless Chuck is there to rescue her, or her panicking mind manages to remember that a simple relating of “he fixed my phone and I gave him my number” without any of the classified details would work just fine, she winds up inventing some story on the spur of the moment. She’s not that good with inventing things spur of the moment.

Eventually she memorizes a safe, straightforward version of events to tell people who ask, but that isn’t until after she tells their neighbors across the street a complicated story involving ninja muggers and a computer virus that turned out to be a bomb.

Steris

Headcanon A: [realistic]

Steris has learned, to some extent, to express her emotions in a way that other people understand. It’s still acting, though. She may be pleased, but she does not feel like smiling. She may wish to get to know someone better, but she does not have any actual interest in who tailored their clothing.

Wax and Marasi are learning to understand how she expresses things. Wax, particularly, tries to learn how to communicate the same way. It will probably always be as much acting for him as ordinary social conventions are for her, but she appreciates it more than can be expressed, in either way.

Headcanon B: [hilarious]

She has a notebook dedicated to plans for the Scadriel equivalent of the zombie apocalypse. It started years ago, after an especially stressful society event, and her mind picked that particular topic to obsess on. After that, whenever she had difficult emotions that could not be soothed any other way, she would work them out by refining the plans or expanding them further.

Marasi came across the notebook once. She had read about half a page before realizing it belonged to Steris. She put it back quickly and has never brought it up, but sometimes she passes by an abandoned building and ponders its defensive capabilities, or eats some fresh fruit and wonders how difficult the plants would be to cultivate in desperate circumstances.

Steris’ theoretical colony is doing much better now that she’s married to Wax.

Headcanon C: [heart-crushing]

For a long time, Steris wished she had a sister. She tried to connect with other girls her own age, but it never seemed to work out. Some, particularly the daughters of older families, wouldn’t have anything to do with her at all, and those that did would suddenly stop, and Steris was never sure why.

When she first learned she had a baby half-sister, she started making a list: things to teach her, things they could do together, what personal things she could share (and what ones she would never, ever be allowed to touch). She was still working on it when her mother, still very upset, explained to her that none of those things were ever going to happen. Steris still didn’t understand why, but she tore up the list and threw it out.

Anakin

Headcanon A: [realistic]

A lot of things would have gone very differently if the Council had thought a bit more about the fact that Anakin had an incredibly different outlook than the kids brought up in the Temple.

Headcanon B: [hilarious]

Due to their radically different upbringings, experiences, and temperaments, Obi-Wan and Anakin miscommunicate regularly. Sometimes, far too often, it leads to frustration and disappointment. Other times, however, it leads to ridiculousness that leaves them scratching their heads, wondering where it all went wrong …

Obi-Wan tells Anakin to “meet him by the ship”. He then spends two hours waiting by the crashed ship in the forest, nibbling on preserved food packets, and very deliberately not worrying about what might have befallen his Padawan to delay him so long. Meanwhile, Anakin is hanging out on the ship they arrived in, tinkering with something he’s been secretly working on all week while he waits for his master to show up already.

Headcanon C: [heart-crushing]

Everything about Anakin’s life is heart-crushing, if you ask me.

Any OC

I picked Leah Tolkien, my character from Fallout 4.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Fallout games at all, so here are a few things you need to know about Fallout 4 for the following headcanons to make sense. I’ll try and keep them brief …

- The Fallout games take place in a post-apocalypse America, about 200 years after nuclear war. It also takes place in an alternate universe, as its pre-War America looks a lot more like 1950s America than modern-day, despite the War taking place in 2077. There were more advancements than in 1950, but mostly based on what people of the 1950s might have thought advanced science would look like.

- Fallout 4 starts with the main character, his or her spouse, and their infant son entering a vault to escape the nuclear war that’s just started (in 2077). They are, unwittingly, frozen cryogenically. Some time later, they wake up briefly to witness strangers kill their spouse and kidnap their son. The MC is frozen again, wakes up after an unknown amount of time, and escapes the Vault, vowing to find their son and avenge their spouse.

- Everyone else in the Vault is dead. The life support systems were discontinued for every pod except the MC’s.

Headcanon A: [realistic]

I have issues with how the concept of artificial life is handled in Fallout 4, both from scientific and philosophical standpoints, so there’s a lot of official information about synths that i ignore. Most notably -- this is a spoiler for the game, in case that matters -- i ignore the in-game fact that the synth child Shaun Leah ends up having custody of (eventually … i haven’t gotten that far) will never grow up or age.

