#i had a mind blank he managed to get the government to fall more than twice I WAS JUST VERY YOUNG THEN HE HAS BEEN PM SINCE 2012 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

antoine-roquentin · 4 years

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obliquely, this is in reference to how formerly working class bastions in the midwest that used to elect socialists now elect republicans. if we all gave up the theory that LGBT people are normal, we might once again go back to the days where we elected socialists across the country. thomas frank, what’s the matter with kansas:

But its periodic bouts of leftism were what really branded Kansas with the mark of the freak. Every part of the country in the nineteenth century had labor upheavals and protosocialist reform movements, of course. In Kansas, though, the radicals kept coming out on top. It was as though the blank landscape prompted dreams of a blank-slate society, a place where institutions might be remade as the human mind saw fit. Maps of the state from the 1880s show a hamlet (since vanished) called Radical City; in nearby Crawford County the town of Girard was home to the Appeal to Reason, a socialist newspaper whose circulation was in the hundreds of thousands. In that same town, in 1908, Eugene Debs gave a fiery speech accepting the Socialist Party’s nomination for president; in 1912 Debs actually carried Crawford County, one of four he won nationwide. (All were in the Midwest.) In 1910 Theodore Roosevelt signaled his own lurch to the left by traveling to Kansas and giving an inflammatory address in Osawatomie, the onetime home of John Brown.

The most famous freak-out of them all was Populism, the first of the great American leftist movements.* Populism tore through other states as well—wailing all across Texas, the South, and the West in the 1890s—but Kansas was the place that really distinguished itself by its enthusiasm. Driven to the brink of ruin by years of bad prices, debt, and deflation, the state’s farmers came together in huge meetings where homegrown troublemakers like Mary Elizabeth Lease exhorted them to “raise less corn and more hell.” The radicalized farmers marched through the small towns in day-long parades, raging against what they called the “money power.” And despite all the clamor, they still managed to take the state’s traditional Republican masters utterly by surprise in 1890, sweeping the small-town slickers out of office and ending the careers of many a career politician. In the decade that followed they elected Populist governors, Populist senators, Populist congressmen, Populist supreme court justices, Populistcity councils, and probably Populist dogcatchers, too; men of strong ideas, curious nicknames, and a colorful patois....

For a generation, Kansas has been the testing-ground for every experiment in morals, politics, and social life. Doubt of all existing institutions has been respectable. Nothing has been venerable or revered merely because it exists or has endured. Prohibition, female suffrage, fiat money, free silver, every incoherent and fantastic dream of social improvement and reform, every economic delusion that has bewildered the foggy brains of fanatics, every political fallacy nurtured by misfortune, poverty and failure, rejected elsewhere, has here found tolerance and advocacy.

Today the two myths are one. Kansas may be the land of averageness, but it is a freaky, militant, outraged averageness. Kansas today is a burned-over district of conservatism where the backlash propaganda has woven itself into the fabric of everyday life. People in suburban Kansas City vituperate against the sinful cosmopolitan elite of New York and Washington, D.C.; people in rural Kansas vituperate against the sinful cosmopolitan elite of Topeka and suburban Kansas City. Survivalist supply shops sprout in neighborhood strip-malls. People send Christmas cards urging their friends to look on the bright side of Islamic terrorism, since the Rapture is now clearly at hand.

Under the state’s simple blue flag are gathered today some of the most flamboyant cranks, conspiracists, and calamity howlers the Republic has ever seen. The Kansas school board draws the guffaws of the world for purging state science standards of references to evolution. Cities large and small across the state still hold out against water fluoridation, while one tiny hamlet takes the additional step of requiring firearms in every home. A prominent female politician expresses public doubts about the wisdom of women’s suffrage, while another pol proposes that the state sell off the Kansas Turnpike in order to solve its budget crisis. Impoverished inhabitants of the state’s most scenic area fight with fanatical determination to prevent a national park from opening up in their neighborhood, while the rails-to-trails program, regarded everywhere else in the union as a harmless scheme for family fun, is reviled in Kansas as an infernal design on the rights of property owners. Operation Rescue selects Wichita as the stage for its great offensive against abortion, calling down thirty thousand testifying fundamentalists on the city, witnessing and blocking traffic and chaining themselves to fences. A preacher from Topeka travels the nation advising Americans to love God’s holy hate, showing up wherever a gay person has been in the news to announce that “God Hates Fags.” Survivalists and secessionists dream of backyard confederacies out on the lone prairie; schismatic Catholics declare the pope himself to be insufficiently Catholic; Posses Comitatus hold imaginary legal proceedings, sternly prosecuting state officials for participating in actual legal proceedings; and homegrown terrorists swap conspiracy theories at a house in Dickinson County before screaming off to strike a blow against big government in Oklahoma City.

the problem with this simple story is that social liberalism actually grew in lockstep with an economic policy tailored to the poor. in the 70s, the most common place to get gender reassignment surgery was at a catholic hospital in small town colorado. in 2010, in response to deep opposition in the town, the practice was forced to move to california. the second most common place was at a baptist hospital in oklahoma city, where such surgery was viewed as routine until a number of religious leaders decided to oppose it in the 70s. at the same time, many other religious leaders spoke out in favour of the surgery, saying that it comported well with religious tenets.

likewise, colorado legalized abortion in 1967, as did states like kansas, missouri, georgia, and north and south carolina prior to roe v wade. today, these states are considered anti-abortion and anti-lgbt hotspots, yet prior to the late 70s, compassion for such people was viewed as paramount in the life of america’s christians. so what happened? it clearly wasn’t an emphasis on the social aspects of poor american lives that shifted the political arena in favour of religious conservatism. rather, as thomas frank points out in the same book:

Nobody mows their own lawn in Mission Hills anymore, and only a foot soldier in its armies of gardeners would park a Pontiac there. The doctors who lived near us in the seventies have pretty much been gentrified out, their places taken by the bankers and brokers and CEOs who have lapped them repeatedly on the racetrack of status and income. Every time I paid Mission Hills a visit during the nineties, it seemed another of the more modest houses in our neighborhood had been torn down and replaced by a much larger edifice, a three-story stone chateau, say, bristling with turrets and porches and dormers and gazebos and a three-car garage. The dark old palaces from the twenties sprouted spiffy new slate roofs, immaculately tailored gardens, remote-controlled driveway gates, and sometimes entire new wings. One grand old pile down the street from us was fitted with shiny new gutters made entirely of copper. A new house a few doors down from Esrey’s spread is so large it has two multicar garages, one at either end.

These changes are of course not unique to Mission Hills. What has gone on there is normal in its freakishness. You can observe the same changes in Shaker Heights or La Jolla or Winnetka or Ann Coulter’s hometown of New Canaan, Connecticut. They reflect the simplest and hardest of economic realities: The fortunes of Mission Hills rise and fall in inverse relation to the fortunes of ordinary working people. When workers are powerful, taxes are high, and labor is expensive (as was the case from World War II until the late seventies), the houses built here are smaller, the cars domestic, the servants rare, and the overgrown look fashionable in gardening circles. People read novels about eccentric English aristocrats trapped in a democratic age, sighing sadly for their lost world.

When workers are weak, taxes are down, and labor is cheap (as in the twenties and again today), Mission Hills coats itself in shimmering raiments of gold and green. Now the stock returns are plush, the bonus packages fat, the servants affordable, and the suburb finds that the princely life isn’t dead after all. It builds new additions and new fountains and new Italianate porches overlooking Olympic-sized flower gardens maintained by shifts of laborers. People read books about the glory of empire. The kids get Porsches or SUVs when they turn sixteen; the houses with asphalt roofs discreetly disappear; the wings that were closed off are triumphantly reopened, and all is restored to its former grandeur. Times may be hard where you live, but here events have yielded a heaven on earth, a pleasure colony out of the paintings of Maxfield Parrish.

america's workers and small farmers were saved by the reforms of the 1930s, as frank explains, then crushed as the wealthy found out how to squirrel away their taxes (in part thanks to the collapse of the british empire), accumulate wealth away from prying eyes, lobby the government for preferential treatment, and between 1976 and 2000, triumph completely in the political domain. mission hill donates more money to politicians than the rest of kansas combined. unions are swamped in state politics, and see declining fortunes. as a result, neoliberal social atomization takes effect, which sees even workers demanding beggar-thy-neighbour policies. and when thy neighbour is socially distinct from you, it becomes easier to justify voting for such politics based on a survival instinct. the majority of the working class tuned out and do not vote any more. among the rest, low skilled working class jobs in highly stratified and inequitable cities vote democrat, hoping for some patronage from the white collar creative class voters they serve, while blue collar skilled workers tend to vote republican, devoid of any examples of class politics in their lives with the death of unions and hoping to keep their share of wages against their only opposition, the tax man.

ultimately, any socially liberal politics sustained by donations from rich big city donors is unsustainable. on the other hand, the notion that “woke” politics is holding back leftism is, save for a few clearly absurd situations (robin diangelo, for instance) also wrong. economic leftism leads to social leftism, because respect to the working class leads to respect for its identities. neoliberal atomization is a much deeper force than can be surmounted at the ballot box, even in a primary, but it is always an economic force first and foremost.

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letsfluxshitup · 4 years

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bonding b-over broken bones (ao3!)

(tw: a lil angst and a minor injury <3)

“I want to resurrect Schlatt.” Quackity blurted out, hands fisted in the blanket he’d wrapped around him.

“Ok.” Techno’s eyes didn’t lift from the thick book he was reading from, settled in a rocking chair in front of the fire.

“Ok? That’s it? You’re not going to stop me?” Quackity snapped, shrugging the blanket off of him.

“Am I… supposed to?” Techno sighed, flipping another page in his book. He shifted slightly, shooting a look at Quackity over the top of his book, looking unimpressed.

“I want to resurrect a dictator, of course you’re supposed to stop me!” Quackity stood quickly, crossing the room in an instant and jabbing a finger into Techno’s chest. Techno batted his hand away like it was nothing, completely unbothered.

“Ok. Quackity… Don’t resurrect Schlatt. That’s… a horrible idea.” He drawled, already looking over the conversation. “You know if you wanted to roleplay you should’ve just said so—”

“I’m not fucking around, Technoblade!” Quackity’s wings puffed up from where they’d been settled against his back, desperate to look intimidating, to get Technoblade to take him seriously. “This isn’t a fucking joke! Don’t demean me, I’m gonna do it!”

Techno paused, head tilted to the side with a considerate look across his face, expression oddly soft in the firelight. Quackity decided then that he hated that look. He didn’t want to be pitied. He wanted to be taken seriously, wanted Techno to make him stop his self-destructive mission, for Techno to act like he wanted him around.

“Why do I feel like we’re talking about more than resurrecting Schlatt here?” Techno broke the silence finally, apparently finding what he was looking for in Quackity’s expression. “I’ll be blunt, Quackity. I’m a bit tired, of all the mind games, of all the political intrigue. If you want something from me you’re just going to have to say it.”

Quackity huffed, Techno didn’t fucking get it, and that was fine, it didn’t bother him. He wished Techno would just do things, instead of making Quackity choose. A small part of him missed that about Schlatt, about how he was just told what to do. Even with the others, he went along with what was said. Techno didn’t allow that, though, and he hated that.

“Why? Why do I have to say anything?” Quackity lashed out again, shoving at Techno’s shoulder. The rocking chair moved with the shove, but Techno remained stony, face impassive and blank. “I want to resurrect Schlatt. That’s obviously a horrible idea! Why won’t you stop me?”

There was a long beat of silence as the rocking chair swayed back and forth, finally settling again before Techno spoke.

“It’s your choice, Quackity. You can do what you want. I’m not going to tell you what to do, because I don’t want to. If you wanted guidance, or a helping hand, maybe I can help you with that.” Techno stood then, grabbing Quackity by the shoulders and leaning close. “But, I am not your boss. I don’t care what you do.”

Quackity felt his heart in his throat, staring into Techno’s eyes, the man looking more serious then he’d ever seen him before. Defensive, Quackity lashed out, arms flailing wildly as he stumbled backwards.

“FUCK you, I didn’t want you to care about what I do anyways, you ass-” He cut himself off with a shriek as he stumbled over the carpet, crashing down the stairs and landing at the bottom in a tangle of limbs and wings.

He blinked and Techno was at his side, and he would’ve been impressed by the graceful landing considering Techno had just jumped from the second floor, but he was distracted by a horrible pain in his ankle.

There was a flurry of movement after that, Techno ordering him to stop squirming as he scooped him up before bridal carrying him up the stairs.

Techno carefully laid him out on his bed, and moved to look over his ankle. He was frowning and Quackity couldn’t help the squeak he made when Techno lightly touched it.

It was a fucked up way to ask for attention, Quackity knew, and he shouldn’t be so offended that Techno didn’t rise to the bait, but it was like he didn’t even consider it. And that hurt.

“Well, Quackity, I think it’s twisted.” Techno said finally, deadpan voice cut with the slightest hint of concern. “Looks like you’ll be stuck here for a while.”

“Just call someone to come get me, I can still ride a horse.” Quackity huffed, arms crossed as he glared at Techno. He was still pissed, alright? It still smarted a little that Techno, apparently, didn’t care about him enough to stop him from hurting himself and others.

He huffed again, and stuck his tongue out at Techno when he shot him a questioning look.

“Unfortunately for you, a blizzard’s coming in. Even if someone could get here before it arrives, there’s no way you could make it back safely.” Techno moved to stoke the fire more, settling another log on the pile.

“For…?” He prompted after a long lapse of silence, both of them just staring at each other, Quackity irritated and Techno puzzled.

“Whatever,” Quackity mumbled, fiddling with the edge of the blanket Techno had carefully draped over him. “You should apologize, you know.”

Techno blinked at him, looking genuinely confused.

“Whatever!” Quackity snapped, “Never mind, it’s whatever.”

“Ok.” Techno responded simply, standing up from his squat next to the fireplace and stretching. He looked like he was going to say something before he was interrupted by a door opening downstairs.

“Techno?” Philza called into the empty bottom floor, stomping the snow off of his boots as he came into the house. He shook the snow from his wings as he stripped off his outer layers, meeting Techno’s eyes over the railing of the stairs.

“Hallo. Quackity’s here.” Techno said, making his way down the stairs to meet Philza at the door.

“Oh? Quackity?” Philza paused, before whispering, “The loud one with the messy wings?”

At Techno’s affirmative nod, he beamed.

“Such a good young man. Very… Nonthreatening.” Philza smiled at him. “Good friend material.”

Techno squinted at him.

“I’m not a child,” Techno huffed. “I don’t need you to approve of all of my friends.”

Philza just snorted, deciding not to call him out on how he practically preened when Philza voiced his approval.

Philza carefully stroked down the feathers on Quackity’s wings, loose feathers drifting slowly to the ground. Quackity was sat on a chair with a low back, crafted specifically with the winged hybrids in mind. His ankle was propped on another chair across from him, an ice pack on his ankle.

Techno had been aggressively doting over him, adjusting his pillows and helping him drape the red cape Quackity had bullied him into handing over. Philza had gently sent him away, asking him to make them something to eat while he helped Quackity with his wings, amusement over the mother-henning palpable.

Philza didn’t miss the pout on his son’s face when he mentioned grooming Quackity’s wings, and barely managed to hold back a snort when he caught Techno shooting him a jealous look from the kitchen.

The clanking of pans and dishes hitting together and the sounds of cupboards open and closing filled the background.

Quackity cleared his throat, uncomfortable before falling silent again.

Philza continued to groom his wings, silently amused by the squirming the uncomfortable silence caused. Quackity’s shoulders relaxed a miniscule amount and Philza pounced.

“Do you even know how to groom your wings?” Philza said abruptly, startling Quackity into a more rigid sitting position. The sudden movement earned a squeak as he jostled his injured ankle. Techno appeared at the doorway, a concerned look on his face, blue frilly apron on and dirty spoon in hand.

Thank God, Quackity thought to himself, please help this is so fucking awkward.

Philza just sent him his most disarming smile, earning him a suspicious squint, he’d taught him well, but Techno disappeared into the kitchen again without comment.

I’m fucked, Quackity thought, cursing his lack of telepathy as his one hope of salvaging this interaction walked away.

Has it been too long now? Quackity wondered, does he still expect a response?

The silence stretched on for far too fucking long, Quackity shifting slightly in his chair as he tried to think of a way to save the situation. He glanced into the mirror hanging on the wall, Philza looking as peaceful and impassive as he had when they started. He nervously twisted a corner of the cape in his lap, and fuck Techno for leaving me alone with his dad you never leave your friends alone with your dad why would he do this to me, motherfuck-

“Quackity?” Philza chirped, sounding amused, “You alright in there?”

“Fine!” Quackity squeaked, cursing his high pitch and nervousness before clearing his throat and trying again. “I’m just fine, how are you, uh-, big man?”

Quackity flinched. Big man? Seriously?

“I’m alright. Joined this server, killed my son, my other son got exiled by my other other son’s government. Same old, same old.” Philza kept the same tone throughout, light and airy and Quackity winced. He hadn’t thought that through, fuck.

“No hard feelings, right?” Quackity joked nervously.

“Should there be?” Philza said, suddenly dead serious as he made eye contact with Quackity through the mirror across from them. And, oh, yeah Quackity could see why Philza had the reputation he did and how did he keep getting himself into these situations, god fucking-

Philza snorted, patting him on the shoulder before standing and stretching.

“I’m just fucking with ya, mate, don’t worry about it. No hard feelings.” Philza smiled, but there was something a little too feral to it, too sharp to be completely friendly, and Quackity saw where Techno got it from.

“I just— I hate all of this, L’Manburg, Manburg— after all of that started things started going to shit.”

Techno paused in his knitting, carefully set it down as he turned to look towards Quackity. Quackity was staring pensively into the fire, leaning heavily on one elbow as he studied the flames.

Philza had disappeared down the staircase moments before, despite Techno’s silent pleading with him to stay, only giving Techno a smug look over Quackity’s head, and a promise to return with hot chocolate.

After it looked like he wasn’t going to continue, Techno picked up his knitting again.

“It’s just—” Quackity started, and Techno sighed, “everything sucks now! Everyone’s all up in arms about everything, and everything is all about ‘intercountry relations‘ and it’s dumb and I hate it and it sucks. Governments suck, Techno.”

Techno inhaled. Exhaled. He slowly set down his knitting, lest any sudden movements scare away Quackity’s one moment of clarity. They were few and far between, you really had to capitalize on what you got when you got it. They were very close to a revelation here, and Techno had to act carefully.

When Techno turned to look at him Quackity was staring at him, expression open and vulnerable.

“Be careful, Ducky, you’re starting to sound like me.” He deadpanned, finally breaking the silence between them.

It was almost funny how quickly Quackity’s face crumpled, cycling between affronted, bamboozled, then contemplative. The old ABCs of realizing you’re an anarchist,Techno thought, happens every time.

