#i don’t actually know how to tag ‘a graphic depiction of waste release upon death’

[kayzero]

So I had an anxiety attack came up with a theory that if I put forth energy on January 1 then I will sow similar energy throughout the new year—for example, if I don’t sleep at all from midnight to midnight then surely this year I will have more energy in general. (My anxiety takes pleasure in consorting with my insomnia.)

In that spirit, because I want to actually write more Zero Win Game and just write more in general this year (there was an impressively small amount of words written by me overall in 2023), here’s…

A random fucking monologue by Akane that popped into my head while I was waiting for FF7R to download. It has now been an hour and a half since I started that download, and it gave me an estimate of about ten minutes.

…I’m pretty sure I can’t fit this into the Fragment where it originated from. “We have sixty minutes to escape or we all die but I guess we can indulge little miss Reversed Moon Arcana in one of her deranged fucking monologues.” I dunno. If you find yourself reading this aloud can you time how long it takes you?

Actually you know what, fuck it, I’ll shoehorn it in. It’ll be my own little Ice-9 lecture.

(Time yourself anyway I’m curious.)

“Akane, can you tell me what you remember from today?”

…

I remember…

Isn’t that funny? I remember. They said I wouldn’t, but I do, they said they’d be muddled, but they’re clear, I can see them so clearly.

They said they wouldn’t inject me, but they lied. They said it would make me forget—I guess they lied. They must have lied. I didn’t forget, I remember. I can see…

No. I can’t see them. I can’t see it.

I was looking at you.

But I can feel it. I feel it straining, fighting against me, getting stuck—it won’t turn, the wheel has to turn, the wheel always turns, the wheel can’t get stuck, it can’t stop, except when it does. Sometimes it does stop. The wheel stopped. And I had to push it to get it to turn again, WHY AM I ALWAYS THE ONE WHO HAS TO PUSH?!

I feel the moment that I push too far, but it’s not too far, it’s exactly far enough, I had to push you this, far, or else people would’ve just been hurt with nothing to show for it. I know it hurts, but I can’t just stop when it hurts, or else other people get hurt, everybody else gets hurt—so isn’t it better that I hurt just a few people, isn’t it better that I push you not too far, it’s never too far, it’s just far enough to change you forever, shatter your fragile humanity and make you something…

Less. A pile of ash that used to be a scared little sister. Then more. A functionally immortal being that can see and speak into the future, into the past, into a different present where someone was shot instead of spared, a proto-god that can see everything everywhere and everywhen… that used to be a scared little sister.

…Was she scared, do you think?

Her blood was warm when it hit my back, warm like an embrace, like the final embrace she’d ever give to anyone ever again in this timeline, and she gave it to me instead of her soon-to-be-grieving brother.

It didn’t dry. I would’ve felt it if it did. They must’ve cleaned me up. How considerate of our kidnappers, to respect proper hygiene as they force us to kill each other. Don’t share needles! Don’t injest mysterious substances! Don’t walk around covered in the blood of your victims!

God, I can smell it. It’s weird that I can smell it, it’s weird that it’s so overpowering, ‘cause isn’t blood supposed to be odourless? It’s not the blood that’s so overbearing, not really, it’s the iron in the hemoglobin trying to do its duty of carrying oxygen throughout the bloodstream, and it’s the iron that reacts to the oxygen in the air, and there was so much hemoglobin, there was so, much, iron. But it isn’t completely overwhelming, blood is supposed to be odourless, after all, and there’s only so much iron, it only takes up so much of the blood that’s spilled.

You’d wish it was completely overwhelming. I wish it was, at least. Because then it would mask the other scents, the worse scents. The scents of human waste being released upon death—because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you die. When you’re alive, you’re so tense, you’re so clenched, you keep everything inside, you just hold it deep inside, and you never let it out, you can’t let it out, you keep it bottled up forever, no matter what, no matter who—but when you die, the part of your brain telling everything to tense up dies first, and every other part of you forcibly relaxes, and everything comes rushing out, and everyone will know what was hiding inside this whole time.