Headcanon B: [hilarious]

The Silver Shroud was a popular radio/TV series before the War, with all the ham and cheese you would expect of a 50s-style serial about a masked vigilante going by a name like The Silver Shroud. Leah and her family loved it.

One of the (many) side quests Leah took up while searching for her son involved finding the original Silver Shroud costume, then using it and a weapon based off the one used by The Silver Shroud to fight crime. Leah did the entire thing as in-character as it was possible for her to be.

While that side quest eventually ended, Leah still indulges in acting like The Silver Shroud from time to time. Some of her companions are as enthusiastic as she is about it. Others, well, they have to brace themselves every time she has the chance to talk to the bad guys she’s fighting.

Headcanon C: [heart-crushing]

As i’ve noted previously, Leah considers herself as two different people -- pre-War Leah and post-War Leah. In many ways, post-War Leah is a much stronger person. She can carry more, walk farther and faster, and is probably healthier than she’s ever been. Morally, her beliefs and principles have been challenged, both more often and much more dangerously than in the past. She’s learned to do things that her younger self would not have believed possible. But at the same time, she is far more fragile.

Sometimes, she’ll find a broken-down crib or a baby’s rattle, and mentally … go somewhere else for a half hour. Someone will walk by in a scavenged military uniform, and she’ll spend the rest of the day on the verge of tears (her husband was in the military). A song will play on the radio that reminds her of her wedding, and she’ll turn it off so fast the knob just about breaks. The thing that sets her off today might have caused no reaction yesterday. She might not even understand what about this thing reminds her of the past. Sometimes she can push it to the side or ignore it, but other times there’s nothing to be done but wait for it to pass.

Her companions eventually learn how to help, in their own ways, even if it’s just making sure nothing sneaks up on them while Leah’s out of commission. But it never fully heals or goes away. What happened to her was a drastic, awful thing, like getting a limb cut off. She’s learned to move forward, but something has been lost that can’t be replaced.

Headcanon D: [unrealistic]

Not sure if this counts as “unrealistic”, but it’s all i got.

After the end of the game, once all the dangling threads have been resolved and the dust is settling, Leah has a funeral for all the people who died in Vault 111. It’s a very personal affair, so she only asks her closest friends to come.

There’s not much more to it than digging graves outside the vault and laying the bodies to rest. For some people, she didn’t know them well enough to say much more than their names and professions, and even for the ones she did know she doesn’t say many words. It’s easier to cover the graves with stones to protect them from animals rather than put up markers, and honestly Leah prefers it that way. In a better world, they would have headstones up for their families to visit and mourn at, but that isn’t the world they live in. Most likely anyone coming to Vault 111 is coming to raid it or to gawk at it, so this way they won’t be raiding or gawking at the graves.

She visits once every year, on the anniversary of the day she left the vault, and leaves flowers, one for every person.

Thanks for asking!

#ask #answer #headcanon #sarah walker #steris harms #mistborn #wax & wayne #cosmere #anakin skywalker #star wars #fallout #fallout 4 #video games are awesome #leah tolkien (fallout 4)#OCs #i think that's all the tags ...#valiantarcher

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purkinje-effect · 7 years ago

Text

The Purkinje Effect, 3

Table of Contents

Once Galen had paid Dr. Sun for the Addictol, he walked down the front steps and dropped five dollars in their cigarette machine to get a pack. Second Street. He chuckled to himself as he lit one up. They’ve embraced every bit of Bostonian culture here, down to the diamond itself. The guards wear catcher gear. The streets are named after the bases. Pff, there’s even a guy over there makin’ a living selling baseball bats. But can I blame em? Heck no. Of any building I can think of in East Mass, Fenway Park was built like a damn fortress.

He flicked his ashes and took another drag, sizing up his surroundings to get his bearings. Town square was the inner diamond, three rows of merchant stalls. A second row outside that seemed a combination of residential and merchant blocks. Besides the “swatter” dealer, gun enthusiast, and surplus stalls, he could discern they’d reclaimed pieces of an old Fallon’s building. Behind the Mega Surgery Center was the butcher’s, and Public Occurrences was behind the barber’s to the other side of what he quickly determined was Home Plate. The pink dreg let out a deep, smoky exhale. Piper. He’d been too abrasive with her. Once he’d settled business with these two doctors Sun had referred him to, he felt obliged to make it up to her somehow. Galen swallowed his filter. Before anything else, a haircut.