Quackity blinked twice, quickly, before shaking his head.

“Y’know what— actually, nevermind. I don’t— We can worry about government another day, alright, asshole?” There was no bite to his tone this time, still looking deep in thought. He huffed before shifting in his seat uncomfortably, looking into the fire again.

“I think… We should talk. About our feelings.” Quackity’s speech was stilted, looking wildly uncomfortable and like he wanted to be literally anywhere else. Techno felt the same way.

“Ok.” Techno said finally, looking down at his knitting project again. “You can start.”

Quackity huffed, looking offended, before anxiously rubbing his hands across his thighs. Why did this have to be so awkward?

“I’m a licensed therapist, you know—” Quackity started, hands waving as if gesturing authoritatively would give him more credit.

“You’re not.”

Quackity flipped him off.

“Ok, you got me— I’m not, but I think we could work with some I feel statements.” He spoke semi confidently, desperate to put on a front, but his wings’ anxious shifting gave him away. “I feel upset, because of what you said earlier. Or, I guess— what you didn’t say?”

“I feel confused, because I don’t know what I didn’t say that upset you.” Techno said, stuttering slightly over the sentence. A glance at Quackity proved that he was just as confused, and Quackity huffed, frustrated.

Quackity flipped him off again before starting over.

“Ok, I see how that could be confusing. But, you—” He didn’t get to finish as Techno cut him off.

“I thought we were doing I feel statements. You can’t just ignore your own rules, you’re the one who set them.”

“Ok- fine- I feel hurt, that you didn’t do anything when I said I was going to resurrect Schlatt.” At the blank look he received he continued, voice noticeably shakier. “I feel like you don’t care, because if you did care, you’d make me stop. Or tell me not to, I guess.”

Quackity finished lamely, hands dropping back into his lap as he glared at the fire.

“Oh.” Techno said finally, nervously tapping on the table. “I can see how that would hurt. I’m— I feel— Do I still have to do this I feel statement thing?”

Quackity snorted before waving his hand dismissively. “Just speak.”

“I think resurrecting Schlatt is an awful idea. Like, there’s no way that’s going to end well. But I don’t— I don’t know!” He looked frustrated now, running his hands over the knitted yarn. “I’m tired of being told what to do. Of being used. I didn’t want you to feel the same way. You’re your own person, Quackity, you can do what you want. I trust you.”

“Oh.” Quackity said finally.

“Oh.” Techno agreed, staring into the fire again.

“Thanks? For trusting me, I guess,” Quackity shifted again, adjusting his wings against his back.

Techno just grunted, before looking towards Quackity again. Quackity was looking at him, too, nerves written across his face.

“Can we be friends again?” Quackity blurted out, flushing slightly.

“Sure,” Techno snorted, grabbing his knitting before standing up. He settled down again next to Quackity’s chair, head resting on the side of his thigh as he continued his soon-to-be mittens. They were varying shades of blue, and Techno planned to line them with soft fabric.

He’d noticed how cold Quackity got, the man used to the much warmer temperatures of Manburg. He was slowly working on a set of winter clothes for him, starting with the mittens. Philza had recommended starting small, after teaching Techno the basics.

Speak of the devil, Philza came up the staircase carrying a tray with three mugs on it. After handing them out, he settled into the chair Techno had abandoned, looking unbearably smug as he took a sip from his mug.

Techno knew that look. Techno feared that look.

“So!” Philza said cheerily, gesturing at Techno and Quackity, “When’s the wedding?”

#technoblade #quackity #philza #ph1lza #my fics #every day i talk about quacknoblade crack wedding and every day i dont write about that im so sorry LKDJFLKSDJFLDSKFJ #uwu! anyways #ok to reblog <3 #quacknobros

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philip-ks-dick · 3 years

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Philip K. Dick, For Dummies.

I’ve been researching PK.D for a few years now, as he’s my father’s favourite author and I’ve been watching movie and show adaptations of his work for the longest time. I have personally only read the books listed, here’s the order (I think) you should read them in, based on difficulty level and the knowledge you need of the PKD canon to understand the books that follow. This is purely my opinion based on knowledge of the author. by philip-k’s-dick (lol)

Beginner. (These books and stories allow readers to explore Dick’s pet themes and stylistic quirks without falling too far down the rabbit hole)

The Short Stories: Over the course of his life, PKD wrote somewhere in the range of 150 short stories. Naturally, it would be silly of me to dump all of them on you at once, but undeniably, the shorter format allows the big ideas of Dick’s work to come through more clearly, and even the screwier stories conform to relatively coherent shape, making them an excellent jumping off point, especially for an author who wrote almost nonstop throughout his life.

My Favourites:

In The Days of Perky Pat - In this novel, survivors of a global thermonuclear war live in isolated enclaves in California, surviving off what they can scrounge from the wastes and supplies delivered from Mars. The older generation spend their leisure time playing with the eponymous doll in an escapist role-playing game that recalls life before the apocalypse — a way of life that is being quickly forgotten. At the story's climax, a couple from one isolated outpost of humanity plays a game against the dwellers of another outpost (who play the game with a doll similar to Perky Pat dubbed "Connie Companion") in deadly earnest. The survivors' shared enthusiasm for the Perky Pat doll and the creation of her accessories from vital supplies is a sort of mass delusion that prevents meaningful re-building of the shattered society. In stark contrast, the children of the survivors show absolutely no interest in the delusion and have begun adapting to their new life.

(Elements of the story were later incorporated into Dick's novel The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, written in 1964 and published in 1965, in which a Perky Pat simulation game is induced by drugs and miniature models instead. Palmer Eldritch is not a continuation or sequel however.)

What the Dead Men Say - Death is followed by a period of 'half-life', a short amount of time which can be rationed out over long periods in which the dead can be revived—so that, potentially, they can 'live' on for a long time. When attempts to bring back important businessman Louis Sarapis fail, it's clearly more than mere negligence. Sure enough, Sarapis starts speaking from beyond the grave. From outer space, in fact. Yet no-one seems terribly bothered, other than those directly concerned in the plot mechanics. Eventually entire communications networks (phones, TV, radio) are blocked by Sarapis' broadcasts

(Philip's later novel Ubik is a continuation of What the Dead Men Say)

Autofac - Three men wait outside their settlement for an automated delivery truck. Five years earlier, during the Total Global Conflict, a network of hardened automatic factories ("autofacs") had been set up with cybernetic controls that determine what food and consumer goods to manufacture and deliver. Human input had been lost, and the men planned disruption to try to establish communication and take over control. They destroy the delivery, but the truck radios the autofac and unloads an identical replacement, then prevents them from reloading items. They act out being disgusted with the milk delivery and are given a complaints checklist. In a blank space, they write improvised semantic garble—"the product is thoroughly pizzled". The autofac sends a humanoid data collector that communicates on an oral basis, but is not capable of conceptual thought, and they are unable to persuade the network to shut down before it consumes all resources. Their next strategy sets neighbouring autofacs in competition with each other for rare resources and seemingly succeeds, but there is a hidden level

Beyond Lies The Wub - Peterson, a crew member of a spaceship loading up with food animals on Mars, buys an enormous pig-like creature known as a "wub" from a native just before departure. Franco, his captain, is worried about the extra weight but seems more concerned about its taste, as his ship is short of food. However, after takeoff, the crew realizes that the wub is a very intelligent creature, capable of telepathy and maybe even mind control.

Peterson and the wub spend time discussing mythological figures and the travels of Odysseus. Captain Franco, paranoid after an earlier confrontation with the Wub which left him temporarily paralyzed, bursts in and insists on killing and eating the wub. The crew becomes very much opposed to killing the sensitive creature after it makes a plea for understanding, but Franco still makes a meal out of him. At the dinner table, Captain Franco apologises for the "interruption" and resumes the earlier conversation between Peterson and the Wub - which now has apparently taken over the Captain's body

Human Is - Jill Herrick and her husband Lester are in the middle of an argument. Lester deflects his wife’s claim that he is “hideous” with cold indifference. He tells her that he will not allow their child in the house and will have him removed to government custody because he is interfering with his research. Before the distraught Jill can pass this onto their son Gus, Lester gets news that he will be taking a trip to Rexor IV. Despite Jill’s desire to go there and see the planet, Lester insists that he will go alone.

Later Jill tells her brother Frank and she is going to leave Lester. She explains how happy she has been with Lester gone and how he seems to be getting worse every year of their marriage. More cold and more “ruthless,” not to mention the incessant working.

Lester comes home a very different man. He praises Jill’s cooking and expresses disgust with his work on Rexor IV studying toxins. He says he prefers Terra and being home with his wife.

Jill reports these changes to Frank, while Lester is playing in the room with Gus. Frank has Lester brought to a lab for more studies under the guidance of the Federal Clearance agency. Before long they realize that Lester has had his body taken over by a Rexorian.

The Hanging Stranger - The protagonist, Ed Loyce, is a store owner who is disturbed when he sees a stranger hanging from a lamppost, but finds that other people consider the apparent lynching unremarkable.

He finds evidence that alien insects have taken over, manages to get out of town, talks to the police commissioner, who believes him, and after getting all the information about what Ed knows, explains that the body was hung to see if anyone reacted to it, anyone they didn't have control over. He then takes Ed outside and hangs him from a lamppost.

The Commuter - Ed Jacobson is a railway worker at Woking station. His life takes a turn for the worse when his son, Sam, begins experiencing psychotic episodes. When he is selling rail tickets at work, a young woman named Linda asks for a ticket to a destination called Macon Heights that is not listed on any map.

The Minority Report - In a future society, three mutants foresee all crime before it occurs. Plugged into a great machine, these "precogs" allow a division of the police called Precrime to arrest suspects before they can commit any actual crimes. When the head of Precrime, John Anderton, is himself predicted to murder a man whom he has never met, Anderton is convinced a great conspiracy is afoot

Full Books:

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? - Rick Deckard, a bounty hunter for the San Francisco Police Department, is assigned to "retire" (kill) six androids of the new and highly intelligent Nexus-6 model which have recently escaped from Mars and traveled to Earth. These androids are made of organic matter so similar to a human's that only a posthumous "bone marrow analysis" can independently prove the difference, making them almost impossible to distinguish from real people. Deckard hopes this mission will earn him enough bounty money to buy a live animal to replace his lone electric sheep to comfort his depressed wife Iran. Deckard visits the Rosen Association's headquarters in Seattle to confirm the accuracy of the latest empathy test meant to identify incognito androids. Deckard suspects the test may not be capable of distinguishing the latest Nexus-6 models from genuine human beings, and it appears to give a false positive on his host in Seattle, Rachael Rosen, meaning the police have potentially been executing human beings. The Rosen Association attempts to blackmail Deckard to get him to drop the case, but Deckard retests Rachael and determines that Rachael is, indeed, an android, which she ultimately admits.

Clans of the Alphane Moon - War between Earth and insectoid-dominated Alpha III ended over a decade ago. (According to the novel, "Alphane" refers to the nearest star to our own system, Alpha Centauri). Some years after the end of hostilities, Earth intends to secure its now independent colony in the Alphane system, Alpha III M2. As a former satellite-based global psychiatric institution for colonists on other Alphane system worlds unable to cope with the stresses of colonisation, the inhabitants of Alpha III M2 have lived peacefully for years. But, under the pretence of a medical mission, Earth intends to take their colony back.

Against this background, Chuck Rittersdorf and his wife Mary are separating. Although they think they are going their separate ways, they soon find themselves together again on Alpha III M2. Mary travels there through government work, Chuck sees it as a chance to kill Mary using his remote control simulacrum. Along the way he is guided by his Ganymedean slime mould neighbour Lord Running Clam and Mary finds herself manipulated by the Alphane sympathiser, comedian Bunny Hentman.

The Man in the High Castle - In 1962, 15 years after Imperial Japan and Nazi Germany have won World War II, Robert "Bob" Childan owns an Americana antique shop in San Francisco, California (located in the Japanese-occupied Pacific States of America), which is most commonly frequented by the Japanese, who make a fetish of romanticized American cultural artifacts. Childan is contacted by Nobusuke Tagomi, a high-ranking Japanese trade official, who is seeking a gift to impress a visiting Swedish industrialist named Baynes. Childan's store is stocked in part with counterfeit antiques from the Wyndam-Matson Corporation, a metalworking company. Frank Frink (formerly Fink), a secretly Jewish-American veteran of World War II, has just been fired from the Wyndam-Matson factory, when he agrees to join a former co-worker to begin a handcrafted jewellery business. Meanwhile, Frink's ex-wife, Juliana, works as a judo instructor in Canon City, Colorado (in the neutral buffer zone of Mountain States), where she begins a sexual relationship with an Italian truck driver and ex-soldier, Joe Cinnadella. Throughout the book, many of these characters frequently make important decisions using prophetic messages they interpret from the I Ching, a Chinese cultural import. Many characters are also reading a widely banned yet extremely popular new novel, The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, which depicts an alternate history in which the Allies won World War II in 1945, a concept that amazes and intrigues its readers.

Frink reveals that the Wyndam-Matson Corporation has been supplying Childan with counterfeit antiques, which works to blackmail Wyndam-Matson for money to finance Frink's new jewelry venture. Tagomi and Baynes meet, but Baynes repeatedly delays any real business as they await an expected third party from Japan. Suddenly, the public receives news of the death of the Chancellor of Germany, Martin Bormann, after a short illness. Childan tentatively, on consignment, takes some of Frink's "authentic" new metalwork and attempts to curry favour with a Japanese client, who surprisingly considers Frink's jewelry immensely spiritually alive. Juliana and Joe take a road trip to Denver, Colorado and Joe impulsively decides they should go on a side-trip to meet the mysterious Hawthorne Abendsen, author of The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, who supposedly lives in a guarded fortress-like estate called the "High Castle" in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Soon, Joseph Goebbels is announced as the new German Chancellor.

Intermediate. (These are the books to pick up once you have the basics of what makes a PKD novel down. They’re obtuse enough to hit a little heavier, but don’t provide the full dose of surrealism Dick was capable of serving up. This is also good spot to jump in if you’ve experienced weird fiction before.)

Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said - The novel is set in a dystopian version of 1988, following a Second Civil War which led to the collapse of the United States' democratic institutions. The National Guard ("nats") and US police force ("pols") reestablished social order through instituting a dictatorship, with a "Director" at the apex, and police marshals and generals as operational commanders in the field. Resistance to the regime is largely confined to university campuses, where radicalized former university students eke out a desperate existence in subterranean kibbutzim. Recreational drug use is widespread, and the age of consent has been lowered to twelve. The black population has almost been rendered extinct. Most commuting is undertaken by personal aircraft, allowing great distances to be covered in little time.

The novel begins with the protagonist, Jason Taverner, a singer, hosting his weekly TV show which has an audience of 30 million viewers. His special guest is his girlfriend Heather Hart, also a singer. Both Hart and Taverner are "Sixes", members of an elite class of genetically engineered humans. While leaving the studio, Taverner is telephoned by a former lover, who asks him to pay her a visit. When Taverner arrives at her apartment, the former lover attacks him by throwing a parasitic life-form at him. Although he manages to remove most of the life-form, parts of it are left inside him. After being rescued by Hart, he is taken to a medical facility.

Waking up the following day in a seedy hotel with no identification, Taverner becomes worried, as failure to produce identification at one of the numerous police checkpoints would lead to imprisonment in a forced labor camp. Through a succession of phone calls made from the hotel to colleagues and friends who now claim not to know him, Taverner establishes that he is no longer recognized by the outside world. He soon manages to bribe the hotel's clerk into taking him to Kathy Nelson, a forger of government documents. However, Kathy reveals that both she and the clerk are police informants, and that the lobby clerk has placed a microscopic tracking device on him. She promises not to turn Taverner over to the police on the condition that he spend the night with her. Although he attempts to escape, Kathy confronts him again after he has successfully passed a police checkpoint using the forged identity cards. Feeling in her debt, he accompanies Kathy to her apartment block, where Inspector McNulty, Kathy's police handler, is waiting. McNulty has located Taverner via the tracking device the hotel lobby clerk placed on him, and instructs Taverner to come with him to the 469th Precinct police station so that further biometric identity checks can be performed.

Time out of Joint - Ragle Gumm lives in the year 1959 in a quiet American suburb. His unusual profession consists of repeatedly winning the cash prize in a local newspaper contest called "Where Will The Little Green Man Be Next?". Gumm's 1959 has some differences from ours: the Tucker car is in production, AM/FM radios are scarce to non-existent, and Marilyn Monroe is a complete unknown. As the novel opens, strange things begin to happen to Gumm. A soft-drink stand disappears, replaced by a small slip of paper with the words "SOFT-DRINK STAND" printed on it in block letters. Intriguing little pieces of the real 1959 turn up: a magazine article on Marilyn Monroe, a telephone book with non-operational exchanges listed and radios hidden away in someone else's house. People with no apparent connection to Gumm, including military pilots using aircraft transceivers, refer to him by name. Few other characters notice these or experience similar anomalies; the sole exception is Gumm's supposed brother-in-law, Victor "Vic" Nielson, in whom he confides. A neighborhood woman, Mrs. Keitelbein, invites him to a civil defense class where he sees a model of a futuristic underground military factory. He has the unshakeable feeling he's been inside that building many times before.

Confusion gradually mounts for Gumm. His neighbor Bill Black knows far more about these events than he admits, and, observing this, begins worrying: "Suppose Ragle [Gumm] is becoming sane again?" In fact, Gumm does become sane, and the deception surrounding him (erected to protect and exploit him) begins to unravel

Ubik - By the year 1992, humanity has colonized the Moon and psychic powers are common. The protagonist, Joe Chip, is a debt-ridden technician working for Runciter Associates, a "prudence organization" employing "inertials"—people with the ability to negate the powers of telepaths and "precogs"—to enforce the privacy of clients. The company is run by Glen Runciter, assisted by his deceased wife Ella who is kept in a state of "half-life", a form of cryonic suspension that allows the deceased limited consciousness and ability to communicate. While consulting with Ella, Runciter discovers that her consciousness is being invaded by another half-lifer named Jory Miller

Difficult. (This section comes with a caveat: within these novels you will encounter numerous hallucinations, drug trips, an entire trilogy about gnostic spirituality and mental illness, and more than a little unabashed nightmare fuel. It’s normal to get tangled up in what goes on in these books. It’s also normal to be weirded out. But with proper grounding, you’ll make it though with your faculties intact. Probably.)

The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch - The story begins in a future world where global temperatures have risen so high that in most of the world it is unsafe to be outside without special cooling gear during daylight hours. In a desperate bid to preserve humanity and ease population burdens on Earth, the UN has initiated a "draft" for colonizing the nearby planets, where conditions are so horrific and primitive that the unwilling colonists have fallen prey to a form of escapism involving the use of an illegal drug (Can-D) in concert with "layouts." Layouts are physical props intended to simulate a sort of alternative reality where life is easier than either the grim existence of the colonists in their marginal off-world colonies, or even Earth, where global warming has progressed to the point that Antarctica is prime vacation resort territory. The illegal drug Can-D allows people to "share" their experience of the "Perky Pat" (the name of the main female character in the simulated world) layouts. This "sharing" has caused a pseudo-religious cult or series of cults to grow up around the layouts and the use of the drug.