Assumably. It’s never really happened to me, relaxing is for other people to do once I’m done, not that I’m ever done, ‘cause I always have to push. I don’t get to relax, not even in death.

…I can hear it.

Pulling. Screaming. Tearing. Splashing.

Ends are always so loud.

A quiet death would be nice, I think. I’ve never experienced one before. It’s always loud. Useless pounding and roaring jets, futile arguments and falling axes, reminiscence and splashing water

Yeah… When I’m finally done… When it’s my turn to relax…

I just want everything…

To be…

……

I’m sorry, what were we talking about?

[eirian-houpe]

Disparate Pathways - Chapter 7

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle (Once Upon a Time), Maurice | Moe French, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Spinster(s) (Once Upon a Time: Think Lovely Thoughts), Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Blue Fairy | Mother Superior, Black Fairy (Once Upon a Time), Baelfire | Neal Cassidy, Emma Swan, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Colette (Once Upon a Time), Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Widow Lucas | Granny, Dove (Once Upon a Time), Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Wicked Witch of the West | Zelena

Additional Tags: Abusive Parents, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Violence, Gun Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, UST, First Time, Drama & Romance, Kidnapping, Extortion

Summary: Gold has a past, a past that he has rejected, but it seems one that will not let him go.  Belle, daughter of Governor Maurice French has been kidnapped, along with her mother, and just as the authorities raid the organization that is holding her hostage, decides to make her own bid for freedom, unknowingly derailing an undercover sting, and Agent Milnor has not choice but to take her into 'protective custody,' but is he all that he seems?  As the threads of the story grow more tangled and the threat to Belle, and to Gold, her appointed protector, grow ever more real, a growing, mutual attraction makes everything far more desperate and far too personal for Gold to ignore what he knows to be the truth.

Read on AO3

[Chapter 1]  [Chapter 2]  [Chapter 3]  [Chapter 4]  [Chapter 5]  [Chapter 6]

Chapter 7 - Come With Me

Fighting the tears of hysteria that threatened to start as his laughter ended, Jefferson reached the head of the stairs, trying to calm himself enough to follow his plan; the items he left hidden around the house, carefully, when others were inattentive or sleeping. His contingency.

He ducked into the bathroom where the linen closet hid the vest, spare handgun and a spare clips of\ ammunition. He slipped the vest on quickly, barely taking the time to fasten it. He had to find Missus French and her daughter, and fast. His every instinct was telling him that something was wrong - the way this had all gone down. Sure he’d been pissed at Rab for not fighting for him; not trying to delay the takedown, but his handler had never let him down after a promise of a heads up. Except now he had.

As the flash lit up the whole of the house, he started counting under his breath, keeping time with what he knew was standard procedure. This wasn’t standard. The explosive pounding of the ram followed too quickly after the percussive flash.

“Fuck!” he hissed. It was definitely wrong, and he knew - without a doubt - that he was on his own; that he couldn’t risk identifying himself to the incoming amalgam of law enforcers. No one would know him.

“Fuck!” he spat more vehemently, then was drawn from the near paralysis of wondering how the hell he was going to do this and get them both out safely by the sound of nearby gunfire, A single shot propelled him into action, and he made his way down the hallway, kicking in the first door he came on. Truly acting on instinct he raised his weapon and shot the room’s single occupant before the man could turn his own gun on him.

A quick glance told him that the women weren’t there and he hurried out of the room, along to the next - empty, though from the cloud of cigarette smoke in one corner, it hadn’t been for long. Gunfire sounded from below, and he guessed that everyone had headed down - good little soldiers for the cause - to stop the invasion of the feds, to give West and her top tier cronies the chance to get out. This was what he’d warned Rab about. This was what threatened to make the last ten years of his life a complete and total waste of time. The losses, and the sacrifice he’d made, all for nothing.

Another room, and another dead end. The women weren’t there either. What if West had them, had taken them with her as she escaped, was bringing them to Duneach where they’d suffer worse than anything they could have endured where they were? What if his need to equip himself meant he’d gone the wrong way at the head of the stairs?