Normally the going price the barber charged was fifteen caps, but he accepted Galen’s thirteen provided he could bum a smoke while he worked. A fresh trim and clean hair did wonders for Galen’s comfort and confidence levels. Two weeks on the road had left him scruffier than tolerable. John added a taper-fade to the slicked-back, longish undercut Galen desired to maintain. He smiled to himself as he walked off from John, running a gloved hand over his smooth nape and down past his clean shaven jaw. A fresh coat of pomade was far preferred to whatever had been failing to keep his hair slicked in place previously. He did his best to ignore the fact John’s mother, who’d loitered in the other end of the trailer while John worked, didn’t even wait for him to get out of hearing range to start speculating as to why he was bright pink.

Subconsciously he followed the ritual of walking the bases to find his way, and he passed by both the butcher’s and the Dugout Inn before he rounded the intersection of First and Second. He tapped his foot on First Base with a lighthearted spring in his foot before wandering Second Street to locate the one door on the path not labeled as strictly residential. Then he knocked on the blue door before letting himself in.

“I still think you should reconsider,” the dark blonde woman started cheerfully from one end of the two-story room, filled with various equipment and workbenches. Both wore white lab coats.

“Excuse me?” Galen started, to announce himself since it didn’t seem his knock had been heard.

“Ah, we have a guest,” the dark-haired woman with glasses segued from her place at the microfiche. “Dr. Duff, perhaps you can help him, so I can get back to my studies.”

“Ahh, yes, hello! You must be here for our free Science! lesson. You’re a little late, since the children from the schoolhouse have already left on their biology field trip, but I’m at no inconvenience to include you as well.” She smiled enthusiastically.

“Field trip?” Galen echoed, impressed. “This city’s got a fine educational system, if it’s got a science building all to itself.”

“We have some of the best scientific equipment in the city,” Duff grinned. “I promised the mayor himself that we would share that invaluable learning resource with anyone interested in self-enrichment. And what better way to enrich oneself than through Science!, hmm!”

“I think... I like the way you think.” Galen chuckled. The spirit of the woman was catching. “A biology lesson, though? Tell me more.”

“We all talk about radiation like it’s a single thing, but it’s actually comprised of many different types of ionizing rays. X-rays, alpha rays, beta rays, gamma rays... Do you know which of them we’re most worried about? The one most associated with the big, old bombs 200 years ago?”

He choked up, a bit unnerved by casual conversation broaching the apocalypse in such a way, but managed to rack his own personal knowledge enough to form an answer.

“Gamma rays, right? I remember cause of the triangle symbol, lookin’ like a piece of the radiation symbol.”

“That’s right! You’ve got a fine mnemonic. Now, gamma rays are bad. Really bad. If your body absorbs too much of that kind of radiation, you’ll suffer from fatigue, anemia, even death. But, some life forms have been living with gamma radiation exposure for two centuries now, and they've adapted. Neat, huh?”

“Adapted? Like, evolved?” Additionally, he wondered to himself, Mutated? “This is all very fascinating.”

“Yes, exactly! That’s what Science! is all about. Nothing stays the same. Everything reacts. Science! teaches us the lessons we need to survive. Now more than ever.”

“I love science,” he nodded, adoring her bubbly attitude.

“Now how about that field trip?”

“Field... trip?”

“Time to go out and do some Science! of your own, you silly. I usually have a prize for Best Junior Scientist, and nobody’s come back yet so you’re still in the running for it, if you’re interested.”

“Well, you certainly have my attention.”

“You're going to go out and find a Bloatfly gland. You see, the oversized Bloatfly of today evolved from an earlier species of a smaller fly. Radioactive adaptation has resulted in a unique gland that enables it to balance and maintain speed despite its size.”

“Is there... any chance we’ve adapted like that?” He didn’t want to admit off the cuff that he’d been eating his fair share of Bloatfly past two weeks, especially knowing from this conversation that they had in fact been horseflies before the war. It moderately alarmed him the approximation this conversation had to his own reasons for having come.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be something! You sure seem inclined towards theoretical topics, much unlike my partner, Professor.” The emphasis on her name, directed toward her, elicited an irritated huff from Scara.

“It’s not so much that. It’s... why I came here.” Galen pushed his hood back and made a self-conscious face. “Nobody above-ground’s pink. Just me and everybody else in my vault.”

“Ah! I didn’t even notice. Hm, you don’t eat a lot of any one thing, do you?”

“We’ve been eating food paste from dispensers installed in the vault, ever since the beginning of being shut in. And we haven’t got a garden or any of that, before you ask. Dr. Sun seemed real upset by that, when I spoke to him. He’s the one who sent me here.” He dug out the sample of food paste again and offered it up. “He said you might be able to analyze this stuff, and tell me what’s in it. My people’re getting sick, and everybody’s convinced it’s the paste. But there weren’t problems stomaching it until recent years.”