Up to the point where the novel begins, New York City-based Perky Pat (or P.P.) Layouts, Inc., has held a monopoly on this product, as well as on the illegal trade in the drug Can-D which makes the shared hallucinations possible.

The novel opens shortly after Barney Mayerson, P.P. Layouts' top precog, has received a "draft notice" from the UN for involuntary resettlement as a colonist on Mars. Mayerson is sleeping with his assistant, Roni Fugate, but remains conflicted about the divorce, which he himself initiated, from his first wife Emily, a ceramic pot artist. Meanwhile, Emily's second husband tries to sell her pot designs to P.P. Layouts as possible accessories for the Perky Pat virtual worlds—but Barney, recognizing them as Emily's, rejects them out of spite.

A Scanner Darkly - When performing his work as an undercover agent, Arctor goes by the name "Fred" and wears a "scramble suit" that conceals his identity from other officers. Then he is able to sit in a police facility and observe his housemates through "holo-scanners", audio-visual surveillance devices that are placed throughout the house. Arctor's use of the drug causes the two hemispheres of his brain to function independently or "compete". When Arctor sees himself in the videos saved by the scanners, he does not realize that it is him. Through a series of drug and psychological tests, Arctor's superiors at work discover that his addiction has made him incapable of performing his job as a narcotics agent. They do not know his identity because he wears the scramble suit, but when his police supervisor suggests to him that he might be Bob Arctor, he is confused and thinks it cannot be possible.

Donna takes Arctor to "New-Path", a rehabilitation clinic, just as Arctor begins to experience the symptoms of Substance D withdrawal. It is revealed that Donna has been a narcotics agent all along, working as part of a police operation to infiltrate New-Path and determine its funding source. Without his knowledge, Arctor has been selected to penetrate the organization. As part of the rehab program, Arctor is renamed "Bruce" and forced to participate in cruel group-dynamic games, intended to break the will of the patients

(If this one seems difficult to wrap your mind around, that's because its a fictionalized account of real events, and you may need to read about Philip's life at the time to understand the autobiographical nature of the book.)

The VALIS Trilogy

(Fictionalized account of religious experiences in PKD’s life.)

VALIS - In March, 1974, Horselover Fat (the alter-personality of Philip K. Dick) experiences visions of a pink beam of light that he calls Zebra and interprets as a theophany exposing hidden facts about the reality of our universe, and a group of others join him in researching these matters. One of their theories is that there is some kind of alien space probe in orbit around Earth, and that it is aiding them in their quest; it also aided the United States in disclosing the Watergate scandal and the resignation of Richard Nixon in August, 1974. Kevin turns his friends onto a film called Valis that contains obvious references to revelations identical to those that Horselover Fat has experienced, including what appears to be time dysfunction. The film is itself a fictional account of an alternative-universe version of Nixon ("Ferris F. Fremount") and his fall, engineered by a satellite called valis. (The plot of the fictitious film Valis was that of Dick's then-unpublished novel Radio Free Albemuth.) In seeking the film's makers, Kevin, Phil, Fat, and David—now calling themselves the Rhipidon Society—head to an estate owned by popular musician Eric Lampton and his wife Linda. They decide the goal that they have been led toward is Sophia Lampton, who is two-years old and the Messiah or incarnation of Holy Wisdom (Pistis Sophia) anticipated by some variants of Gnostic Christianity. In addition to healing Phil's schizophrenic personality split, she tells them that their conclusions about valis (which Fat had previously termed "Zebra") and reality are correct, and more importantly, that we should worship, not gods, but humanity. She dies two days later due to a laser accident caused by Brent Mini. Undeterred, Fat (who has now resurged) goes on a global search for the next incarnation of Sophia.

Dick also offers a rationalist explanation of his apparent theophany, acknowledging that it might have been visual and auditory hallucinations from either schizophrenia or drug addiction sequelae.

Characters:

Phil (Philip K. Dick): Narrator (first person), science fiction writer, author of Man in the High Castle, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, and Three Stigmata.

Horselover Fat: Narrator (third person), a schizophrenic modality of Phil himself. (Philip in Greek means "fond of horses"; dick is German for "fat".)

Gloria Knudson: Suicidal friend of Fat's who Fat is unable to save.

Kevin: Cynical friend of Fat's whose cat died running across the street, based on K. W. Jeter.

Sherri Solvig: Church-going friend of Fat's, eventually dies from lymphatic cancer.

David: Catholic friend of Fat's, based on Tim Powers.

Eric Lampton: Rock star, screenwriter, actor, a. k. a. "Mother Goose"; a fictionalised version of David Bowie.

Linda Lampton: Actress, wife of Eric Lampton.

Brent Mini: Electronic composer, a fictionalised version of Brian Eno.

Sophia Lampton: Two-year-old child (personalised incarnation of Holy Wisdom within some variants of Gnosticism), said to be the daughter of Linda Lampton and valis and the "Fifth Savior".

The Divine Invasion - After a fatal car accident on Earth, Herb Asher is placed into cryonic suspension as he waits for a spleen replacement. Clinically dead, Herb experiences lucid dreams while in suspended animation and relives the last six years of his life.

In the past, Herb lived as a recluse in an isolated dome on a remote planet in the binary star system, CY30-CY30B. Yah, a local divinity of the planet in exile from Earth, appears to Herb in a vision as a burning flame, and forces him to contact his sick female neighbor, Rybys Rommey, who happens to be terminally ill with multiple sclerosis and pregnant with Yah's child.

With the help of the immortal soul of Elijah, who takes the form of a wild beggar named Elias Tate, Herb agrees to become Rybys's legal husband and father of the unborn "savior". Together they plan to smuggle the six-month pregnant Rybys back to Earth, under the pretext of seeking help for Rybys' medical condition at a medical research facility. After being born in human form, Yah plans to confront the fallen angel Belial, who has ruled the Earth for 2000 years since the fall of Masada in the first century CE. Yah's powers, however, are limited by Belial's dominion on Earth, and the four of them must take extra precautions to avoid being detected by the forces of darkness.

Things do not go as planned. "Big Noodle", Earth's A.I. system, warns the ecclesiastical authorities in the Christian-Islamic church and Scientific Legate about the divine "invasion" and countermeasures are prepared. A number of failed attempts are made to destroy the unborn child, all of them thwarted by Elijah and Yah. After successfully making the interstellar journey back to Earth and narrowly avoiding a forced abortion, Rybys and Herb escape in the nick of time, only to be involved in a fatal taxi crash, probably due to the machinations of Belial. Rybys dies from her injuries sustained in the crash, and her unborn son Emmanuel (Yah in human form) suffers brain damage from the trauma but survives. Herb is critically injured and put into cryonic suspension until a spleen replacement can be found. Baby Emmanuel is placed into a synthetic womb, but Elias Tate manages to sneak Emmanuel out of the hospital before the church is able to kill him.

Six years pass. In a school for special children, Emmanuel meets Zina, a girl who also seems to have similar skills and talents, but acts as a surrogate teacher to Emmanuel. For four years, Zina helps Emmanuel regain his memory (the brain damage caused amnesia) and discover his true identity as Yah, creator of the universe.

When he's ready, Zina shows Emmanuel her own parallel universe. In this peaceful world, organized religion has little influence, Rybys Rommey is still alive and married to Herb Asher, and Belial is only a goat kid living in a petting zoo.

In an act of kindness, Zina and Emmanuel liberate the goat-creature from his cage, momentarily forgetting that the animal is Belial. The goat-creature finds Herb Asher and attempts to retain control of the world by possessing him and convincing him that Yahweh's creation is an ugly thing that should be shown for what it really is. Eventually Herb is saved by Linda Fox, a young singer whom he loves and who is his own personal Savior; she and the goat-creature meet and she kills it, defeating Belial. He finally discovers that this meeting happens over again for everyone in the world, and whether they choose Belial or their Savior decides if they find salvation.

Characters:

Herb Asher: audio engineer

Rybys Rommey: mother of Emmanuel, sick with MS

Yah: Yahweh

Elias Tate: Incarnation of Elijah

Emmanuel (Manny): Yah incarnated in human form

Zina Pallas: Shekhinah

Linda Fox: singer, songwriter, Yetzer Hatov

Belial: Yetzer Hara

Fulton Statler Harms: Chief prelate of the Christian-Islamic Church (C.I.C), Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Nicholas Bulkowsky: Communist Party Chairman, Procurator maximus of the Scientific Legate

VALIS: agent of Yahweh, disinhibiting stimulus

The Transmigration of Timothy Archer - Set in the late 1960s and 1970s, the story describes the efforts of Episcopal Bishop Timothy Archer, who must cope with the theological and philosophical implications of the newly discovered Gnostic Zadokite scroll fragments. The character of Bishop Archer is loosely based on the controversial, iconoclastic Episcopal Bishop James Pike, who in 1969 died of exposure while exploring the Judean Desert near the Dead Sea in the West Bank.

As the novel opens, it is 1980. On the day that John Lennon is shot and killed, Angel Archer visits the houseboat of Edgar Barefoot, (a guru based on Alan Watts), and reflects on the lives of her deceased relatives. During the sixties, she was married to Jeff Archer, son of the Episcopal Bishop of California Timothy Archer. She introduced Kirsten Lundborg, a friend, to her father-in law, and the two began an affair. Kirsten has a son, Bill, from a previous relationship, who has schizophrenia, although he is knowledgeable as an automobile mechanic. Tim is already being investigated for his allegedly heretical views about the Holy Ghost.

Jeff commits suicide due to his romantic obsession with Kirsten. However, after poltergeist activity, he manifests to Tim and Kirsten at a seance, also attended by Angel. Angel is skeptical about the efficacy of astrology, and believes that the unfolding existential situation of Tim and Kirsten is akin to Friedrich Schiller's German Romanticism era masterpiece, the Wallenstein trilogy (insofar as their credulity reflects the loss of rational belief in contemporary consensual reality).

The three are told that Kirsten and Tim will die. As predicted, Kirsten loses her remission from cancer, and also commits suicide after a barbiturate overdose. Tim travels to Israel to investigate whether or not a psychotropic mushroom was associated with the resurrection, but his car stalls, he becomes disoriented, falls from a cliff, and dies in the desert.

On the houseboat, Angel is reunited with Bill, Kirsten's son who has schizophrenia. He claims to have Tim's reincarnated spirit within him, but is soon institutionalized. Angel agrees to care for Bill, in return for a rare record (Koto Music by Kimio Eto) that Edgar offers her.

The Transmigration of Timothy Archer is one of Dick's most overtly philosophical and intellectual works. While Dick's novels usually employ multiple narrators or an omniscient perspective, this story is told in the first person by a single narrator: Angel Archer, Bishop Archer's daughter-in-law.

Characters:

Angel Archer: Narrator, manager of a Berkeley record store, widow of Jeff Archer.

Timothy Archer: Bishop of California; father of the late Jeff Archer and father-in-law of Angel. Dies in Israel, searching for psychotropic mushroom connected with Zadokite sect. Based on James Albert Pike, Dick's personal friend, who was an American Episcopalian bishop.

Kirsten Lundborg: Timothy Archer's secretary and lover. Dies from barbiturate overdose after loss of remission from cancer.

Bill Lundborg: Kirsten's son who has schizophrenia, and who is obsessed with cars.

Edgar Barefoot: Houseboat guru, radio personality, lecturer. Based on Alan Watts.

Jeff Archer: Son of Timothy Archer, and deceased husband of Angel. A professional student who was romantically obsessed with Kirsten.

Thank you, if you read all of this. it took me six hours today to write this all

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five-rivers · 4 years

Text

Long Night in the Valley Chapter 1

Behold, my attempt to rectify the appalling lack of into the mind fics in the BNHA fandom. :P

AO3

FFN

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He stood on top of the stairs to the beach, looking down on them. With the sun rising behind them, his pupils were pinpoints, his irises shockingly bright. He wore a thin windbreaker over a t-shirt that read ‘tracksuit’ and a pair of sweatpants with his signature red shoes. His expression was strangely flat and blank. He had never looked at them like that before.

“Deku?” said Ochako, uncertainly, taking a step forward, her hand half raised, as though she could reach him despite being so far away.

The commission instructor flung out an arm, stopping her. He was staring up at the boy, too, his eyes blown wide, lips pulled back with something like worry, something like fear, and something like avarice. “Whatever that is,” he said, “it isn’t Midoriya Izuku.”

Aizawa reviewed the program the commission had sent to him, ignoring the gentle bumping of the bus and the barely controlled chaos of the students around him. It looked fairly straightforward, all things considered. The requirement was new, and Aizawa felt it was illogical to test students like this, when they could simply have the material added to the course load, but, overall, he’d seen worse.

So why did this bother him so much?

He scanned the paperwork again. He was going to be getting the same certification as his students, had arranged to be part of the same general ‘cohort’ even, because he didn’t trust them on their own. At all. Ever.

But that shouldn’t be an issue. Even when they did get split up, they’d be going in groups of five and—

Ah. There it was. Groups of five, with any odd numbers being used to fill out other groups who were undergoing testing on the same day, most of whom were adult heroes, if he recalled correctly.

With the addition of Aizawa, there were twenty-one of them.

Calling on years of experience, Aizawa didn’t groan. The thing was, Aizawa knew, even before arriving and having numbers and groups assigned, who the odd one out would be. There was only one student who could be so problematic without trying or indeed having any control over the variables that went into causing the problem.

Midoriya.

Aizawa almost suspected that Midoriya had some secret trouble-attracting quirk on top of the lightning-spitting bone-breaking insanity and the randomly appearing eldritch abomination tentacle things. It would fit right in.

Sadly, Midoriya’s ability to find trouble didn’t seem to go away when Aizawa stared at him, so he had to acknowledge that the kid was just that unlucky.

If Aizawa let Midoriya go off to complete the course on his own, he would probably discover that, oh, pro hero Wash was laundering money from an overseas smuggling operation disguised as an environmental clean up charity. Or, somehow, locate a villain, despite being at a secure hero commission building. Like he had during the provisional license exam. Or break a bone. Again. Or discover a previously unknown aspect of his quirk. Again. Or get into a fight with Bakugo. Again.

No way. Not if Aizawa had anything to say about it.

Izuku bounced in place, excited. He was attending a professional development course given by the Hero Standards and Practices Commission. It was like a dream come true! Literally! He dreamed about this! Of course, he’d had the dream when he was seven, and he’d just learned about the HSPC and what it did, and All Might had been the course teacher, which he wasn’t going to be for this course, and which was also a little redundant, because All Might (Mr. Yagi, Toshinori, Eight) was already his teacher, and the reason behind this course, and making everyone with any kind of hero license take it, was a bit disturbing, and he’d had to opt out of some of the course features, because reasons, but, regardless—

“Midoriya,” said Jiro, tapping on his shoulder, “they’re calling for you.”

“Oh! Thanks!” said Izuku, nodding vigorously, and, man, he really had to cut his hair soon. It was getting long enough to fall in his eyes when he did that, and that would be distracting in the field. Good thing it wouldn’t matter for today!

They weren’t going to be doing anything physical, after all.

He walked up to the table, showed the person with the clip board his provisional license (he could still hardly believe he had it! It was so cool!) and received a card with a number on it.

“Pin that to your shirt,” said the man, hardly looking at him.

At least, the man was trying to look like he was hardly looking at him. Maybe he recognized him from the sports festival and didn’t want to make things awkward? But it had been a while since the sports festival. They tended to drain from common memory pretty quickly, and—

Oh, no, he’d been holding up the line.

He sketched a quick bow and ran over to where the rest of his classmates and teacher were waiting.

“So,” said Aizawa, looking as exhausted as ever. There was a spark of something in the man’s eye, though. Vigilance. Had he noticed something amiss? Should Izuku be on alert as well? “We have consecutive numbers, so most of us should be together in the same groups. Problem child.”

Izuku jumped to attention. “Yes, sir?”

… It was kind of sad that he answered to the name ‘problem child,’ wasn’t it?

(Was it sadder that he almost liked the nickname? It was nicer than what some of his other teachers had called him. It didn’t have the same bite.)

“Trade numbers with Yaoyorozu.”

Izuku blinked and looked at Yaoyorozu in surprise. “Um,” he said. “Okay?” He unpinned his card and held it out to his classmate.

Yaoyorozu took it carefully, frowning at the number. “Why are we doing this, sensei?” she asked.

“Because knowing his luck, Midoriya is going to be the odd one out, and you’re the only one I trust not to kill someone or get kidnapped if you’re left on your own.”

Okay. Harsh. But fair.

“What about Iida?” asked Kaminari.

“I know what I said.”

Harsher—Wait. Aizawa knew about that? Since when?!

“Didn’t she go off that one time, though? At Kamino?”

Aizawa turned to stare at Mina, who held her hands up. “Forget I said anything, sensei!”

“No, no, you’re right. Hagakure, you take Midoriya’s number.”

“Eh, me?” asked the invisible girl.

“Yes,” said Aizawa.

“Er, are you sure? I don’t know if I could survive a Midoriya-level calamity!”

Izuku felt his jaw drop a little. Was that what they were calling it now? Rude.

“The calamity won’t happen if he isn’t there,” reasoned Aizawa.

Which. Okay. True. But also, rude.

Izuku wasn’t that bad, was he?

Izuku took Hagakure’s card. The number put him between Uraraka and Aizawa, so he’d probably be with at least one of them. On reflection, Yaoyorozu’s number had put him on the other side of Aizawa. Which probably wasn’t a coincidence.

The rest of the class got through registration shortly thereafter, with several of his classmates trying to trade their own numbers, only for Iida to scold them. Which was typical, really. It was almost calming, and Izuku needed calm after… that.

Was his luck really that bad?

Now he was much more nervous than before. Except, before he’d been excited, and, now, he was really—

Not.

He fiddled with the sleeve of his uniform, trying not to pick at his scars or cross the line into overtly fidgeting and being distracting. He wished he’d brought one of his grip strength training tools. At least with those he could pretend their only purpose was working out, unlike his other fidget toys.

Oh, gosh, was that pro hero Rosemary, the memory hero? And Strato! The high altitude hero!

Wow, he’d been so worried he almost hadn’t noticed how many amazing heroes were here! There were even some he didn’t know!

And then they were being called up, number by number.

Hagakure, true to Aizawa’s prediction, was placed with a group of confused-looking strangers, including Rosemary. Izuku was almost jealous. He’d love to learn how her quirk worked.

Actually… All of the people in that group were heroes with mental quirks. How interesting! Izuku would have to ask Hagakure if they gave her any tips. He was sure they’d have different insights than the other people in their class, especially considering the subject matter of the course.