Left only with the room at his end of the hall, Jefferson threw himself against the heavy wood, slamming it back against its hinges as he took in the room. The computer, open wall panel leading down to a stairway, the body of a woman on the floor.

“Oh, God damned motherfuck--!” he growled, his voice caught as he felt his eyes heating again. It didn’t take the spreading stain of blood around her to know that there was no way she was going to make it, even if he could get her help. He knelt beside her, reaching for her neck. She had a pulse, but it was weak, thready and already faltering. He went to pull his hand away, and started as the woman’s weak grasp latched on to his wrist and her eyes flickered open.

“I knew you weren’t…” she rasped, fighting for breath. “Somehow I… knew.”

“Collette,” he breathed, “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

She released his wrist and reached up to lay her fingertips against his lips, to stop him speaking as she took another labored breath. “Not… your…” she said weakly. Another breath and then, “Belle… she ran… but…”

“Sshh,” he said softly, “Don’t talk. Just…” He swallowed.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know. Did this… for Belle… get away.” Jefferson closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening as the sense of failure washed over him. His eyes came open as Collette spoke again, “Help… her.”

He gave her a tight half smile.

“I promise,” he answered, not even knowing if he could keep that promise, but it was little enough that he could do. He’d try. Collette smiled up at him.

“Go,” she whispered, and closed her eyes. “Don’t wait… with me. Go.”

She gave him an ineffectual push, and he sat back on his heels for a moment, in spite of her words watching her breathing slow. Hitch. Stop.

With a half cry of impotence, rage smoldering inside of him …ten years. Ten fucking impossible years… he pushed to his feet, advancing with as much caution as his anger would allow toward the door. As he stepped through, his blood froze.

If it weren’t so serious, it would have been comical, like something out of a badly made martial arts movie. The tiny dot of a woman against the huge lummox of a man, attempting to hold her own, even after the back handed slap to the side of her face threw her against the wall of the landing. She didn’t stay down for long, pushing herself up, using the wall for leverage and dodging first left, then right in an attempt to get round him.

To Jefferson’s dismay, they were all the way at the other end of the landing.

He couldn’t risk a shot for the way they were dodging back and forth, couldn’t risk hitting the woman - hitting Belle. He was going to save her; was going to get her out of there, and take her somewhere safe until he could figure out what the fuck was going on.

Trying to keep his head, to keep his wits about him, he started to make his way along the landing. It wouldn’t do her any good if he got his cover blown, or got hurt, or worse, busted before he could reach her, so he couldn’t just charge in like a one-man Light Brigade. Even so he winced as he saw the knife that Gaston wielded - and he recognized that bull of a man - slash across Belle’s arm, blood flying across the hallway in droplets from the gash left in its wake.

“Hey!” Jefferson called out, raising his weapon again, and trying to sight the man even as he moved along toward where they were still struggling, to where Belle suddenly ran straight for Gaston. It might have worked too, bought her some measure of freedom, but for the reach of the ape’s arms, and he grabbed her as she dodged, and pinned her face down against the rail, seemed to be fumbling between the two of them.  Surely not…! He tried again, calling out, “Let her go,” but still wasn’t heard, probably because of the blood pounding through Gaston’s ears as it rushed south.

Jefferson felt caught in one of those nightmares, the ones where you find yourself running down a hallway that starts to stretch and elongate; that no matter how far you run, how fast, still you never reach the door at the end. He tried to reach Belle in time to save her from Gaston’s attentions, still not daring to take a shot. As wound up as he was in that moment, the way he could feel his own hands shaking around the grip of the handgun.

What happened next was almost too fast for him to truly comprehend what actually occurred. He watched as Belle thew back her head, clearly making contact with Gaston’s nose judging by the sudden rush of blood down over the man’s face as he roared and staggered backwards, and then he was lunging at her again, a little further along the rail, where she’d turned and tried to side-step to freedom, towards Jefferson, and he started to reach out, meaning to catch her outstretched arm and pull her behind him; to safety - take Gaston out with a well placed shot.