Duff took it and removed the lid, frowning at the pink goo.

“Pardon the obtuse remark, but this doesn’t look like food. Are you sure what you were eating out of was a food dispenser?”

“Six valves, in the mess hall,” he nodded. “When the vault was first set up, we had a nutritionist and a doctor. They both insisted it was a vitamin-enriched gel with the full gamut of nutrients anybody could need. They passed away a long time ago, though, so nobody can talk to them directly about it. Is it not common, for a vault to be outfitted with this stuff? Sun was distraught as all get-out that we don’t farm.”

As he spoke, Duff moved to the chemistry station against the far wall, taking a portion of it with a scoopula to a clean beaker, and she did not look up from her work as she got started.

“It’s going to take some time for me to analyze this. But round back. You mentioned adapting when you brought up being pink. You think you’ve adapted... to eat... this?”

“It’s uncanny. The longer it goes on, the more I realize I get sick from real food than I do from the paste. Or anything else I eat.” He cleared his throat, noticing his attention wandering to her scientific equipment. “My people’ve developed pica recently, myself included. Dr. Sun says eating non-food indicates malnutrition, which... confirms to me my theory that the formula for the paste’s changed. Maybe it’s expired finally. Who knows.”

“If you get sick from what you call ‘real’ food, then do you not get sick from eating what you consider not ‘real’ food? Maybe you’re mixed up which thing is food and which one isn’t.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he mumbled, brow furrowed thoughtfully.

“That’s the great thing about Science! though. Multiple perspectives can illuminate the simplest answer, when from just one you might not notice it.”

“Are you... are you proposing that I stop trying to eat real food? That’s gonna be real difficult, considerin’ what you’ve got there is the last of the paste rations I brought with me. I’m from Blackstone, and even if I could get back there in a timely fashion, I... kind of doubt I could get let back in. Not without something that’d make it worth it to ‘em.”

“Blackstone! My, you’re a long way from home. And all for Science! I admire that.”

“Yeah...”

He rubbed the back of his head, glancing off awkwardly. Duff began a second test sample of the paste, having gotten the first one going in a centrifugal spinner.

“What, besides the paste, have you been eating?”

“Most of my people’ve been eating chalk, or even river mud, but that’s just what I know of. We don’t really talk about it. It’s... a private matter. I’ve been eating a lot of metal stuff in the past few weeks. Even fusion cells. I felt so good the night I ate those batteries. ...Radiation made Bloatflies develop that gland, you said? You don’t think...?” Suddenly he remembered he’d eaten the last of his paste rations the same night, and he grimaced, but said nothing.

“My word, you’ve been eating nuclear materials! You must either have a Lead Belly, or you don’t show symptoms of illness on your sleeve.”

“Believe me, I’m real sick, but I don’t think it’s radiation sickness.”

“Without the results of the tests I’m running, I don’t have any answers for you. Come back in a few hours, and maybe we can get to the bottom of this together.” She laughed gaily. “Maybe... go on your little field trip?”

“I just might,” he replied, excusing himself to let her finish her work.

#dr. duff #professor scara #fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #the purkinje effect #geek

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mysmessmistake · 8 years ago

Note

How about College AU with the RFA and Minor Trio? Like what their major would be, roommate, stuff like that

I don’t know muchabout collage majors, so I’m sorry if you were looking for specifics. Also Iwasn’t sure if you wanted a MC to be included or not, but I included themanyway. The RFA isn’t running by the way.

Yoosung

Yoosung was taking a course in order to become a vet

The work was brutal

Though he loved it, and he was sure he wanted to help pets

It was still brutal

Shares a dorm with Saeyoung & Saeran

He goes to almost every class

Mainly because he’s scared of failing

Has all nighters too frequently

Can often be found crying in the library at 3am as he writes an essay

He tries to join astronomy club

But he can’t keep up with them because of his gaming addiction

Saeyoung fuels this addiction

Saeyoung also messes with him by hacking into the game and getting a bunch of rare stuff for his own character

“I have to defeat him! I can’t let Saeyoung defeat me!”

There goes Yoosungs life.

He meets MC in his class

And

Oh god is he in trouble

Finds he can’t focus in class because of you

Saeyoung convinces him to talk to you about a problem he’s having

So he catches you in the library one night

“Hey, you’re MC right? You’re in my vet corse! I was wondering if you could help me with this…”

He tries to be sly but he’s red in the face the entire time

Your friendship and more blossoms from there on out.