The subject matter being combating mental attacks.

That’s why Izuku had to opt out of being a ‘subject’ for the course. He didn’t entirely understand it, not yet, but One for All definitely had a mental aspect, and he didn’t know how or if that would show up in a simulated attack like the ones they’d be demonstrating. It was better to play it safe. His quirk was already weird enough as it was. He still wasn’t sure how he’d manage to talk Aizawa and his classmates out of being suspicious after blackwhip came out. Most of that day was a blur.

Izuku suspected that things would not have been smoothed over nearly so easily if Nezu hadn’t known about One for All.

He also wasn’t looking forward to the reaction when the other user’s quirks started coming out – Even if being able to use them was going to be really cool.

Anyway, his own group had resolved itself to consist of Aizawa, Uraraka, Iida, and Todoroki. He was relieved. Todoroki looked relieved, too. That made sense. With what Todoroki had told Izuku about his history, he wouldn’t want to be doing this with people he didn’t know, either.

But Todoroki would have opted out, anyway, right? Or did Endeavor not let him? Honestly, that would be par for the course for Endeavor. Todoroki said he was getting better, but… Izuku had doubts. He liked to think that people could always be saved, even from themselves, that most villains could be reformed, even if the government didn’t think so, that people like Endeavor and Kacchan could see the error of their ways. But.

But even though Kacchan was better than he was before didn’t mean that he didn’t still do things that Izuku… didn’t like.

And he couldn’t imagine that Endeavor was changing faster than Kacchan.

“Who will they have us do first, do you think?” asked Uraraka. “I mean, I know they’re going to go through all of us, but all of this is making me so nervous. I have a lot of embarrassing memories, I mean, I’m sure everyone does, but, ugh, that didn’t come out right…”

“Well!” said Iida, energetically. “If they let us volunteer, I shall go first!”

“What?” said Izuku, surprised. “You didn’t opt out?”

“Opt out?” asked Uraraka. “That was an option?”

“I mean, yes?” said Izuku. “I mean, I had to file a bunch of paperwork and get Mom, All Might, and Principal Nezu to sign off on it, but, I mean, it’s an option for people who know secrets that shouldn’t be exposed.” Like Iida. What was he thinking?

“I… did not know that was an option,” said Iida, who had evidently now realized he was in deep, deep trouble.

Izuku resolved to protect his friend’s secrets as best as he was able, even if it meant he didn’t get a good score in the training.

“I didn’t think there was an opt-out option, either,” said Todoroki, frowning. He reached towards his face but tugged on his hair instead of touching his scar.

Okay. So. “Am I- Am I the only one that asked? L-like, it wasn’t easy, I had to get a bunch of signatures, but it was doable, I…” He shrugged, helplessly.

“I wasn’t informed there was an opt-out,” said Aizawa, grumpily and a little… suspiciously?

Izuku cringed. He did not need his teacher to be suspicious of him. He did not need people looking into his life. Into his past. Into his quirk.

Maybe, if they couldn’t keep Iida’s and Todoroki’s secrets quiet, he could play his reluctance off as pertaining to those. Even if the idea made him feel incredibly guilty and unworthy of his friends.

He would just have to do his best to help them.

Before any more conversations could be had, their group was called into one of the rooms. A set of six cheap futons laid on the floor. Monitoring equipment lined one of the walls. Two commission personnel, a man and a woman, were waiting for them.

When the woman saw Izuku, she frowned and pulled her phone out of her pocket. What was that about.

“Hi,” said the man, who had a rather hooked nose and very bright, almost glowing, yellow eyes. “I’m Ito Kenzo, and I’ll be your instructor for today. You can call me Ito-san. This is Saito Yume, we’ll be using her quirk for today’s demonstration.”

The woman smiled brightly, putting away her phone quickly. “The way my quirk works is that I can put up to five people into a shared dream state modeled after a sixth person’s mind. All six people lose consciousness when I use my quirk, and the perception of time in the dream state is usually altered, although by how much varies depending on the group. The dream state persists until either I release it, the people involved break free, or eight hours pass. However, I’ll be making the rounds once an hour to pull everyone out and let you move on to the next person in the group.”

“I’ll be joining the dream state with you, to help point out tactics,” said Ito. “Although the person the dreamscape is modeled on won’t be completely aware of what’s going on, the goal is to familiarize you with what it feels like to have your minds invaded in a safe, secure environment. Saito-san’s quirk is similar enough to that of several known villains to be a good example of what to expect.” Ito paused. “Any questions?”

Uraraka raised her hand. “Who’s going first?” she asked.

“Ah, that would be—” He broke off as Saito tugged on his sleeve and showed him her phone. The man did a double take, then paled, slightly. He glanced at Izuku. “Er,” he said, “you’re not supposed to be in this group.”

“Yes, I-I am,” said Izuku. “This is- This is my number? It matches?”

Ito glanced at Saito. Then his phone rang. “Oops,” he said, looking at his phone. “It looks like I’m in the wrong group. You kids are supposed to have Suzuki-san, I was, was requested by another group, so sorry! He’ll be here in a minute!” Ito retreated through the back door at high speed.

Izuku swallowed. Something was going on behind the scenes. This wasn’t about the suspected traitor thing again, was it? Izuku had thought, after the training camp, that it was pretty obvious it had to be a teacher… And it couldn’t be Aizawa-sensei. He’d almost been killed by the noumu.

(Also, he was the best teacher Izuku had ever had.)

A new, much taller man walked through the door. “Hello,” he said. “I am Suzuki Takami. I am your instructor. Apologies for the mix up.”

“No worries!” said Saito. “Everyone, go ahead, lie down, get comfortable. Midoriya-san, you’re first!”

“What?” said Izuku. “But, I, um, I opted out? I filled in the paperwork and everything. I got a signature from Abe-san, and Kondo-san, and, and—” He fumbled to pull out his paperwork. He’d kept copies, just in case.

Saito and Suzuki didn’t so much as look at it.

“This course doesn’t have an ‘opt-out,’” said Suzuki.

“Excuse me,” said Aizawa. “He clearly has paperwork for an opt-out. Maybe you were misinformed. Like you were about the room.”

Suzuki shook his head. “I don’t know who you talked to,” he said, “but they were either mistaken about what course you were referring to, or you misunderstood them.”

“But,” said Izuku.

“Midoriya,” said Aizawa, “if you want to sit this out, it’s fine. I can go with you, so you won’t be alone. No one’s going to make you subject yourself to a quirk you aren’t comfortable with.”

“He can do that,” said Suzuki, “but he’ll lose his provisional license. He’d have to go through recertification entirely. When’s the next licensing exam?”

“Hold up,” said Aizawa, “you’re doing this course two more times, aren’t you? I know I was given multiple options for getting this certification.”

“Sure,” said Saito, “but it’s still going to be my quirk.” She wrapped a strand of her hair around her finger, stressed.

Izuku’s mind was racing. He couldn’t lose his license. He couldn’t lose his ability to help people. He—What would All Might think? He couldn’t—

“It-It’s-It’s fine, sen-sensei, I’m um. It’s fine! I’ll- I’d have to do this anyway, right? Mi-might as well get it over with, huh?” He walked over to one of the futons, and set down his backpack, trying to hide his trembling hands. “So, is-is there anything special or specific I have to do for your quirk to work?”

“Nope,” said Saito, cheerfully, “just lie down and close your eyes. Come on, everyone lay down.”

Aizawa moved slowly, which was nothing short of shocking considering how eager he usually was to crawl into his sleeping bag. He put the bag down on one of the futons. “You’re sure there’s no way for Midoriya to opt out?”

“Positive. We’re really sorry,” said Saito.

“Illogical,” grumbled Aizawa. He got into his sleeping bag nonetheless. “You sure about this, problem child?”

“I-I’m sure, sensei! Plus ultra, right?” He laid down, trying to get comfortable, but the panic rising in his veins really didn’t allow for that. He could, distantly feel One for All (and all it contained) pressing up against the back of his mind with something like concern. He swallowed. Don’t think about it.

His classmates were, hesitantly, picking out their own spots. Iida looked like he wanted to say something. Uraraka’s brow was furrowed, her lips pursed. Todoroki was difficult to read, as always.

Suzuki was already lying down, staring at the ceiling.

Izuku closed his eyes.

“Alright!” said Saito. “Here we go!”

Yume left the room with Midoriya Izuku in it, feeling just slightly dazed. She paused for a moment in the back hallway. She had dozens of other groups to set off, and she was running late after that little snafu.

Midoriya Izuku was supposed to be in a group with Suzuki-san and four other specially picked professional heroes. Heroes who would get to the bottom of why and how he had multiple quirks, who would find out who he really was, who would figure out how he was in contact with the League of Villains and why they decided to pick some random quirkless nobody—

Assuming that’s what Midoriya Izuku really was. The initial investigation had uncovered some discrepancies in his family records.

In any case, he was not supposed to be in a group with his little friends and overprotective teacher.

Oh, well. Except for Midoriya, they were all clean. If they were really heroes, they’d do what was right.

Yume pushed off the wall (when had she started leaning on it?) and stumbled. Something bright and red caught on the periphery of her vision and she looked down.

Her nose was bleeding.

She licked her lips, tasting copper. It shouldn’t be bleeding. That only happened when she overused her quirk, when she tried to put too many people into one dreamscape or tried to combine two dreamscapes into one. She’d been pacing herself. This shouldn’t be happening. It shouldn’t be bleeding like this, like she had just put more than a dozen people under.

Suzuki Yume promptly passed out.

“Wow,” said Uraraka, looking around in delight. She was still worried about Deku. He’d looked really bad right before Saito-san activated her quirk, and she and Suzuki-san had been acting kind of shady, but—

But—

This place was beautiful, and she couldn’t help but be a little in awe. She’d kind of expected dreamscapes to be more… Mushy, maybe? Darker? Her dreams usually weren’t very clear (except for the nightmares, and those didn’t count).

But Deku’s dreamscape was as bright as he was: a beautiful beach and a cerulean ocean at sunrise. Or was it sunset? Either way, the sun hovered above the ocean, its light gleaming off the waves.

“Wow,” said Todoroki, approaching the breakers on the beach. He crouched, looking at the sand. “It��s really…” he poked the sand, “detailed.”

“As expected of Midoriya!” exclaimed Iida, waving his hands. “His attention to detail is unparalleled!”

“Hm,” said Aizawa. “Too bright…” He put on his goggles.

“Excuse me,” said Suzuki. “If I can have your attention, please. I apologize for the deception, however—”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

#bnha #fic #fanfic #my writing #boku no hero academia #gen #long night in the valley

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mascwhump · 3 years

Text

Chapter 21 - Game of War

TW: guns, minor character death, recapture, bound and gagged

Tag list: @whatwasmyprevioususername @milk-carton-whump @whumpasaurus101 @whatwhumpcomments @mnmlover2002 @ashintheairlikesnow

One particularly large raindrop hit Charlie’s window, making a loud enough smack to wake him. His eyes opened to see Sasha, who began nibbling at his nose.

“Good morning, sweet girl,” He greeted softly. She let out a tiny meow, as if she was returning the sentiment. Charlie pet her for a little while before sitting up and stretching.

The bones in his legs cracked as he stood from his bed. He opened the bag of cat food and shoveled a scoop into Sasha’s bowl. He realized he hadn’t given her any water, and apologized to her before heading out to the kitchen. Nobody was in the kitchen nor the living room, and Charlie was almost grateful. He filled a small bowl with water and took it back into his room, setting it on the floor for Sasha.

He went back out to make himself something to eat, and decided on cereal. He had a dull headache, most likely from all the crying he had done the night before. Ethan emerged from his room as Charlie sat down at the table with his cereal.

“Hey,” Charlie said.

“Morning. How do you feel?” Ethan asked.

“I’m fine,” Charlie replied.

Ethan made himself a bagel before sitting at the table. Charlie scrolled through Instagram mindlessly, bored of seeing the same shit from high school “friends”.

“Wanna talk about what happened last night?” Ethan asked.

“Not really,” Charlie replied, not looking up from his phone.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he’s not mad at you anymore. I explained to him that you have Stockholm Syndrome, and he felt like an arse.”

Charlie dropped his spoon.

“The fuck is that?”

“You haven’t heard of it? It’s when somebody bonds with their captor. There’s even been cases of hostages falling in love with their captors,” Ethan explained.

“Okay, wait. I’m not in love with him,” Charlie said.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I don’t think it’s that, Ethan. I feel guilty about it.”

“Well, it’s a complex thing. There hasn’t been much research, unfortunately. Either way, Crow isn’t upset anymore, and that means we can focus on figuring out what the hell we’re going to do.”

They finished eating, and Ethan decided to go for a jog. Charlie had the house to himself. He wasn’t sure where the others had gone, but it wasn’t uncommon for them to go into town for any number of errands. He raided the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen, then tried to make himself useful by tidying up. He swept the floors, wiped down the kitchen, and cleaned the windows.

As he finished shining the last window, he saw the Jeep pull up to the house. Crow, Deke, and Adrian walked in with a few shopping bags. Crow motioned for Charlie to follow him outside. They went into the yard, and Crow offered him a cigarette.

“I just wanted to apologize,” Crow said, “I was drunk and angry, which isn’t an excuse for my actions, but I would never have done that if I was sober.”

“I forgive you. I think you have the right to be upset with me,” Charlie replied.

“No, I don’t. You’re… hurt. I don’t know all that you’ve been though, and I should have been more understanding.”

“It’s okay.”

They stood silently, taking drags off of their cigarettes. The tension seemed to melt away, and Charlie was glad that this hadn’t ended up a lasting conflict.

“I finally got command to talk,” Crow finally spoke.

“What’d they say?” Charlie asked.

“They want us to let him go. The whole conversation just felt off, and I can’t help but shake the feeling that Mallory is telling the truth. I don’t know about the assassination part of it, but they want this dropped.”

Charlie threw his cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe.

“So they’re just going to let him get away with all this?”

“That’s what it sounds like. But, if we let him go, you know as well as I do that he’s not going to leave us alone.”

“Right.”

Crow dropped his cigarette and they went back inside. Ethan was back from his jog, making a smoothie in the kitchen. After he was done with the blender, Crow called for everyone to gather at the dining table.

“I’m going to attempt to get more information from him about this conspiracy,” he said, “I don’t need all of you down there, but I want you to listen from the door, at least.”

He, Charlie, and Adrian went downstairs, while Ethan and Deke waited by the door. Mallory looked paler than usual, probably due to the lack of sustenance.

“Tell us more about this supposedly partnership you have with the government,” Crow said.

“Why? Do you finally believe me?” Mallory asked.

“Not sure yet. Talk.”

“I guarantee you that you’ll all be dead within a week if you don’t do anything. Not that I care,” Mallory said.

Crow glanced at Adrian and Charlie before responding.

“Why?” He questioned.

“Like I said, I was supposed to kill you. It was my way of telling them that they could trust me, by giving them an alibi,” Mallory said.

“Why didn’t you kill us, then?” Adrian asked.

“They didn’t say I couldn’t have a little fun first,” Mallory replied.

Suddenly, Ethan and Deke began to yell, and unfamiliar voices joined in the cacophony. Crow ran to the gun closet, fumbling with the two padlocks for a moment before getting the door open. He threw pistols to Charlie and Adrian, before arming himself and aiming upstairs.

Rudy appeared in the doorway with his gun pointed at Ethan’s head, using him as a shield.

“Drop your weapons and back away, or this twink gets his head blown off,” he threatened.

Charlie backed into the corner where he couldn’t be seen. Crow and Adrian dropped their guns once they realized Charlie’s plan. Rudy threw Ethan to the side and started down the steps, his gun locked on the pair. Mallory kept silent.

When Rudy came into his sights, Charlie fired his gun until it was empty. Five or six men flooded into the basement screaming, rifles at the ready. They were left with no choice but to drop to their knees and surrender. As their wrists were being bound, Mallory was freed.

They were forced up the stairs at gunpoint. Ethan and Deke were already bound. Mallory took an apple from the kitchen and ate it while he paced around.

“Get them loaded up,” he said.

They were filed out the door to four black vans parked in front of the house. Crow and Deke were put into one, Ethan and Adrian into another, and Charlie was alone in the last one. He assumed the other one was for the remaining soldiers.

After a few minutes, Mallory climbed into the passenger seat. He threw a duffel bag next to Charlie. Sasha climbed up onto his shoulder.

“Thanks for taking care of her, love,” he said.

Charlie didn’t say a word. His mind was blank, and he found himself dissociating.

“And thanks for taking care of Rudy. Never thought I’d get rid of that fool.”

Mallory didn’t speak to him again for the rest of the drive, besides threatening him whenever they stopped for fuel. Charlie had somehow managed to doze off, and only woke up when the rear doors were opened. He found himself at the compound again. Only, he wasn’t lead inside. He was walked to the runway, where a cargo plane was waiting, along with the rest of his team. A blindfold and a gag later, they were loaded into the plane.

Being in the same position for seventeen hours wasn’t comfortable, to say the least. The cloth dug into the corner’s of Charlie’s mouth, and he wanted a drink of water more than anything. His legs had forgotten how to work after being stuck for so long. He stumbled as he was lead off the plane, and the first thing he noticed was how much warmer it was wherever they were.

It was a long walk until the relief of air conditioning hit him in the face. A few doors opened, until he heard some keys jingle, and he was lead through one final door. His hands were freed, and the door was shut. He ripped off the blindfold and the gag, and was confused to find himself somewhere that resembled a cheap hotel room. There was no window, and the furniture consisted of a twin bed with no sheets, dresser, desk and chair, and a small lamp. There was a tiny bathroom at the front of the room, which he immediately utilized.

Charlie then tried the door, which was of course locked. Not knowing what else to do, he lied on the bed, and tried to make sense of this new situation.

#easton’s unnamed story #whump oc #whump #whump story #whump recapture #recapture #oc #oof #whumpee

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tarithenurse · 4 years

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Spark - 6

Fandom: Enn Enn no Shouboutai / Fire Force. Pairing: Shinmon Benimaru x fem!reader. Content: Denial. A glimpse into the past and into some hearts. Lack of proofing. A/N: Et voilá. Feel free to ASK or reblog for tag – in fact: always reblog <3 Thanks to those who have already <3

6. Ember

... Benimaru ...

Wet drops spray the face of the young captain of Company Seven, startling him back to the present where his friend and mentor waits. Konro is meticulously wiping his hands clean of soapy suds, the melancholic eyes hardened with stubbornness.

“What?” Benimaru sighs.

The senior takes his time to clean up the last thing in the kitchen before making them both a cup of tea, and even if Benimaru is getting impatient he knows better than to nag.

“You worry,” Konro finally states.

Yes. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for several minutes. You’re worrying ‘bout [Y/N]...you don’t like that she’s on her own with Haijima and the Temple after her.”