In reality, what happened drew a cry of horror from him that echoed Belle’s own scream as the railing broke beneath Gaston’s weight, and Belle fought to keep a hold of the broken end of the rail, her other arm flailing for balance, or opposite momentum or… something - anything to keep herself from falling.

Jefferson sprinted the rest of way, senses on overdrive, adrenaline pushing away everything but sheer concentration. Four armed bodies on the stairs. Three more yards to get within reach of Belle.  Barely ten steps beyond Belle to a solidly made dresser against the wall. Another six yards to the nearest door…

Belle’s arm came in an upswing as she started to lose her fight to keep herself from falling, he caught her wrist and pulled, reversing her motion just enough to be able to duck under her wheeling arm and wrap his own arm around her waist, not to hold her, but to throw her toward the dresser. The first of the shots rang out from the gunmen at the head of the stairs, no time to take in appearance - to see whether ‘friend’ or foe, Jefferson risked pushing off from the broken end of the railing to turn himself, took two wild shots to encourage the men to keep their heads down; to keep them from returning fire, before he threw himself at Belle, letting his wiry bulk push her around the corner of the dresser to shelter her against the wall. He pressed against her, intending to shelter her with the vest as much as he could until a lull in the gunfire told him the men were moving.

He straightened up then, enough to turn at least, lean around the dresser to snap off another couple of shots, even as his other hand tugged at the loosely fastened closures on the vest, shrugging off the garment. Even knowing she would drown in it, he snapped over his shoulder, “Put this on,” as he let it fall against her.  He had to give her time to do that. Had to trust himself, his aim. “Be ready to run,” he told her, a slightly insane twinkle in his eye as he stepped out from beside the dresser, fired one shot, and then another. Two more…

“What’s it gonna be, fellas?” he asked, the two men that were still standing and still armed, but staring at him with incredulity. He would have been the same - hell, he was. Amazed at the size of his own balls at simply stepping out against what had been four armed men in order to buy time for his… what was she to him?

That they didn’t immediately warn him who they were should have been a comfort to him. The right response to his question, if they’d been the law, should have been to identify themselves and warn him to surrender or risk being shot at, but he’d long since established that this was no ordinary takedown, so instead he shrugged slightly and glanced over his upraised arm at Belle.

“Ready, Spitfire?” he asked, and she both quirked an eyebrow, and swallowed in obvious fear both at the same time, but he could also see that she was getting paler; that the stain spreading on her shirt was getting bigger far faster than he would have liked. Did she get hit?  He saw her nod her readiness, get her feet under herself, then turned his attention back to the two remaining gunmen who had begun a cautious approach. He shifted his aim, and drilled a hole in the boards at their feet, stopping them in their tracks, and gave them a killer, if sarcastic smile.

“Sorry guys,” he said with a shrug. “Gotta run.” Then before they had time to react, he grasped Belle’s elbow, and took off at a run, dragging her along beside him to the nearest door, almost taking it off its hinges as he threw it open, took in the room’s vacant state, and pushed her through. Then he slammed the door shut and began to pull the heaviest piece of furniture that he could find across the door entrance.

When he was done, he turned to Belle, who had almost literally folded to the ground, her legs in a heap beneath her. He swore softly, and went over to the window, the one he knew had a faux patio about four to six feet beneath it. The ‘contingency plan’ he hadn’t wanted to take, and looked out. So far the back looked clear, if only they could reach the ground.

“You…” Belle’s voice was trembling as she spoke, “You’re… Jared… aren’t you?”

He looked at her for a long moment, contemplating just what he should tell her, and what he shouldn’t, at this point in the game. After another minute more, he shook his head, then unlocked and pushed open the window before turning back to her.

“Come with me,” he said, and moved over to her, holding out his hand and when she took it, pulled her as gently as he could to her feet, sliding his arm beneath hers to support her.

“Who are you?” she asked, leaning against him heavily. “Why are you doing this?”

“My name is Jefferson,” he told her, beginning to draw her toward the window. “And right now, we need to concentrate on getting you out of here.”