Also 100% shows you off to everyone once you get together

Jaehee

Business & hospitality major

She’s a fucking boss

She’s bomb at studying, and you best bet she gets top of the class

She works for that shit

She shares a dorm with a girl she doesn’t know very well, and doesn’t really talk to due to conflicting interests.

She’s super invested in the coffee club at school

To the point where she becomes the leader of the group!

You are also in the coffee club and you instantly connect with Jaehee, so naturally you two become friends.

She’s had friends, but not friends like you.

You also met everyone else through Jaeheee

Jaehee knew Zen, V and Jumin, and through them she knew Yoosung, Saeyoung and Saeran.

And some guy named Vanderwood

She has all nighters frequently as well

Goes to all classes on time unless she’s sick

Even then she gets someone to send her notes

A year or so through her college experience, after she’s calmed down a little about the idea of college

She realises there’s something she feels about you that isn’t… just friendship

She doesn’t say anything, she’s afraid of your reaction

You aren’t stupid, you know the looks she gives you

So you make the first move

It’s slow

But it’s nice

Zen

Drama and Literature major

Teachers pet + ladies man

You’ve seen Monsters University right? Well, he’s like the Sullivan of the college.

He has his own fan club

Jaehee takes part in said fan club

His roommates are … Jumin and V!

It’s a little bit of a nightmare

His relationship with Jumin is pretty much the same relationship as cats and dogs…

However

Jumin is very good at calming Zen down when he gets angry, and bring him back to earth when he’s too full of himself

And Zen is very good at grounding Jumin when he gets a little out of hand, or his ego is too large.

And V just tries to make everyone happy

So it works

He doesn’t study excessively

“God gave me a gift! Why would I need to study?”

He changed this thought after he failed his first test

You thought he was a little arrogant

He thought you were cute

He needed help with a few things so you offered to tutor him

After a few tutoring sessions he began to flirt, a lot

He did his best to impress you

And eventually he just made his move

Power couple!!!!

You still help him study

Jumin

Business major

Not that he really needs it

He already knows all there is to know about business so he’s top of his class

He also doesn’t really need to study

Wants a cat but can’t have one in his dorm

Also his roommate is allergic

Not that he cares all that much

Because he doesn’t have to study, and he doesn’t belong to any clubs, his time is consumed by meetings with his father and arguments with Zen or long chats with V

You catch his eye when he sees you struggling slightly in the business class

So like a gentleman he offers his help

Spoiler: Jumin is a very bad tutor

Okay he’s not terrible he just isn’t good at explaining things on a level you can understand

You appreciate the help though

He flat out asks you if you’d like to have dinner with him

No tip toeing around that

You accept, and after a few more dates and a bit more horrible tutoring you two become a thing

Zen is shocked and wonders if he’s paying you

Saeyoung

hacking major

Is there a hacking major?

Computer science & programming major

Top of the class but rarely shows up

When he does he’s unusually reserved and quiet in the back of the class, not talking to anyone

Shares his dorm with his brother and Yoosung

Eats like a true college student

He studies but it doesn’t look like studying

Like he’ll be on his computer, and it will look like he’s playing a game

But he’s actually looking through the games code

This is also how he messes with Yoosung

Should he hear even a peep out of someone about Saeran in a bad way

They can kiss their grades goodbye

Admittedly hacked into the schools system before in order to change Saerans grade

You meet him when you sit at the back of class one day because all of the front spots were taken

And you realise that Saeyoung is not quiet, or reserved, he just doesn’t have anyone to talk to

Because he doesn’t shut the fuck up when you sit next to him

Everything out of his mouth is a meme or a sly comment about the professors work ethic

Unfortunately you were struggling a little with the class

“Alright then smart guy, if you know so much then teach me”

“Deal”

Well that was easy

His personality just gets goofier every time you see him

Eventually you just become a thing

You both act like it wasn’t a big deal

But it was

Now he helps you complete the course and you listen to his stupid jokes!

Saeran

I saw someone headcannon Saeran as an art major

I agree

Art Major

He shows up to class a lot but sometimes leaves during lectures

Sometimes it’s boredom, sometimes it’s panic attacks.