“We don’t know if they are.”

The risk is huge, though, as rumours are circulating – and not just in Asakusa either: a few “leisurely” visits to bars in neighbouring districts had quickly payed off in the form of whispered gossip. And yeah, the people Benimaru had overheard were all civilians but his distrust of the governing bodies fed into what some would consider conspiracy theories.

“...and I don’t worry.”

Simply smiling knowingly, the older man sips his tea and allows the silence to become the answer. Faint notes of jasmine and camellia cocoon them in an attempt to create a fragile, peaceful bubble. Under normal circumstances that would work. This time, however, one of them men remains jittery, his mind losing a battle against unwanted concerns.

“Why would I even worry? You’ve no reason to think that.”

Konro tries to smother a laugh. “I’ve known you since you were a kid, Beni,” he snickers, “and in all that time I’ve never seen anyone get you as riled up as she does.”

“That’s ‘cause she’s infuriating!”

And she is. Uncooperative, stubborn, reckless, unpredictable, strange, intriguing, resourceful, charming (to those she likes). Fuck. Loath to admit it, the captain has to accept that the list of adjectives would be filled with increasingly positive traits if he were to continue trying to define the woman.

It hardly matters, though. It’s been almost a week and despite the rumours flourishing beyond Asakusa, there hasn’t been a single tangible bit of evidence that [Y/N] is still roaming free somewhere. Maybe, she’s taken his warning seriously and done a proper job at hiding this time, but the risk is great that she’s been caught by either of the authorities for testing.

They’d see her as a blank slate. Someone who clearly has some pyrochinetic ability latent, waiting to be triggered and possibly shaped to fit the needs of the situation in which it arises. She’d be an experiment. A test subject bombarded with horrors until either Haijima or the Temple accomplish what they want...or dispose of her as a failure.

“Listen,” Konro tries to appease, “I don’t want her falling into their hands either and I’ve got both eyes and ears open. Maybe we’ll find her in time.”

... Reader ...

Staring at the paper in your hands, the writing blurs in comparison to the picture of two men with attempted smiles – one of them is holding a framed photograph of a pair of sisters, the other father clenches a plushy. Even if the scene is monochrome you know the singed, floppy ear of the toy rabbit is purple. It’s the stiff way they sit that call forth tears which you angrily wipe away. It’s their eyes focused beyond the camera, at whomever choreographed the whole thing from the way they sit to the text which you still haven’t read. You know it’s not the men’s words anyways, despite what the text claims.

“W-where’d y’get this?”

You hate how shaky your voice is. Hate the slight wince that not even the Joker can hide.

“Let’s just say I’ve got...friends in the right places.” The hesitation is obvious to anyone with trust issues, but you decide not to dig into it. “Don’t worry...daddies are still at home, nice and safe and under surveillance in case you show up.”

How? You’d purposely stayed away for more than a year after having seen them through the anguish of rebuilding a life with both daughters gone. Staying away from the neighbourhood and all the places you knew they might frequent...and still they’d been dragged into a manhunt without knowing half of what was going on. Or do they? No. Haijima and the Temple would tell them a lie, that much is clear from the few lines seeping into your consciousness from below the picture. ‘Kidnapped’, ‘vulnerable’, ‘return her home’, ‘reward’.

“Tell me,” your strange rescuer puffs, “why are you so keen on not getting caught by them? They could help you with your powers.”

You suppose it’s a logical question, one that aligns with the plan you’d come up with once the initial panic and concern had faded away during the first weeks alone:

Squeezed in between the dumpsters, you could only see glimpses of the third special fire force company’s battle against the infernals. You could hear the burning screams; wailing, high pitched, cursing the living while craving their souls. One by one, the fiery beings were extinguished. Latôm.

But your legs were shaking too much for you to crawl out of your hiding spot and all you could do was sit and try to breathe. In and out. Thoughts swirled in your head, obscured by a different kind of smoke, and it was the dry voice of one from the third company that brought your attention back to the world:

“What a shame,” he complained in a hush to another, “I was sure it would work this time.”

“More tests,” was the curt answer, “the more we discover and get control over, the closer we’ll get.”

The words held little meaning to a scared teenager but you understood – no, you wanted to think – they were trying to find a way to stop infernals from appearing.

“The faster they combust, the sooner we can find a new Atolla. Burn the place down.”

“Until then...we managed to get those,” the second consoled icily and you saw his shadow point to two children.

Frightened, crying snot so hard that one of them is hiccup’ing, it was clear they didn’t want to be a part of whatever the men were talking about. The first man, wearing a high hat and glasses over a bird-like mask, bend to look at them, giving you the impression that he might as well have been scrutinizing the craftsmanship of a woodworker rather than human beings.

“They won’t be missed?” he inquired.

It seemed to amuse his friend. “Missed? Who’d miss sticky little maggots like these? Besides, it’s for the Cause.”

A few days later, you saw the red-eyed mother handing out homemade pamphlets with description and picture of one of the children.

A week after that, you saw the kid holding on tight to a hand as they walked down a busy street. Not tight enough, though. The boy cried out in distress at being abandoned at first until the confused sounds morphed into screams of agony as flames sprouted from his eyes, arms, body. As you fled the scene, you could have sworn you saw the masked man retreat into an alley.

“I don’t know much about them, but I don’t trust them. They hurt kids. People.”

The Joker pins you down with a long stare of the crazy eye. “Let’s hope you never find out for yourself.”

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crusherthedoctor · 5 years

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Why Jim Carrey’s Robotnik is The Fuckin’ Man™

Yep, the movie is still on my mind, and I'd say I love it even more with each passing day. Partly because it came as much relief during a time when IDW Sonic is continuing to aggravate me with nearly everything it does with its story and characters, but mostly because I just really enjoy it on its own merits (and unlike some people, I don't need to add “it's no masterpiece...” to every sentence as if I'm secretly ashamed about liking a Sonic the Hedgehog film). While the movie's portrayal of our old mate Robotnik is far from the only reason for why I love the film, he's obviously a huge factor all the same, so I felt like listing a few reasons for why - already - he's one of my favourite incarnations of the doctor yet.

A lot of it can be boiled down to how accurate he is to Eggman's character despite the face value differences, but to elaborate that little bit more:

- He's every bit as physical as Eggman is in the games. It would have been easy for Robotnik to be reduced to a Non-Action Big Bad in a live action role, given how often that tends to happen with similar villains in similar live action installments of similar franchises... But instead, Robotnik actually lives up to his character's habits and takes a very active role in his pursuits, culminating with him facing the hedgehog personally, and putting up a good fight in the process. Compare this to the supposedly more threatening SatAM Robotnik, who spent most of his time twiddling his thumbs and letting Snively do all the work.

- Also like game Eggman, he's stronger than he looks, and he's equally capable of handling himself in a fight. A much larger guy who Sonic had notable trouble with is thrown out a window like it's nothing by Robotnik, and despite getting caught off guard by Tom's attack from behind, he was quick to turn the tables enough for their brief fistfight to be considered a stalemate. And let's not get into whatever it was he apparently did to that school bully...

- While he's every bit the glorious ham you'd expect him to be, his witty remarks can be downright morbid at times. The first thing he does when he sees Sonic's seemingly dead body? Make a crack about PETA animal testing. Absolute legend.

- Not only is he funny and menacing in equal measures, but both sides of his personality seem to be working at the same time in a lot of his scenes, going from one to the other then back again in a matter of seconds. This makes him come off as unpredictable, which definitely adds to the tension involving him.

- The government is clearly terrified of him, treating the mere idea of hiring his services for the blackout investigation as though he's a Horseman of the Apocalypse, and being incredibly quick to give his existence the '06 retcon treatment when it looks like he's gone for good (spoiler: he won't be forgotten for long). But at the same time, they bring him in specifically because they know that he's the only one with the genius to handle the apparent threat that Sonic poses, and their own talk of him having helped out with numerous foreign coups in the past - probably single-handedly at that - is yet more proof that his credentials are no joke. If G.U.N. exists in this universe, they're basically admitting that they ain't shit compared to this one man.

- Despite technically acting on the government's behalf during the events of this film, Robotnik treats the affair in the same way that Blofeld treats his affiliation with Red China: Namely, it's a very transparent means to an end that will ultimately benefit himself more than them, and it's clear at all times that not only is he the one holding the reins, but that they're perfectly aware of this and are simply unable to do anything about it. Considering this is, again, the government we're talking about, that makes it abundantly clear before we even meet him in person that this guy isn't your typical basement dwelling mad scientist whose ambitions far outweigh their capabilities.

- In a Sonic the Hedgehog movie production starring Ivo Robotnik, played to perfection by Jim Carrey, the meme potential is too vast to quantify.

- His drones are essentially Matryoshka dolls of destruction, and they have the tricks and the persistence you'd expect to be saddled with that implication. They highlight the doctor's own determination in catching the hedgehog, and they also confirm his surprisingly keen sense of foresight in dealing with opposition. If only he leant some of that foresight to IDW Eggman...

- His big black truck is actually really badass for an “evil lair”, as the man himself labels it. It's equipped with the aforementioned super persistent drones, it comes with a hangar bay for his sizable hovercraft (which, by the way, just so happens to have an Egg Mobile colour scheme), he can experiment in his lab while he's on the move, and he even has wacky virtual simulators to play around with on the side... and the means to make a latte apparently. It may not have the scale of a Death Egg space station or an Eggmanland theme park, but considering this is an up-and-coming Eggman of sorts, it's a very interesting and impressive choice for the doctor's first humble abode, as it shows that even when he's just starting off, he's already thinking in a different (and cooler) wavelength than most.

- It didn't take him long at all to successfully harness the power of Sonic's quill in a manageable form, meaning he understood how Sonic's speed worked and was able to use it against the hedgehog himself in a relatively small amount of time. If Metal Sonic is ever introduced, he's likely going to be a juggernaut on par with his OVA portrayal.

- Yet another trait he shares with game Eggman: he does not cower. Sure, he might get startled by seeing Sonic for the first time, or accidentally getting creeped up on by Agent Stone, but in terms of legitimate fear, he has none to show for it. Sonic, who he thought was banished to the Shadow Realm killed, suddenly revives himself and takes back his quill by force, all the while throwing one hell of a death glare his way as he becomes supercharged with electricity. How does Robotnik react to this? By putting on his own game face (and his goggles) and staring him down for a final standoff. The idea of running away or pleading for mercy doesn't even appear to register in the doctor's mind.

- Even after going mad upon being stranded on the Mushroom Planet, he remains as determined as ever to reach his goals, and while he may have nothing else on him for the time being other than Sonic's quill, we know for a fact that his return is inevitable, and he'll be hitting twice as hard no matter what he decides to use. His final transformation into a more recognizable Eggman may be born out of isolation and insanity, but despite the circumstance, it's more strangely triumphant rather than tragic or pathetic. He even notes that lesser men would be hopeless in his predicament, and presumably that includes lesser villains as well.

- This face.

I want that face on a T-shirt.

Overall, despite the expected and at times necessary differences for a live action portrayal, Robotnik hasn't actually been watered down in terms of character OR threat level. He's already dangerous enough to risk the safety of the entire planet, and if the stinger is any indication, he's only getting started.

And you know what else? While it's obviously delightful that his resemblance shifts to being more Eggman-like by the end of the film (and the full moustache actually doesn't look too bad on Carrey's face), I don't think I would have minded that much if his appearance remained the same in a sequel, because the core of his portrayal was so perfect and quintessentially Eggman that the differences didn't even click after a while, even as I kept looking at them point blank.

That's how you know the guy did well. Although it probably also helps that his non-Eggman look is considerably more dignified and cool than SatAM Robotnik falling into a vat of concentrated 90's.

#Opinion #Dr. Ivo Robotnik #Sonic Movie

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kimjongdaely · 4 years

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Escape [Chapter 3]

Superhero!AU/Villain!AU

Pairing: Kai x Reader

Warnings: Language, violence, torture

Summary: All your life you were caged and tortured, a never-ending cycle of pain. You no longer remember a life beyond that. All you wanted to do was escape this cruel fate. But finally finding your escape and being saved by a masked criminal was just the beginning of your nightmares. Can you ever really be free?

Chapter 1│Chapter 2│Chapter 3│Chapter 4│Chapter 5

I jolt awake, roused by nightmares. I take a moment to breathe, to compose myself. I take in my surroundings, hyper aware of everything, making sure I’m safe.

I relax slightly when I remember where I am. I breathe, reminding myself of what happened so far, recounting my steps to reassure myself that I’m not in the lab anymore, Dr. Walters can’t touch me here.

I shiver, noting how cold my body has gotten. It’s still dark out, but the sky had begun to turn red-violet as the sun begins to rise.

I rub my arms, hoping to get some warmth back. Perhaps I should move around for a bit and stretch out my limbs.

I pace around the empty building, my steps kicking up dust which makes me cough and sneeze. Okay, maybe that’s a bad idea. I stop my movements, hand over my mouth and nose as I try not to breathe in the dust. The sky is brightening a little more. Since daytime is approaching, it’ll probably be okay to go outside. People will be out and about in no time, and I’ll be hidden among the crowds.

I look down at myself and wrinkle my nose, wondering if there’s any way I can get clothes that aren’t in terrible condition.

I miss Kai’s apartment already, but I shake my head. I’ve gone my separate way, and I must rely on myself. I still need to figure out who it was that paid him to save me in the first place.

I sigh, heading towards the door. I hope no one pays me too much attention. The last thing I need is to catch unwanted attention, like painting a big red target sign on my back. Dr. Walters is looking for me, I know it. I have to be careful with where I go, who I talk to. I must find a way to disguise myself, and this jumpsuit must be the first to go. He probably has trackers on this thing, even in its tattered state.

I step out just as the first rays of morning appear. The warmth is comfortable and very welcome on my freezing skin. It’ll get warmer from here, which I’m looking forward to.

I quicken my pace past the streets, trying not to look at the people sitting and sleeping in the shadows. Some reek of alcohol with sunken eyes, shaggy hair and unshaved faces. Some have grey skin, looking much too thin to be able to function properly. Bottles, cigarette butts and needles are littered everywhere. A woman with two young children huddle together to my right.

My heart aches for them, feeling their pain and suffering. I wish I could do something to help, but I an barely look after myself as is.

A man who looks intoxicated by drugs or alcohol eyes me lecherously, a grin appearing on his cracked lips. I shiver at the unpleasant attention, breaking into a run in hopes me won’t follow. If he does, he’ll be disappointed to find his strength is no match for mine. Still, I don’t want him to start a scene.

As I leave the slums, I notice how the streets are cleaner now. There are a few people present, shop owners chatting as they begin to open their stores, joggers running past, someone on a flower-filled bicycle.

The quiet murmurs of conversation comforts me, the chirping of birds giving me a sense of unprecedented freedom. I take a deep breath of the fresh air, the temperature becoming warmer and warmer. I no longer shiver, my arms falling freely to my sides, and I forget about my strange appearance.

For once, I feel human. Normal. Alive.

I notice glances towards me, conversations change from idle chatter to curious speculation. Who is this young woman, wearing tattered clothes? Is she from the slums? Could she perhaps be a new criminal?

I keep my head down and quicken my pace. Soon there will be even more people, and I hope they will be too busy to pay me any mind. I wander down the streets, scanning my surroundings and noting anything worthwhile. I pass by clothing stores, looking in through the windows and frowning at the prices.

I sigh. Surely there isn’t anything at the grand price of free for a penniless girl like me.

I continue walking, ideas churning in my mind. Is there any way I can acquire a job? But I’m not sure what the standard requirements are, and it would be troublesome if they ask me for any form of identification. Based on government records, I don’t even exist. So honest, lawful jobs are probably out of the question. A hopeful part of me wonders if anyone is nice enough to provide shelter for an odd-looking stranger.

Most likely not. Oh well, onto the next idea.

If honest jobs are not going to accept me, perhaps my only option is something illegal. Or sketchy, at best. I wonder where I can acquire a job like that. The red-light district is always an option. I shiver at the thought, wondering if it’s really worth the risk. They might have jobs that don’t require selling my body, like cleaning or cooking. Frowning, I find myself silly.

I could probably find a labor-intensive job, like at a construction site. Yes, that’s what I’ll focus on.

I pass by an internet café, still closed since it’s too early for them to open. I peek into the dark store, eyeing the computers they have lined up on long coffee tables. If I could access the internet, I would probably find more jobs for hire, but I don’t have the money. Everything boils down to money, a never-ending loop. Where else would jobs be advertised? Magazines? Newspapers?

It’s worth a try, I suppose.

I walk down the street for a while more, looking through windows as they slowly open, and manage to find a convenience store that’s open 24/7. The sliding doors ding when I walk in.

The cashier, a young girl chewing gum and blonde hair tied into a ponytail, looks at me oddly, but doesn’t say anything. I know how awful I look, and she probably thinks I’m some sort of drug addict. I ignore her and sidle into the magazine and newspaper section. I scan through the covers, searching for something that might include jobs for hire. I pick up a few and start flipping through them.

From the corner of my eye, I see the cashier begin to work nearby me, putting things on shelves and checking items. Does she think I’m going to steal something? I roll my eyes and turn my attention back towards the pages. My concentration wanes as I flip through the seventh magazine, not finding anything suitable for me.

I begin to grab an eighth magazine when the cashier clears her throat behind me, plastering on a polite smile. “Hello, may I help you with something?”

I swallow a sigh and turn to her, trying not to look as dead as I feel. “Hi, sorry, I’m just looking through some magazines.”

She nods slowly. “Are you looking for anything specific?”

I sound more snappy than I meant to. “Job advertisements.”

Something changes in her expression and it becomes more sympathetic. I don’t like it. I smile again as best as I can without wanting to kill myself or her, “Sorry, I’ll be quick.”

“Sure.” She shrugs, then slinks away, but I can still feel her eyes on me—you know, just in case I do steal something. I flip through the magazine mindlessly, not even really paying attention to what’s on the page anymore. Some fashion trends, fancy car models, idol gossips…something catches my eye.

I flip back, searching for that page. It’s a job advertisement from Happy Greenbottles, a company that strives to create environment-friendly packaging for all kinds of products; from food products to beauty products. They’re looking for factory workers, and promise free housing and meals. Seems too good to be true, but something about this advertisement screams at me, something odd, something inexplicable.

I doubt they would hire someone like me, but I take my chances. I don’t know why I’m so adamant about this job, but I swirl around and find the cashier who takes a step back in surprise. I hold the page up to her, determined. “Can I borrow a phone please? I really, really need this job.”

“Um.” She looks unsure, eyes darting everywhere as she slowly pushes the magazine away from her face. “Sure, I guess.”

I run to the shop’s phone sitting in a corner on the counter. She watches me as I dial the number on the advertisement, my heart racing when I hear it ring. Three rings is all it took for someone to pick up, a pleasant female voice greeting me, “You have reached Happy Greenbottles. How may I help you?”

“Hello.” I answer, voice squeaking. “I saw your advertisement for hiring?”

“Ah, yes.” She chirps. “We’re in an urgent need of someone right now. Are you thinking of applying? Is it okay if we do a phone interview right now?”

“Sure, that’s no problem.” Oh no, I have no idea how interviews work. What do I say?

“Alright then. First things first, what’s your name?”

I begin to sweat already. “I’m…” I pause, catching myself before I could make a mistake. “…Eve. My name is Eve.”

“Nice to meet you, Eve. I’m Susan. Do you have any previous work experience in a factory or other labor-intensive jobs?”

“Ah, no.” I swallow. I wrack my brain, wondering what kind of answer would be acceptable. What would a normal person say? “I just graduated from college so I don’t have any job experience yet. I’m very strong and have high stamina so I have no problems with labor-intensive work.”

There’s silence on the other end and my stomach drops. Did I screw up? Was that not the right thing to say?

“I see. That’s okay, it’s very difficult for graduated students to find jobs immediately. Trust me, I’ve been there. Where did you graduate from?”

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I don’t know any colleges or any sort of educational institute for that matter. I come up blank, unable to answer or even make something up.

“Hello? Eve, you still there?”

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. This is obviously not going to work. “To be honest I didn’t graduate from college.”

Silence. Yeah, totally screwed.

“So,” Susan starts, her voice sounding strangely interested. “Knowing that you don’t have the necessary qualifications for this job, why did you still call? Surely you were expecting to be rejected.”

“I need this job.” I say, trying not to sound too desperate. “I don’t have anywhere to stay and have no money. I just…I just need to do something.”

“And you expect us to give you the job? Even though we’re a startup company, we have high standards and expectations for all our employees. Why should we hire you, who has nothing to offer us and nothing to back you up? Why are you interested in our company in the first place?”

I frown, having no answers to any of her questions. I shrug, already giving up. “I don’t know, honestly. All I can offer you is hard-work and my best efforts. Your advertisement caught my eye and I reacted. That’s all.”

Here it comes. I sigh, closing my eyes as I wait for the impending rejection. Susan is quiet for a moment.

“Alright, you’re hired.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“I said you’re hired, Eve.” She says merrily. “Congratulations. You can come in for work right away. Do you have a way for jotting down notes?”

“I, uh…” My eyes dart around the counter, wondering if I could use any of this stuff without paying. I’m already using their phone for way too long. The cashier hands me an old receipt and a pen wordlessly, and I thank her vigorously with hand gestures for her help. “Yes, I do.”

“I’m going to read you our address, so make sure you write it down.” I fumble to write down what Susan says, wondering if I’m spelling it correctly. She repeats the address just in case I missed anything, and then bids me goodbye.

I am ecstatic when I hang up, my body feeling light as if I just ascended onto a new level.

“Congrats.” The cashier says with a smile. “Hope it goes well.”

“Me too.” I beam back, stupidly excited. “Thank you so much. If I get paid, I’ll treat you.”

She laughs, waving her hand. “Nah, that’s alright. Jobs are hard to get, I’ve been there. You should go treat yourself, yeah?”

I look down at my tattered jumpsuit and nod. “Yeah, okay.” I thank her again as I leave, a skip in my step.

I search for a street sign, wondering if there are any pointers on how to get to the address. I ask a few people for directions along the way (quite a few actively avoided me and gave me weird looks, but some were very kind). Some even generously searched it up on their phones and showed me a map.

It seems to be quite far, about an hour or two by car, but I can catch up by running in no time. I try my best to stay off the streets and under the shades of buildings or trees as I break into a run, going much too fast for a normal human. I go through any alleyway I can find to hide from the general public, focusing on the direction I need to go so I won’t get lost.

I leave the populated parts of the city, reaching the outskirts where it’s much more secluded. There are lots of big factories here, chimneys blowing dark smoke into the sky. Trucks are littered about, busily transporting cargo to and fro.

I quicken my speed when I see the giant Happy Greenbottles company name on the side of a grey building. Their logo is of a bottle with two leaves poking out from the top and a cute smile plastered on the glass. Cute.

I catch my breath as I slow to a walk, shaking out my nerves as I approach the entrance. I try not to be too self-conscious with my awful appearance. They might turn me away immediately after seeing me.

The glass sliding doors open for me, and I walk in sheepishly. Some workers dressed in protective uniform, bouffant caps and face masks turn to look at me before moving on with their work. I glance around, wondering who I should talk to or where I should go. The clacking of high heels makes me look towards the left, where a woman in a black suit approaches me. Her wavy brown hair reaches her bosom, figure tall and slim. She smiles, “Are you Eve?”

“Ah, yes.” I blink. “Are you Susan?”

“That’s right.” She gestures for me to follow her. She leads me to a man who looks like he’s in his thirties, also dressed in a black suit, his posture more casual and relaxed than Susan, but confidence radiates off him. There are several workers surrounding him, seemingly deep in conversation. Susan taps him on the shoulder, then clears her throat when he turns. His hair is dark with strands of grey hair, his features sharp with striking green eyes. “Sir, this is our new hire, Eve. Eve, this is the founder of Happy Greenbottles, Mr. Gregory Miller.”

He beams at me, shaking my hand heartily and clapping me on the shoulder. “Ah, welcome, Eve! So glad you could make it. You really helped me there—we needed someone urgently to take care of the new batch.”

“Glad I could help, sir.” I manage a small smile, surprised by his friendly attitude.

“Susan, please, show her the basics and have her start immediately. We need to have these out tonight.”

“Yes sir.” Susan turns towards me, her eyes scrutinizing. “Let’s get you a uniform. Follow me.” She heads towards a door to the far back, taking me to what seems like a change room. She grabs some cardboard boxes from tops of lockers, searching through the contents. “Hm…you look like a medium.” She pulls out what seems like clothes folded neatly inside a sealed plastic bag. She hands it to me. “Go ahead and change. If it doesn’t fit, just grab a new size. I’ll be waiting outside.”

It’s a simple t-shirt and black pants, a protective covering worn over them like an apron. It’s easy to move in for any sort of laboring work I might need to do. I step out of the changing room, Susan nodding at me and hands me a bouffant cap and a face mask. I hastily put them on, tucking my hair into the cap. Once I’m done, she’s pulling me along again.

“Alright, your work is in here.” She opens another door, leading me down a long corridor. The wall to my left is made of glass so I can see into the room filled with intimidating machines, conveyer belts, and countless workers busy at their stations. Susan holds the door at the other end for me, letting me pass through first. The room is cool, AC blasting through the air vents. The sounds of the machines whirring is loud, and to me, almost deafening. I wince, itching to cover my ears but that would look like an overreaction for a normal person. I struggle to look neutral as I follow Susan to my station.

“Your job is simple.” She points at a hatch on the back of a machine. “When the machine beeps, lift the hatch and use this—” she holds up an iron rod-like thing, “—and stir the liquid. These are what we use to make the packagings. There’s only a 30 second window, so make sure you don’t slack off and miss the beeps.” She hands me the rod, raising a brow at me, a hand on her hip. “Any questions?”

I shake my head ‘no.’

She nods, looking pleased. “Good luck on your first day.” Then she leaves, and I watch her walk back down the hallway through the glass.

Special thanks to the wonderful Ayla @ninibears-erigom for being a sponsor! This chapter was made possible by you! 💛

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simplepotatofarmer · 4 years

Text

comfort hug #16: welcome home

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dream SMP/Minecraft RP/??? Rating: General Relationships: Technoblade & Reader Words: 1,915 Additional Tags: hugs, fluff, comfort, reader insert, fluff without plot, found family vibes Summary: A platonic Technoblade and Reader fic, for all your soft Techno needs.

*disclaimer: it’s me, ya hug gremlin back at it again for reasons aka sometimes you just want to hug a war criminal and pig and that’s valid. also this is solely about canon/character techno.

ao3 link in the reblog

It’s hard to feel as though you belong.

You had travelled so far, trying to find a place to settle down, somewhere to stay, but each place has pushed you out. You’re not on their side, not a part of whatever community or government they’ve set up, no matter how hard you try to help, try to be kind to them. When you were little, you’d share your lunch with the other kids and then they would run off to play, leaving you alone. You never were sure how to make friends, never sure where you fit into their pretend hierarchy.

And now you don’t know where you fit into the real hierarchy and it makes your chest ache.

The wind picks up, whipping your clothes around and making the tip of your nose twinge with the cold. You rub it with the back of your hand and lower your head as the first few flakes of snow begin to fall. This far into the arctic, if you don’t find shelter soon, you’ll be stuck out in the storm and that’s a recipe for disaster or at the very least frostbite.

Ahead, the faint light of a lantern cuts through the growing dark, outlining a small house.

You hesitate, wondering if it’ll be like every other time you’ve come some place new. Perhaps it’s better to find shelter some place else than feel the disappointment of realizing you don’t fit in, that you don’t belong. But it’s getting colder and you find yourself trudging through the snow and up the stairs. Shivering, you reach out and knock on the door.

From inside you can hear a low voice and movement. Your heart starts pounding in your chest. The door opens. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust well enough to be able to see; the figure is tall, tall enough to block the light from inside the cabin and tall enough to have to bend slightly to fit through the doorway.

Once you can see, your heart stills in your chest and your mouth goes dry.

You thought it was a man but now you realize you were only half right; he stands like a man, is dressed like a man, and is looking down at you with human eyes but that’s where the similarities stop. His ears stick out from the side of his head, the tip of one folded over slightly, and his nose is more of a snout. Tusks stick upwards from his bottom jaw, mouth pulled into a frown.

A pig, you think, and just manage to choke down the nervous laugh that threatens to bubble up. He’s a giant pig.

“—heh?”

The noise is high pitched, confused, and doesn’t seem quite fitting for someone like him.

Looking up, you wonder what to say but before you can, he speaks again.

“Uh uh. No. Not again.”

The door slams shut in your face.

That feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. Once again, you’ll have no place to go, once again you’re being turned away. Wind whistles past you, stopped slightly by the porch’s roof. You’re tired and you can feel the hot pricks of tears in your eyes. You should leave, find somewhere else, but you can’t bring yourself to.

Sinking down, you huddle up on the porch, pulling your jacket around you as best you can. It’s still cold, still lonely, but the wind isn’t as strong and the light from the cabin makes you feel a little less alone. You rest your forehead against your knees and prepare to wait out the night.

The sound of the door opening jerks you awake and you shake off a thin layer of snow as you look up. The pig man stands looking down at you, a scowl on his face that seems more annoyed than angry.

“Alright, get up. I don’t want you freezin’ to death on my porch. Do y’know what that’d do for my property value?”

You blink up at him.

“Well, come on. I’m not gonna stand here all night.”

Your feet slip on the ice as you scramble to stand. He steps aside so you can enter the cabin. Immediately it’s warmer and you breathe a sigh of relief, rubbing your hands together.

“Just don’t touch anything, you got it? I don’t want you messing up my stuff,” he says.

You nod.

“I won’t,” you say, almost saying more but stop.

He’s imposing in looks with scars that speak of either battles fought or dangers encountered but the way he moves around the room, muttering under his breath, makes him seem awkward.

“Sit down, you’re making me nervous just standin’ there.”

You follow his gaze towards a chair in the corner and sit with a bit of a thud.

“You’re not some kind of spy, are you?”

“I—I’m not a spy.” There’s a hint of incredulity in your voice.

“Sounds like something a spy would say.”

You stare up at him, wondering what you could say that wouldn’t sound like something a spy would say and come up blank.

“Okay.”

“Who are you with?”

He moves to stand in front of you, hooves clacking against the wooden floor.

“With…?” you ask, sinking down in the chair a little.

“Yeah, with.”

A tightness grips your chest. You’re not with anyone; that’s why you’re out here, by yourself, trying to find some place to stay for the night, some place you can be safe.

“I’m not with anyone,” you say, voice cracking a little.

“Heh?” The noise of confusion escapes him again and then he narrows his eyes, considering you. “What do you think about government?”

“Uh…” The image of being turned away by someone who claimed to work for the president of one of the places you had tried to seek shelter in flashes in your mind. “I can’t say I’m much of a fan.”

“Wonderful, that’s perfect. I won’t have to kill you,” he says, voice deadpan.

You let out a laugh, nervous, and shift in your seat.

“That wasn’t a joke, I really would have to kill you.” He sits down, the chair near the fire creaking slightly under his weight, long legs stretched out. “So can I ask why you were knockin’ on my door in the middle of the night? It’s just a little bit suspicious, if you know what I mean.”

Looking down, you twist your hands in your lap and shiver. It’s warmer in here but the cold still lingers, the skin of your nose and hands feeling like someone had pricked it with tiny needles.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” you say after a moment. “I just saw the house and—”

The words die in your mouth. It’s too hard to talk about, that feeling of desperation to find somewhere you’re wanted, the fear that you never will, the pain when you’re turned away after trying so hard.

His features soften, a look of resignation and then sympathy crossing his face.

“They exile you, too, huh?”

You don’t have to ask who ‘they’ are.

“No but they said I couldn’t stay, that I had to find somewhere else.”

“Typical,” he says with a snort. “You’re lucky they didn’t try to execute you or steal your horse.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

“I don’t have a horse.”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

Silence falls in the cabin as you stare at your hands, the pig man staring out the window as if he was remembering something unpleasant. There’s so many questions you want to ask but you can’t find the words. Instead you rub your hands over your arms, trying to remove the chill from where its settled in your bones.

“You still cold?”

“A little,” you admit.

He gives a sigh that borders on a snort and stands, grabbing a log from the pile next to the fireplace, setting it across the flames. Tiny embers jump up and after a moment, the log catches fire, spreading both warmth and light into the room.

“No wonder. You have nothing, huh? No gear, that jacket’s barely enough to keep you warm.”

It’s not harshly said, that sympathetic look from earlier now creeping into his voice.

“I did but—I thought I had found a friend so I gave them most of my things. I just wanted to help,” you say and this time you can’t stop the tears from leaking out of the corner of your eyes. Hastily, you wipe at your face.

“See, that was your first mistake, trustin’ other people.”

The way he says it makes you think he’s speaking from experience, an undercurrent of anger. It makes you cry harder despite your efforts not to. He sighs and the creak of the floor and the way a shadow falls across you tells you he’s standing in front of you.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says and crouches down in front of you. “I’m not good when people cry, okay?”

Wiping your face on your sleeve, you give him a shaky smile.

“Sorry.”

“Apologizin’ for cryin’ is almost as bad as the cryin’,” the pig man says, reaching out to awkwardly pat your shoulder and for the first time you realize that he has hands. It wasn’t something you had paid attention to at first. You blink at him as he settles back on his haunches. “Look, it’s great you wanted to help someone you thought was a friend and I think you should keep doing that except when it’s gonna hurt you. I mean, you could’ve frozen death out there. It’s okay to think of yourself first.”

You want to ask him why he cares when he had shut the door on you at first but it had only been at first. He had come back to let you in and you think you know why. Even crouching down the way he is, he’s still taller than you and you have to rise out of the chair a bit to hug him, throwing your arms around his neck. He stiffens.

“You remember when I said ‘hey don’t do that’ about the cryin’? Let’s go ahead and add hugging to that,” he says in a low monotone that you can feel rumble in his chest. Despite the words, he doesn’t push you away, instead patting your back and letting you rest your head on his shoulder until the tears stop for good. “Alright, alright. You’re fine. You can stop now.”

A small laugh escapes you; you don’t mean to, but there’s something about the resignation in his voice, the protest even as he hugs you back, that strikes you as funny.

“See, if you’re gonna laugh, I’ll kick you out.”

An apology almost makes its way past your lips but you stop yourself.

“Thank you,” you say, pulling away, and mean it.

“Ew, gratitude,” he says as he stands but there’s a curl to his mouth, half hidden behind the tusks, that belies the words. For a moment he looks at you and then shakes his head, the braid of pink hair moving as he does. “Alright, fine. You can stay here.”

You perk up.

“Really? For how long?”

“Just until the snow clears, then you’re out, got it? And you’re payin’ rent.”

Smiling, you don’t mention how in the arctic the snow never clears or how you have nothing to pay rent with; he already knows.

“I got it.”

#technoblade #dream smp techno #technoblade fanfic #dream smp #dream smp fanfiction #i have no idea what to tag this as?????#comfort hug series #i'm dyslexic and didn't edit a damn thing i'm so sorry #i'm just depressed and have Feelings

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slasherholic · 5 years

Text

synopsis: Michael gets chained up. You have fun with it. He does not.

contains: gender neutral reader

This is a re-imagining of a fic I wrote at the beginning of this year. That fic never felt very in-character to me so this is my atonement.

Impulse | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

You straddle his lap as he comes to consciousness. He stirs at the sudden contact, his shoulders stiffening, winding with tension. His eyes flutter open and he blinks sluggishly.

When Michael lifts his head, when he makes eye contact with you, the lethargy drains from his body in an instant.

Without missing a beat he tries to lunge for your throat. The length of chain binding his hands behind his back stops him short.

Drugging Michael had been an easy task—you’d simply slipped the sedative into his dinner and let the drug work its magic. A dull thump from upstairs told you when it had worked.

‘Out like a light’ seemed to be the most appropriate expression to describe the state you found him in. He’d managed to smack his face against your nightstand on his way down and give himself a nosebleed, which you hadn’t bothered to clean.

Hoisting Michael’s unconscious body onto the bolted-down chair had been the hard part. To say you’ve been meticulous in your efforts to secure him would be an understatement. His ankles and calves are bound to the front legs of the chair, his wrists and elbows cinched to the back of it. You’ve wound a length of chain around his waist for good measure.

The chair creaks and whines in protest as Michael tests the restraints. They hold, to your immense relief. You study his face and find it blank as ever, frighteningly blank, but his eyes teem with a raw intensity that sucks your breath away. This transgression will not be forgiven.

You feel his thighs and abdomen tighten beneath you, hard as a board. His entire body is poised to strike. You are reminded of the power Michael possesses, of his strength which borders on inhuman, of the ease with which he could snap your neck if he does manage, by some ungodly miracle, to break free from his restraints.

Michael is a caged predator—and he has never been more dangerous.

“Have you ever wondered,” You finally begin, removing the knife you’ve been hiding behind your back—Michael’s own carving knife. Its sharp surface gleams with yellow beneath the fluorescent kitchen lights.

“What it’s like to be helpless?”

Michael stares at you. His breaths come slow and steady. He is wholly unfazed.

You raise the knife to his jaw and rest the flat of it against his skin, aquatinting him with the sting of its cold metal. He doesn’t jerk away from it.

“What it’s like to be afraid?” You continue, and Michael remains motionless as you ghost the blade delicately along his jawline, running it across his burning neck, miming the motion of slitting him from ear to ear.

The cold, patient ferocity in his eyes is enough to make you shiver. Your questions are rhetorical. You already know the answers.