Studies but not intensely

He doesn’t really want to become an artist, he’s just always liked art

And he’s pretty good at it

He just had to pick a major and art happened to be one of the first things he thought of

He shares his room with his brother and Yoosung

He likes Yoosung, but he’s waaaayyyy too gullible

He also doesn’t talk to any of Saeyoungs other friends that much, he tries though

He meets you when he sits next to you in class one day

Normally you’re at the back by yourself, so your comments can go unnoticed

Not today

“Are you fucking- this is not a hand”

“What the fuck is Picasso”

“If I don’t eat dinners for the next week I can afford new paints”

He looks at you strangely, you catch his look, you smile and put your head down

He looks over to see you writing ‘fuck colour theory’ over and over again

“I can help you with that if you’d like”

You were surprised

You accepted his help nonetheless

because

Fuck colour theory

It took some time, and patience and a forceful push from Saeyoung

But eventually he confessed

Artsy couple!!

You often doodle on each other’s arms

photography Major

Obviously

Studies hard, but not too hard

Wonderful student and friend to all

Golden boy

Shares his room with Zen and Jumin

Which can be overwhelming at times

But they’re both very nice, to him at least, and they do try to get along sometimes

He wouldn’t be in any clubs

He prefers going out and taking pictures, or hanging out with Jumin

You met through class

You were paired up for a project together

“One will be the muse, and the other the photographer”

Theoretically, you should be the muse, right?

Ohhhh no

You force kindly ask him to be the muse for this project

He’s too nice so he says yes

The two of you joke and laugh the entire time

You manage to get some lovely shots of him smiling and laughing, when he things you aren’t taking the picture

Sly V probably managed to skilfully ask you on a date

“We should do this again, however you are to be the muse next time”

“It’s a deal”

“How about its a date?”

Sly

He helps you with studies and is always willing to be your muse

Also he has a lot of pictures of you

Cutest couple!!

Vanderwood

listen

I don’t know

I don’t fucking know what he’d do

My headcannon, if he wasn’t dragged into the mess of the Agency, would be he went to college to major in psychology and chemistry

I DONT KNOW!!!!!!! Let’s just go with it

Psychology & Chemistry Major!

He’s very reserved, he just gets what he needs to done

Doesn’t fuck around

He only really talks to Saeyoung and sometimes Saeran, other than that he’s usually alone

A lot of people are weary of him

He lives in a dorm alone because no one wanted him as a roommate because he works better alone

You met bc neither of you were looking where you were going and you ran into each other

“Watch it” He growled at you

Excuse me?

Excuse me??

“You watch it, you’re the one walking around like a fucking mountain, don’t expect me to step out of your way, asshole”

The sass was amazing

He literally had to watch you watch away because what the fuck just happened??

Of course, Murpheys Law, Saeyoung saw all of it and teased Vanderwood for his ‘crush'

He punched him

Gradually the two of you ran into each other more, around campus, at the library, going in and out of lecture rooms and hallways

Until you just sat down next to him in the library and asked for his help on your chemistry assignment

“You’re in my chemistry lectures??”

“Ya have been for a year thanks for noticing”

It’s a slow, painful process but the two of you become friends

And then more…

Saeyoung prides himself on being right about the two of you

#mystic Messenger #mystic Messenger headcannon #mystic Messenger imagine #mystic messenger saeyoung #mystic messenger jumin #mystic messenger yoosung #mystic messenger jaehee #mystic Messenger saeran #mystic messenger Vanderwood #mystic Messenger V #mystic Messenger zen

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jcmorrigan · 5 years ago

Text

Don’t Let Me Fall

The F/O? Tony Dracon from Gargoyles. The S/I? Rachel Rosalind - woman who has given up on adulting to become a gangster, but looks too innocent and incompetent for anyone to believe she’s running with Dracon’s mob! This one’s from a hypothetical AU that runs alongside canon, but with me added - this goes with the episode “The Silver Falcon” and assumes that Elisa and Bluestone never got involved with the search for Mace’s gems but instead, I’m there. If you know that episode well, you probably know exactly which trope this is going for, and I am not ashamed.

***

Rachel Rosalind did not like Dominic Dracon. But she did like his apartment.

Well, to say she disliked him wasn’t really fair. He seemed amicable, and of course, his progeny was admirable to the extreme. However, he was one of the most fearsome men in New York (the state, not the city) by reputation alone. One wrong move and you were toast without jam.

Arriving in the company of Tony Dracon was basically a shoo-in for avoiding the patriarch’s wrath, of course. As Rachel stood along the wall in between Glasses and Joey, she knew that logically, all three of them were safe, being that they were in the entourage of Dominic’s precious grandson. Still, as she watched Dominic and Tony hash it out over the nightclub incident, she couldn’t get the mental image of sinking to the bottom of the bay with a block of cement around her feet out of her mind.

So she occupied herself by glancing around the apartment: a vintage relic of the height of the underworld in New York. The last way to keep Mace Malone close – in the “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” way.