Hoping to take him by surprise, your fingers wind nimbly through his curls. You seize a fistful of his hair, yanking hard. Michael awards you no resistance. You wrench his head backward and force his gaze up to the ceiling. Just above his Adam’s apple is where you press the blade in. Not enough to break the skin—but enough to sting. Enough to hurt.

As if to deny you the satisfaction of a reaction, Michael refuses to struggle.

“I could kill you.” You tell him. “I could kill you right now. Or I could call the police and have the government do it for me.”

Michael stares at the ceiling and he looks almost bored. As if your words hold no value to him. As if the knife pressed against his throbbing pulse means nothing. As if he feels nothing.

You don’t relent.

“Do you think they’re going to lock you up in an asylum again, Michael? After all the people you’ve killed? I highly doubt it.”

At that, Michael’s gaze shifts downwards. His expression is unchanging—but the uncomfortably intense focus in his eyes bores like an icepick into your skull and threatens to freeze your very heart in your chest. Michael’s look is more than a glare; it is his promise of what’s to come.

Your pulse pounds as you dig in the knife a little bit deeper and lean in close, whispering in his ear.

“How does it feel to be helpless?”

Michael observes you passively as you rock the blade into the collar of his shirt. Fabric rips where you cut it harshly away. When you are finished you deposit the blade in your lap and press your palms flat against his bare chest, watching intently as his body draws breath. His chest rises beneath your hands to fill out his broad frame. His skin burns, radiating heat, as if he is immune to the chill of the autumn night. The scene is strikingly intimate—for a moment the circumstances slip your mind. You find that you want nothing more than to touch him.

Your fingers are everywhere, exploring his body in a way that he has rarely allowed, drinking in his strength and tone. You grope the curve of his firm biceps. Run your hands down the solid plane of his abdominal muscles. Trace a delicate finger along his prominent collar bone from one shoulder to the other.

Michael watches, but it is no longer a passive effort. His steady gaze is keen and alert. Hawk-like. He is observing your every move. Cataloging your every breath.

At last your fingers slip below his waistline. You fumble with the zipper of his coveralls. When you free his cock you discover, much to your amusement, that his body has betrayed him. He’s already getting hard. You wind your hand firmly around his velvety shaft and all it takes is a few harsh pumps to bring him fully erect.

Michael’s poker face doesn’t falter. But there’s a stiffness he now holds in his jaw which wasn’t there a minute ago.

You pick up the knife again.

“I’ve always wondered what it might take to make you beg.”

When you rest the frigid blade against Michael’s inner thigh his body clenches—an involuntary response. He’s ticklish here. A fact that you are going to abuse.

“Would you beg me not to cut you?”

You look up at him again to scour his expression for a hint of budding anger, but find none. Michael’s face is stubbornly vacant. Teetering on bored. The question is rhetorical. He won’t beg.

“No, of course you won’t.” You admit. “I know that I could plunge this knife straight through your chest and you still wouldn’t say a word.”

At that you let the knife fall daintily from your fingers and clatter against the tile. Leaning down, you pick up another object instead.

“But Michael, I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson tonight.” You continue.

This new device is long and white. The spherical top of it whirrs to life as you click it on.

“Pain is not the only weapon.”

You watch Michael’s facade of boredom slip. His eyes linger on the curious object for a beat too long. You can see the gears turning in his head as he studies it with morbid intrigue and you know that he is keen enough to piece together what comes next.

He sets his jaw. His strong chest fills with a deep breath and then falls again, the first real reaction you’ve gleaned from him—he’s steeling himself for torture.

“You can stop this at any time. You just have to ask for it.”

When you press the vibrator to the flesh of Michael’s inner thigh he jerks. The chains clank as he strains against them. His biceps flex and his hands wind tightly into fists behind his back. But his stony expression is unchanging. And his steady glare never leaves your eyes. It will take far more to crack his composure.

You take great care to ignore his erect cock as you introduces the vibrator to every inch his groin. It is no secret when you uncover a particularly sensitive spot because Michael’s muscles twitch and clench, betraying his stubborn refusal to react. You linger at these spots, massaging the muscle in deep, slow circles until Michael’s breath catches. His nostrils flare with every heaving intake.

Still, frustratingly, his silence is unrelenting.

It’s time to change that.

His arousal throbs beneath your touch as you take him in your hand, hot and swollen. You give him a few painful pumps to engorge him further and then hover the vibrator just above the base of his shaft. There is a little ‘click’, and your toy whirrs faster—a gesture which Michael seems to notice, because the look now brewing in his eyes is one of stone-cold murder.

“Just tell me when to stop.”

The moment the vibrator meets his shaft Michael’s uncaring facade crumbles. The chair whines and metal clangs together as he bucks like a stallion against his restraints in an effort to throw you off his lap. His strength is stunning—you are forced to wind your legs around his waist to keep from being jostled.

You grip hard at his penis and you don’t let up, stroking up and down the length of his shaft with a slowness that borders on torture. Michael thrashes. His thighs and biceps flex and strain. At this point it would not surprise you if he pulled a muscle in his struggling.

When Michael’s cock begins to weep with a glistening bead of precum you grind the vibrator hard against its swollen tip—and then comes his first vocality.

The heavy sound reverberates up his heaving chest and becomes laced with just a hint of pain. The breaths falling from his mouth turn deep and shuddering. He grunts again, gritting his teeth together to bite the sound back. He’s coming undone.

You realize, that, unsettlingly, still no hint of anger furrows Michael’s features. But his eyes, they are no longer ice. They burn. The raw intensity there sucks the air from your lungs and you know that if Michael were to break free from his chains this very second he would not offer you a quick death. The thought makes you dizzy.

You pump your hand along his shaft and simultaneously massage the head of his cock, rolling the vibrator slowly around the tip. Michael’s body seizes up. His thighs clench, solid as brick beneath you. When a low and feral growl rumbles up his chest you know that he isn’t going to last another minute. And so you stroke his shaft harder, faster, determined to send him toppling over that cliff.

Michael’s body quivers violently as his tortured release spurts out. It is hot and thick and coats your fingers. You don’t take the vibrator away as he comes. You don’t remove your hand either. Instead you pump his cock with more vigor, milking him of every last drop.

When it stops coming, you catch his seething stare. And you look him dead in the eyes. And you click the vibrator higher.

Now begins the real torture.

You trail it down the underside of his overstimulated cock and Michael snaps his head back. Throws out his broad chest. Squeezes his eyes shut tight. The chains around his wrists and ankles rattle as he writhes with a renewed vigor, his efforts never faltering even as angry red marks sear his flesh where the metal chaffes against his skin.

“Michael, stop it.” You scold him. “You aren’t going to break through solid metal. You can end this at any time. You just have to say it.”

Your words go completely ignored. As if he no longer comprehends them. Michael has become a trapped animal in his desperation, reduced to a single instinct; to free himself. To free himself and then tear his captor limb from limb.

When he doesn’t listen you grind the vibrator hard against his scrotum.

“Think long and hard about the choice you’re making right now.”

At last, Michael’s mask of composure slips away. His empty expression vanishes with the suddenness of a fired gun. His brow knits together and he writhes like his body is on fire. The muscles of his groin quiver and tremble.

“You have five seconds to give me what I want.” You whisper to him. “Otherwise I’m going to leave this thing tied to your dick all night and we’ll see if you’re ready to talk in the morning.”

Michael snaps his head forward. He looks you dead in the eyes. And if looks could kill, the one he shoots you would plunge a carving knife straight through your heart.

“Five...” You begin counting.

Michael grits his teeth. And sets his jaw. And wills his body still with incredible restraint. And just glares.

“Four.” You keep going.

And he glares.

“Three, two...”

And he glares.

“One.” You finish.

And Michael says nothing. He does nothing. Gives no further voluntary reaction. He no longer even blinks. His entire body bristles with a murderous rage and every ounce of it is directed at you, and you are sure that he has never needed to kill somebody so badly in his entire life.

And what’s more, he’s made his choice; his lips are sealed.

Nothing you can possibly do will force them open.

You press your mouth into a fine line and you scowl at him, clicking the vibrator off. You’ve had enough of his stubbornness. You bend, picking the carving knife up from the floor, and hover it threateningly over the base of his shaft.

“Start begging right now or I swear to god I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”

Michael doesn’t flinch. He does the opposite. Now that the torturous stimulation has finally ceased the tension ebbs from his strained muscles. He relaxes against the restraints and slumps back into the chair. His chest dips and rises rapidly as he reigns his frenzied breathing back under control. His body glistens with a sheen of sweat, his hair wild and disheveled, clinging here and there to his brow.

It takes less than a second for the blankness to wash over Michael’s face again. It comes as suddenly as a surging tide. Even though you have seen it so many times before you are almost frightened by it now, shaken to your core by the utter lack of fear in his eyes. By the utter lack of anything. There’s nothing there. Nothing but the want—the need—to murder.

Your head and arms are wracked with cold shivers and suddenly your brain has decided that the emptiness on Michael’s face is more than uncanny— it is unnatural. It is inhuman.

Michael sits still in the chair, watching and waiting. Either he doesn’t believe your threat. Or he doesn’t care.

You can’t decide which is more infuriating.

“Now, Michael.” You command, hoping to mask the quiver in your voice behind rising anger. “I’ll fucking do it. Start begging, now.”

Michael stares, and his eyes are pitch-black. Voids. You wonder if he’s even listening to your words. Or if he’s simply entertaining vivid fantasies of your death in his mind, over and over and over again.

You hate to admit it, but Michael is right. You’re not going to cut his dick off. Not before you coax those bull-stubborn words from his lips.

“Fine.” You huff, praying that he cannot see the goosebumps rising along your arms. You produce a handful of thick rubber bands from your pocket. Michael doesn’t fight you as you wrap each around his cock, one by one, securing the vibrator in place.

“See you in the morning then.”

What happens next occurs faster than your brain can comprehend. With an explosive jerk, Michael’s statue-still body comes alive again. He throws his weight backwards into the chair and the force of it nearly sends you toppling to the floor. You cry out in surprise. Your fingers dig hard into his shoulders. You hold on to him for dear life.

There is a horrible screech as bolts twist free from the tile, loosened in the minutes prior by the ferocity of Michael’s struggling. The chair hovers precariously for a moment on its hind legs—and horror sprawls across your face—and something that you can only describe as predatory excitement flashes in Michael’s darkened eyes. It is the primal hunger of an animal that lives only to kill. Bloodlust, in its purest form.

Oh, It occurs to you. I’m fucked.

The chair tips, taking both of you down with it.

The breath is knocked from your lungs as your stomach slams against Michael’s chest. The back of the chair shatters against the tile. Michael’s bindings come undone. In a clatter of metal, he shrugs free of his chains.

His hands are around your throat before he even thinks to right himself. You scrabble at his fingers and make ugly hacking sounds. When he stands, he takes you with him, sweeping you off the ground as if you are weightless.

He lifts you into the air until your kicking feet dangle above the ground. Brings you to level with his eyes.

“Beg.” Michael states.

It is not a request. Not a command. It is a fact.

Beg him not to kill you. Or lose your life.

Tears flare up in your eyes. You can hardly manage the word because his powerful fingers are crushing the voice from your throat. You beg him. But once is not enough. His hands begin to wind tighter. The words dribble from your mouth, strangled and desperate, over and over and over again. You beg him even as the encroaching blackness overtakes your vision.

“Please—please, please, please please please—“

Then, abruptly, the words die on your lips. Because you stare into Michael’s cold, dark eyes. And what you see there makes you realize that whatever revenge he has in mind most certainly does not include a quick and easy death.

And no amount of begging is going to change that.

Afternote: Yes, I am notoriously bad at keeping my promises when it comes to two-part fics. But I am determined and horny and that is a very dangerous combination. So prepare yourselves.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #Slashers #slasher x reader #Halloween #fanfiction #writing #horror #Self Insert

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managingmymuse · 3 years

Text

employment

for writer's month day 2: coffeeshop AU

(original work, time-traveler universe)

No one in my family had ever really had a job.

We worked, of course. Running the farm was an entire summer's worth of back-breaking labor. Our portion of the homestead, too, required a lot of work to keep and maintain. When we were away, in another town or another century, we took on odd jobs to keep ourselves fed. In the pre-industrial age, my mother and sister and I took on laundry and mending, while my brother and my father hired themselves out as hands. Sometimes we'd stay for a week, other times for a whole season, but no matter where or when we were, there was always work to be found.

But that was the pre-industrial age. I was beginning to discover that the twentieth century was a lot harder to work around.

"Do you have your social security card?" the woman behind the counter asked.

I was standing in the pleasantly blank hallways of a large department store. The carpet was a dingy peach, and the walls had a magic-eye-like pattern to them. The faint sounds of classical music drifted through the air, piped in from a speaker that I hadn't yet been able to locate.

I shifted uneasily on my feet. "My what?"

"Your social security card," she said. "It's a blue card about this big." She held up her thumb and forefingers about three inches apart. "It's a government document."

"I don't think I have one," I said slowly.

The woman behind the counter popped her gum. "Sure you do. Everyone has one. It's probably at your parents' house."

"Right," I said, already thinking of how I could lay my hands on someone else's. "Can I call them and get back to you?"

"You sure can." The woman blew another bubble and removed the clipboard containing my half filled out job application. "You don't need to start today, do you?"

"I can't start without the card?" I asked. "Really?"

"Yeah," she said. She gave me a sympathetic smile. "It's corporate policy. We get in big trouble if we hire you without it. But don't worry, we've got tons of available positions. Come back with it by next week, and we'll start you on the floor. Okay?"

I pressed my hands flat against the counter, struggling to take deep breaths. "I don't think I'm going to be able to get the card that fast," I said. "My parents... they live out of state."

"They haven't lost it, have they?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea."

The woman stared at me over the counter. Her jaw worked furiously, but her eyes held sympathy. "You can always write to the records office where you were born if your mom can't find it," she said. "Though that's going to take longer."

"I really need this job," I said. "I can't... I don't know if I can wait a week.

The woman tilted her head to the side. I don't know if she sensed my desperation or not, but she must have felt bad for me, because she pressed up on her toes, looking out into the empty hall behind me before rummaging around on the counter for a piece of paper.

"Okay," she said. "You didn't hear this from me, but I've got a friend in town. Her name's Sherri. She owns a little place down by the university. Java and Jams. You ever heard of it?"

I shook my head, and the woman wrote down an address. "Sherri's got a bit of a bleeding heart. You tell her you've got no papers, and she'll probably take you on."

"You think she has a job for me?"

"Fall term is set to start in another week," the woman said. "I know she's got a job from you." She smiled brightly. "Tell her Karen sent you."

"Karen," I said.

She pointed to her name tag and smiled again. "That's right. You take care now, dear. And if you do get your card and you still want to a job, well, give me a call."

She extended a card to me along with the paper she'd written the address on.

"I... thank you," I said.

"No trouble," she said.

Behind me, the sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of someone else. Karen straightened up, smoothing her vest down over her shirt. "Well, miss, if that will be all?"

I glanced at the corner, and a man, heavy-set and wearing a thick tie, came into view. Karen's manager, if the squinty look in his eye and his name badge was to believed. "Thanks for your help," I said, before disappearing down the crowded aisles of the store.

It was a forty minute walk from the mall to the university district in the center of town. On an ordinary day, I would have hated it. But today it gave me some time to think.

Some time to think about how screwed I was, that is. I'd been in the 1985 for three days now, and already my supply of emergency rations was running dry. I hadn't planned to come here, so I didn't have any kind of modern currency on my person. Before my jump, I'd been in pre-colonial America, and the things the Iroquois had traded-- corn and squash and tobacco-- wouldn't get me anything here.

(Also, they were precious difficult to carry; say what you will about the modern capitalist economy, but it did make emergency funds easy to carry around).

I'd lucked into a place to stay, an apartment that was, blessedly, vacant. But if the calendar on the wall was to be believed, the professors that lived there would be coming back, and soon. I had to find a new place to stay, and enough money to buy it with. Not to mention a little extra to buy some food to eat.

My stomach rumbled even as I thought about it, and the sound tempted me to just jump home. To find a nice, shadowy alleyway, cross my fingers, and jump. But even as my stomach begged me to do it, my mind pulled back on the idea.

It wasn't that I didn't have the juice for it; after three days' rest, I had the stamina to jump back five hundred years at least, let alone a paltry one hundred. But the last time I'd jumped, Micah had found me. Not after an hour or a day or a week, but immediately. Within moments of my arrival.

I supposed I was lucky he hadn't turned up here. That I hadn't turned a corner and run smack into him. But even though I was in the clear-- for now-- I couldn't help but worry that by jumping to the Homestead, I was endangering everyone within it. Turning our only safe haven into a trap we couldn't escape.

A shiver rolled down my spine, even in the afternoon spine. I'd jumped with with Micah literally on top of me that last time. His knee had held me down while his hands wrapped around my neck. If I'd been anyone else-- my brother, or my mother, even -- I'd be dead now. I would have been too drained from the last jump to jump away.

But I was a freak among freaks. Damaged almost too far for repair. I screamed and kicked and fought, and somehow I drew in just enough air to pull it down into my middle. To speak the words to send me away.

I hadn't been terribly concerned with where at the time. I certainly hadn't been thinking of 1985. But apparently my subconscious was ready for hair bands and spandex, because here I was.

It wasn't a bad place to be, I told myself, as I turned onto the coffee shop's street. It could have been worse.

The coffee shop was tucked away in a Tudor-style building that looked more like a home than a shop. Though it stood on a relatively busy street, it had a front garden fit for the suburbs. Wildflowers grew in great plumes on either side of the walk. A sign hanging from a wooden post in the yard read "Java and Jams."

I sighed and started for the door.

At nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, the place was almost empty. A man sat behind a bistro table in a corner reading a book and nursing a cup of coffee. A woman with frizzy red hair in a bun swept the floor in the middle of the room.

She looked up when I entered and set the broom down. "Need an afternoon pick me up?" she asked. "Today's special is the Colombian blend."

I wrinkled my nose. "No, no thank you. Are you Sherri?"

She wiped her hands on her apron, red and splattered with what looked like foam. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Allison," I said, putting a hand over her chest. "Karen sent me. From the mall."

Sherri tilted her head to the side, and the resemblance between the women instantly resolved itself. Sisters. They were sisters. "You looking for a job?"

"If you're hiring," I said. "I didn't see a sign."

"I don't advertise much," Sherri said. She sighed and moved behind the counter. "What was wrong with the mall? Don't you want to work in that over air-conditioned tundra?"

I risked a smile and stepped closer. "Karen said she would hire me if I came back with my social security card," I said. "But I... I don't think I have one."

Sherri's eyes flashed wide in alarm. She glanced over my shoulder at the man in the corner. He was still deeply absorbed in his book. "Well then. Have you ever worked in a coffee shop before?"

I suspected that doling out cups to hungry miners in California didn't count. "I've done some food service before with my family," I said. "But not coffee."