“Right idea, wrong falcon,” Tony was relating. “Right idea…wrong falcon! What is that supposed to mean?” Barely keeping his cool together.

“Well, that’s Mace for you,” Dominic said with a shake of his head. “Speaking in riddles. Nothing without a catch.”

Rachel’s eyes traveled the apartment, taking in the molding, the soft lighting, the antique furniture. A nice place, really. She could get used to living somewhere like this.

Then, the last place to look was at the great window that dominated the exterior wall. A bright city night, as usual, with lights ricocheting off the architecture of the surrounding buildings. Since this was an older district, there were some rather intriguing artistic choices out there. Rachel leaned slightly toward the window to try and get a better look. What was that protruding from the roof next door?

Probably a gargoyle. That would figure.

“But what other silver falcons could there be?” Tony hissed.

It was as if ordained by fate, exactly on cue. Her heart nearly stopped. Did she dare? A stunted “Ah – “ escaped her throat.

Cement blocks. The depths of the bay. Did she dare interrupt?

“Who knows what was going through that sly old fox’s mind,” Dominic mused.

“Well, I’m not coming away from this empty-handed,” Tony vowed.

“Oh, believe me,” Dominic growled, “I’m getting my cut.”

Well, that settled it. If she had noticed the key, and kept it from them, that might get her in hotter and deeper water than not saying anything.

So she cleared her throat, which turned into a forced cough.

Both Dracons looked to her with confused interest.

“Uh…” She forced out. “See, I was just thinking…that THAT…kinda looks like a silver falcon.”

She pointed out the window.

***

Tony, Rachel, Joey, and Glasses were dispatched to the roof next door to investigate the carving. It was like a small, narrow precipice – wide enough for a person to walk on, theoretically, if that person wasn’t terrified of a fifty-story drop to the street below.

This did not apply to Rachel.

It gave the “falcon” the impression of having an unnaturally long neck, its body and wings swallowed up by the tower it was carved from. It might have been silly if it weren’t positioned over certain death.

Well, at least, Rachel thought, she wouldn’t be the one dispatched to fetch the gems.

She felt a rough pat on her back, one that made her spine shiver and her torso go rigid. “You found it, Cupcake,” Tony encouraged. “The honor’s all yours.”

“The…honor?” she repeated. Yes, she knew what he meant. She was hoping he’d take it back.

“Go get it!” he said with a smile.

She could say no. Or could she? Could you do such a thing in the mob? No, she needed to be tough. She was a killer. She was a detonator of bombs. Surely she could handle one little walk to the edge of a slippery-looking precipice of doom. It was that or have them consider her unfit for the gig.

Not to mention that she really didn’t want to look like a coward in front of Tony.

“Okay,” she said, her confidence completely faux. “I’ll go get it.”

She took a tentative step out onto the falcon. So far, so good. Then another – and no, no, no, this was not going to work. She never had a good sense of balance, and she knew that if she continued upright, her next step would be right off the edge and down to the midnight traffic.

So she dropped to all fours, clinging to the falcon for dear life as she shimmied out to its beak.

Well, that had to give away how terrified she was.

“She’s terrified,” Glasses whispered in Tony’s ear. “Should we call her back?”

“No,” Tony replied confidently in a low tone. “She’s got this. She can do this.”

He knew, in all good conscience, that he realistically should be making her stand, or using this as an opportunity to ditch her dead weight. The problem was that if he had a gun in his hand and her before him, at this point, he wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger on her even if a barrel was held to his own skull.

As ever, though, he was an even better actor than she was. He wasn’t sure how good of an idea it was to feel for her, as much as she wasn’t sure about him. But he could keep a secret. And no one would guess unless he dropped some hints.

Maybe he would. See if anyone caught on.

At long last, Rachel shimmied all the way to the falcon’s head. Her hand groped around the rough stone blindly beneath it, and her movements were fervent, attempting to just get this over with, when she located the crevice by feel, worked her hand inside, and then pulled out the small bag filled with round, hard stones.

An immense victory had just been won. She’d not only solved the puzzle, but braved deadly heights to find the gems. She hoisted herself up into a kneeling position, angling back to face Tony where he stood on the ledge, smiling proudly as she held up the bag.

“Got it!”

The moonlight seemed to glimmer off of her, the wind tousling her short blonde hair. With a broad smirk, Tony stated, “Rachel…you. Are. Beautiful.”

Well, maybe that was more than a hint that he’d just dropped. But who could tell?

Rachel certainly thought he was just joking around. He was glad she’d recovered the loot, that was all. Never mind that hearing those words had nearly just made her pitch off the falcon and die.

Though she was rather dazed, and happened to catch a glance in the downward direction, which was not the optimal direction to look at the moment.

The cars’ headlights created a fiery river Styx waiting to consume the unfortunate.

Now just as frightened of going back as she’d been of going out, Rachel called out, “I’m gonna throw ‘em to you!” After all, the bag took up a hand she would need to crawl.

Tony gave a playful clap, and she launched the bag. He briefly fumbled it before it settled into his grasp.

God, that was cute.

So now Rachel had to clamber back, and clamber she did, inching slower and slower, trying not to think about the Styx below (oh, no, wait! It was the Phlegethon that was fire! She really had to stop letting these mushy feelings stop messing with her internal encyclopedia) and failing. So she ended up rather freezing in place, which was humiliating. Her face burned with the shame. Frozen and about to melt down from the heat.

“Hey, Cupcake!”

She looked up.

Tony was holding out his broad hand to her. “Take my hand,” he said, smug as ever. “I’ll get you to safety.”

Well, now it finally occurred to her what had occurred to him earlier, but unlike him, she wasn’t sure she could dismiss it. What if this was how he planned to get rid of her? What if all this time, she’d just been holding the operation back, and this was the final straw?

“I’m not gonna let you fall!” It was practically a laugh.

Well, she had two options. Take his hand or stay out on the falcon forever. No, wait, there was a third option. Fall off and die.

“You better NOT, fucker,” she hissed as she eased into a standing position.

Already she wobbled, feeling disoriented. No. Just look straight ahead. Look at him (oh, no, not into his eyes, that wouldn’t help at all!). Hand. Look at his hand. Look at hand, look at wrist. Wrist, sleeve. Arm.

She leaned forward. Her hand made contact with his. They locked.

Then she took a tentative step forward, then another –

And slipped.

Her scream rent the night air above New York for the briefest of moments.

She felt both the stone beneath her feet and the bottom of her stomach drop away. The horrible, horrible feeling of falling. Then another hand latching onto her upper arm, and she was inexplicably moving forward, not downward, until she was caught in a vise-grip locked around her body.

Tony had pulled her forward, stopping her descent and pulling her close, his arms locked around her like iron bands, her head pressed against his solid chest.

This was not at all an easy thing for her to process.

Not that he was having a good time of it, either. He’d done it without even thinking. It wasn’t supposed to have happened.

When they were both solidly planted on terra firma, he let her go, and she shuffled away, hoping her red blush would be masked by the night’s darkness.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

“You know I didn’t come this far to lose something so valuable.”

Her heart nearly stopped.

And then she noticed he was looking at the bag, which he’d picked up again. The bag. He’d meant the bag.

(And that was how you dropped a hint, he thought to himself.)

“And I didn’t almost fall to my death to not see what’s in the bag,” Rachel said, attempting to regain composure.

“And this honor is mine,” Tony claimed, undoing the string.

When his eyes alit upon the contents, he froze, his mouth downturning into a deep scowl; “WHAT?”

“What is it?” Rachel asked, already feeling frustration bubble through her in anticipation.

“He didn’t…” Tony dipped in a hand, bringing out a handful of not priceless uncut gemstones but glass marbles.

“…Marbles.” Rachel flinched. “Mace Malone…set up a goose chase…to get us to find his MARBLES.”

With one bellow of “NO!”, Tony hurled the bag into the New York sky, marbles raining in a glitter like starfall from Heaven.

And for the second time, Rachel’s scream tore through the dark night above it all, though now much longer and out of anger.

“Are you KIDDING ME?” she ranted as Tony glowered after the fallen bag, fists clenched. “We went through all that. WE WENT THROUGH ALL THAT. TORE THROUGH A BUILDING’S FOUNDATIONS. I ALMOST FELL OFF THIS FUCKING BUILDING! AND FOR MARBLES? FUCKING MAAAAARBLLLLLLLLES?”

As Tony fought back his internal rage – having gotten most of it out with the pitch of the bag, but still dealing with the residue – and Rachel kept raving (further illustrating, once again, that they were two examples of the same extreme – one getting all his emotions out in one massive burst and the other spreading her expressions out over a longer duration), Joey leaned over to Glasses; “You know he’s just gonna be surly and she’s gonna be screaming about marbles the whole ride home, right?”

“We’ll drown them out with the radio,” Glasses assured.

“That’ll just make them worse.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

Needless to say, no one enjoyed that drive.

#selfship #death by cupcakes

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