"Well." Sherri sucked on her teeth, looking me up and down. She must have decided something, because she nodded once, fiercely. "You seem a good sort. I can give you a try. We can fit in two weeks of training before the poets come back."

"The poets?" I asked.

Sherri's lips spread into a broad, genuine smile. "That's who mostly comes in here, in the first weeks of term. It's poets and novelists, starving and otherwise. They come to discuss literature and human misery. It's all quite dramatic."

I gaped at her, but the sparkle didn't leave Sherri's eyes. "We'll have college students later in the term, too," she said. "They don't usually show up until they've got midterms, though. Are you at the university?"

I shook my head. "Not yet."

Sherri looked at me, thoughtfully. "Well then. Two week trial. Cash okay? We'll do under the table unless you've got a bank."

A sigh of relief bubbled up from my stomach. "Cash is great," I said. "When can I start?"

Sherri untied her apron, pulled it off her neck, and offered it to me. "Right now. There's only an hour until we close up-- summer hours and all that-- but I think I can run you through the basics. Does that work?"

I tied the apron behind my back. "That works," I said. "That works really well."

#writersmonth2021 #writing #my writing #writeblr #fantasy #wip: time travelers

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h3rmitsunited · 4 years

Photo

He Ruined My Life (But Todd, Did He? Did He Really?)

Read On Ao3

Todd smiled slightly at the middle finger his sister flashed at him before closing the door behind her. It was a very normal move for her, despite the shambles that their relationship was in, and the fact that she had even bothered to talk to him at all gave him hope that maybe there’s a way to fix things eventually. Todd let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in, as he let Amanda's surprisingly wise words wash over him. Dirk's face flashed in his mind, the hurt and shock and pain distorting his expression when Todd had spoken to him cruelly ripped him apart hours earlier... or days ago...out at that pier. Todd rushed into the bathroom, fighting back a sick feeling in his stomach, huffing and gasping over the sink, and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. His own words echoed in his ears.

You're a monster. You ruined my life. You deserve to be alone.

It wasn’t Dirk that deserved those words. Todd glared into his own eyes in the mirror. Todd could feel his self-destructive tendencies blazing inside him, his mind swirling with self-hatred.

Asshole, you're such an asshole, you always do this, Dirk stayed after you told him what an asshole you were and you just drove him away, you treated him like crap, you deserve to be alone, he deserves so much better than you, God, you're such a piece of sh-

Todd squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands hard against his face, shaking his head. He remembered Amanda looking down at him yesterday morning right before she climbed into that van and left him behind.

You're exactly the piece of shit everyone thinks you are.

The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar to him, it had soaked into every part of his life, and he had been drowning in it for years. Even before Amanda’s first attack, he felt it, less then than he did after her attack, but he couldn’t deny that most of his sober moments were spent wallowing in shame and self-hatred and guilt, even if he did nothing to change that part of who he was. His selfishness had won out every single time until Amanda had become a part of it.

But the question was how does he move forward now? The glare of his eyes in the mirror had faded, replaced by a sad exhausted resignation that weighed his whole body down. Todd sighed, and turned, looking back out of the bathroom at the destroyed remains of his apartment, at the spot Amanda had been standing a few minutes earlier. She was right, of course, as always. He had always thought that she was way too smart, definitely much smarter than he’s ever been. He shook his head. She was right about Dirk. She was right and he screwed it all up. Dirk had come into his life for a reason. Dirk had made him better. Dirk hadn’t let him wallow in his self-deprecating crap, and in barely over a week, Dirk had completely changed his life. Most importantly, Dirk definitely didn't deserve any of the shit that Todd had said to him.

Todd’s stomach clenched as another nauseating wave of guilt crashed over him. He needed to fix things, to make things right with Dirk. Even if Dirk deserved a much better friend than Todd, he was all he had, for now...well and Farah, probably (Todd wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to talk to them about later...she may have decided that Dirk’s special brand of crazy bullshit was too...crazy for her). Todd felt an unfamiliar burst of certainty, a feeling he experienced more since meeting Dirk, and rushed to grab what he needed from his apartment before running out the door.

_____________

The weight of his backpack straps pressed into his shoulders and grounded the swirling angsty thoughts clouding Todd’s mind. Now walking up to the hospital entrance from the bus stop, he could only manage to focus on the ache in his body. Surprisingly, spending 8 days straight running, falling, jumping, digging, running more, getting hit, shot at, and electrocuted can make your muscles a little bit stiff, especially if you’ve spent the last... 10 years barely exercising more than going up and down the stairs to your apartment and running to the bus stop. If this is what every case with Dirk was like, Todd would get into shape very quickly... if Dirk even wants me around, his mind reminded him bitterly. He shook the thought away, glancing up as he passed by a serious looking man with a mustache who gave him a strange look and kept quickly walking away. Something in Todd’s chest tightened, though he wasn’t sure why, and he turned back and watched the man walk into the parking lot, back to a large black SUV illegally parked by the curb with government plates. Todd hoped that wasn’t anything to do with Dirk, but with everything that had happened to him the last few days, he knew better now than to ignore a coincidence. He turned back and rushed into the entrance.

His head swam as everything hit him at once. The nothing smell, the flurry of noises, coughs and cries from the people in the waiting room sitting with squirming children and talking in hushed and strained voices on their phones, the rush of the nurses behind the desk at the front, the overwhelming sense of tension, everything brought him back to the last time he was in a hospital, that first time Amanda had an attack seven years ago. The tightness in his chest squeezed even tighter. He could hear that frantic voicemail his mother had left as they rode in the ambulance to the hospital, Amanda’s terrified screams in the background, he still had it saved on his phone. He hadn't bothered to answer when they called. He remembered waking up and hearing it ring, looking at the phone screen blearily before turning over and falling back to sleep. He didn't check the voicemail until hours later, as well as dozens of frantic texts and multiple more missed calls, and when he heard what his mother was saying, he ran to the bathroom and vomited, telling himself it was because of his hangover and not the heavy pit that suddenly dropped into his stomach. The rush to get to the hospital was a blur. He remembered driving way too fast, and that was about it. When he finally arrive, his parents barely registered his haggard appearance, barely registered him at all, his mother just broke into rambling anxious explanations of what happened and what the doctor said and every test they were doing, and that Amanda was sedated because she wouldn’t stop screaming, wouldn’t stop clawing at her skin, her eyes terrified, shouting about the bugs crawling into her mouth, her eyes, her nose, under her skin. His mother cried. His father stood, eyes blank, glazed over, but his hands shaking. Todd barely registered anything after that. He stared silently at his sister, his baby sister, small and frail in the hospital bed, her arms strapped down, dark red scratches across her skin. His mind went blank, for what must have been hours, until the nurse came in and gently let them know they would need to leave for the night, and they would call if anything changed. He had gotten in his car and just screamed and sobbed and pounded his steering wheel.

Todd’s mind returned to the present, but he could still feel the ghost of the ache in his hands from that steering wheel. He forced his thoughts away, knowing that if he let himself, he would get lost in the memory. Things are different now. You're here for Dirk. You're here to make things right. He marched up to the front desk, waiting politely until one of the nurses glanced up and smiled, catching the exhausted look in his eyes. Todd noticed the ice cream cones on her pink scrub top and absently smiled, thinking of Dirk's ties. The nurse brushed a strand of hair that had come out of her ponytail out of her face and cleared her throat.

"How can I help you?" Todd took a moment to register what she said, he opened his mouth gaping at her for surely too long before he responded.

"Dirk-!" He blurted out when he remembered why he was there. He cleared his throat, embarrassed at his sudden outburst. The nurse watched him curiously, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Sorry... long night," he mumbled and coughed into his hand. "I’m.... uh...I'm here to see Dirk... Gently. Last name, Gently, First name, Dirk? He was brought in... last night...or...earlier today?” Spending half of the day yesterday traveled back to 8 days before made telling what time anything was slightly more complicated... It was at least dark when they got to the Spring Mansion though, so.... “Last night, I think...Detective Estevez brought him in, he had some arrows in his shoulder... lost some blood...a lot of blood." He shivered remembering the sight of Dirk's shirt under his blue jacket, just soaked in his blood. His face had been so pale. It was not pretty. Amanda’s words replayed in his head. He glanced back up at the nurse who was now typing into the computer, seemingly ignoring the rest of his rambling before she looked back up at him.

"Right, Dirk Gently. Are you family?" Todd stuttered.

“Uh... not really...” She narrowed her eyes again. “We’re...” He struggled to define what they were. Were they still friends? Assistant and his detective? He couldn’t very well tell her he was an assis-friend... “Partners.” Good enough, he supposed, and technically mostly true.

The nurse seemed to soften slightly, and Todd suddenly realized the alternate implication of what he said. He blushed but didn’t bother to correct the assumption.

“Name?”

"Todd. Todd Brotzman, spelled B-R-O-T-Z-M-A-N.” She started typing again. Todd pressed up against the edge of the desk, tapping his fingers anxiously. "Is he okay? I mean, he was in bad shape, really bad, and I'm just... worried, you know? He doesn't have anyone else."

Her eyes crinkled into a sympathetic look. He watched as her eyes turned back to the computer and scanned the screen. She nodded and smiled.

"He came out of surgery about an hour and half ago. He's resting in his room. Should wake up once the anesthesia wears off, but he's stable. He’ll be okay." She glanced back at the screen. "Room 315, you can take those elevators," she pointed to the hallway to the left, and Todd could see the silver doors of the elevators, "up to the third floor, and follow the signs. There's another desk up there if you get lost." Todd nodded appreciatively and started to walk away. "Oh, and you may have company, looks like his father came in to see him earlier, doesn’t look like we have a check out time for him yet." Todd felt the pit in his stomach return.

"What?"

"His father?" The nurse responded, she glanced back at the screen. "Scott? Had some military ID?" Todd tried to wipe the look of panic off his face and nodded again, more forcefully. The black SUV with the military plate, the man with the moustache, that involuntary clench in his chest. He knew it had meant something.

"Thank you for your help." He managed to bite out before walking quickly over to the elevators.

Blackwing. Dirk hadn’t told him much about the organization, but Todd knew enough to know that it was bad news if they were paying him a visit here. Todd remembered back to a few nights ago. Dirk had spent way too long just "getting his magic lightbulb from the car", and when Todd found him at his car, Dirk was completely out of sorts. Dirk had confessed Blackwing had come to bring him back in again, that they had held him captive as a child, had spent years studying him. Todd couldn't forget the haunted look in Dirk's eyes when he said that name, or the terrifying ease that he vanished the expression from his face when they walked back into Todd's apartment, only shooting Todd a warning glance that Todd understood to mean, 'keep that to yourself.' A couple days later, while they drove back from the nature preserve with Patrick Spring’s machine in the back of the jeep, Dirk had gone into more excruciating detail as to the extent of what “studying him” meant in Blackwing terms. Todd had been grateful then that he was driving, his hands gripped painfully tight on the steering wheel, allowing him to keep his eyes trained on the winding roads, while Dirk bared his painful past to him. The fear in Dirk’s voice had sent a chill up Todd’s spine, and he burned with anger about what Dirk, and all those children had gone through because of what Blackwing thought they could be molded into.

The elevator doors dinged, and Todd waited as an orderly pushed an empty wheelchair out into the hallway. He could almost have laughed as he pressed the floor number, recalling his strange elevator experience several days ago that started all of this... strangeness. Todd’s panic escalated as the painfully slow elevator moved up the floors. What if Blackwing was here to take Dirk? What if he was already gone? What if they grabbed him after his surgery? He’s all alone. He thinks I hate him. The elevator let out another tinny ding and the doors scraped open. Todd followed the signs down the hall towards Dirk's room. The hospital noises closed in around him, the soft beeping, mechanical hums, and quiet television sounds pressing in, sending a chill across his skin. He rubbed his hand over his sleeve, willing the goosebumps away. He could see the number on the wall at the end of the hall. 315. The door was closed. He wondered what he would find behind it. If Dirk would be surrounded by strange men, clad in black, toting guns, pulling him away... it was ridiculous to think, but they had traveled in time yesterday, and switched a dog and a girl’s soul, so it was less ridiculous than some things... Todd took a breath and paused for just a moment before he pushed open the door. The breath choked him in his throat.

The bed was empty. It was empty.

He was too late.

They took him. That man in the parking lot. Todd felt his anger sparking up inside, but it was drowned out by an overwhelming feeling of guilt and sorrow.

They took Dirk, and he would never know how sorry he was for what he said. That he didn't think he was a monster, that he didn't deserve to be alone, he deserved friends and people that cared about him. Todd struggled to catch his breath. He needed to go, needed to try to find that man, to find Dirk. Todd felt his eyes start to prickle again when someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Todd flipped around quickly, half expecting Dirk to be standing there grinning at him. He came face to face with a nurse, one hand holding a purple clipboard. She looked at him confused.

"Sir?" Todd pulled back, glancing around at the empty room.

"Sorry. I thought-" His voice crackled with emotion. "My friend-" Todd looked around the empty room, his expression lost. The nurse looked back at him carefully.

"Why don't we make sure you're in the right room, before assuming the worst, dear." She guided him out of the empty room, down the hallway, to the nurse’s station. "What's the name?"

"Todd-" He replied absently before realizing what she meant. "Sorry, Dirk. Dirk Gently. He had... arrows...blood." Todd turned back again to the door to the empty room. The numbers mocked him from the wall. "Downstairs, she said 315." He heard the nurse let out an exasperated sigh, and he turned quickly back to her.

"Sorry, hun." Todd braced himself, expecting the worst. She continued talking. "Someone typed the room number wrong.” She rolled her eyes. “He's in 310."

"Really?" Todd asked incredulously, overwhelming relief filling his body. The nurse clacked away at the keyboard, presumably fixing the error in the system, and then looked back at Todd.

"Yeah, typos happen. He's okay though. By himself again, his other visitor left not too long ago."

"He's still in there?" Todd asked, gazing blankly down the hall, only half paying attention.

"No, he left..." The nurse responded impatiently. Todd looked back at her confused. "His visitor left," she said more firmly.

"No, uh, sorry, Dirk? Dirk's still in there? He didn't leave with...anyone?" The nurse rolled her eyes, shook her head.

“No. He’s just barely out of surgery. He can’t go anywhere until the doctor clears him to leave. You’re Todd Brotzman, right?” She asked, her fingers clicking over the keyboard. “His…partner?” Todd’s heart stuttered, but he nodded.

“Yes. I’m his…partner. Todd.” She smiled and typed something else into the computer.

“Great, well, he’s very lucky to have you. I’m sure he will be happy to see you when he wakes up.” She said with a wave down the hall to Dirk's room. She walked back around the desk and started pulling files from the shelves. Todd watched her for a moment and realized that he had been dismissed. He could feel the panic rising again, the sound and the smell and the sight of the hospital was bringing back that heavy guilty weight in his body. The sound of his mother's high-pitched frantic voice when she saw Todd walking into the hospital. How she had looked at him like she had failed, that she had condemned both of her children to have to (as far as she knew) suffer with this horrible disease. Todd blinked the memory away, staring back down at the empty hallway.

He walked quickly towards Dirk’s room, expecting to have the same hesitating moment before pushing open the door, but it was already open, and just as the nurse said, somewhat anticlimactically, there he was. Alone. No obvious Blackwing threatening him. No serious moustache man looming in the corner. Just Dirk.

Todd let out a heavy breath, and felt his muscles relax slightly. He stepped quietly into the dimly lit room, and pulled the door shut behind him, blocking out the triggering sights and sounds and smells outside, and allowing himself the small reprieve and comfort of closing him and Dirk away from the rest of the world, for just a moment. Todd's ears rang in the stark quiet of the room. The only sound was the steady beeps of the machine hooked up to Dirk, and the soft puff of his breath. It startled Todd to realize how relieved he felt to hear Dirk breathing. Todd stepped further into the room. He felt nervous. Why did he feel so nervous? Looking over at the heart monitor, he was suddenly very glad that he wasn't the one hooked up to that thing. Given the pounding in his chest, he was sure it would be beeping like crazy. He stopped at the end of Dirk's bed, picking at his fingers.

Dirk was so still, and quiet. Sleeping calming, his expression was smooth, the blood and grime now carefully cleaned from his skin. Todd could see the white of a bandage sticking out from the collar of the pale blue hospital gown. He stepped closer, reaching out to smooth the hair sticking up at the edge of Dirk’s forehead, but he stopped, and pulled his hand away before he could brush over the auburn hair. His mind recalled his harsh words, and his guilty pit pressed down in his gut. Todd stepped away, back to the end of the bed, his nerves sparking with nervous energy. Desperate for a distraction, he quietly picked up the chart hanging on the end of Dirk’s bed, his eyes scanning over the name at the top. Gently, Dirk. For some reason, he felt calmer, just knowing it was actually Dirk, given that this quiet man in the hospital bed was drastically different the Dirk that Todd had come to know. He scanned quickly through the notes in the chart, catching some familiar words, but most of it was just gibberish to his medically incompetent and extremely distracted brain. He relaxed reading a line at the bottom stating that Dirk was stable and could be discharged later today once cleared by the doctor. Todd carefully placed the chart back on the end of the bed and looked back up at Dirk.

Something about being in a hospital bed makes everyone seem so fragile. He remembered how Amanda looked, all the tubes and monitors and cords, the straps around her arms. Dirk was fortunately lucky enough that he wasn’t dealing with pararibulitis, and his injury didn’t require him to be restrained in order to keep him from hurting himself while he recovered, but Todd still felt the same sick weight in his gut looking down at him in the bed. He just looked wrong. Dirk was supposed to be bright and alive and speaking ten million words a minute jumping from idea to idea. This man was too quiet, too gray. He looked ten years younger, and ten years older at the same time. In the dim light of the window, Todd could make out the dark shadows lining his eyes, and red of the healing burns on his face that Todd fondly recalled gently covering with those stupid pink bandages. Todd shifted on his feet and the weight of his backpack reminded him of the precious items he had brought, a peace offering. He hoped that the familiar color would bring the vibrancy back to his friend. Dirk didn’t look right without it, and the pale, ‘almost died several hours ago from blood loss’ look of his skin made Todd feel nauseous.

He noticed a chair resting at the edge of the wall and pulled it forward, slightly closer to the bed, but not too close. Todd's stupid, angry, ‘projecting his own shit on other people’ brain sort of messed things up, and he wasn't sure if Dirk waking up to Todd much closer than he was would be a comfort... or an unwelcome surprise. Given everything Dirk had said and done since Todd met him nine days ago, Todd definitely should have known the answer to that question, but he was never the most emotionally competent person, and he preferred to blatantly ignore the idea that someone might actually like being around him in favor of self-flagellating from across the room.

His body still buzzed with anxious energy as he sat down, but he could feel the creep of exhaustion pulling at the edges of his consciousness. He shook his head, trying to force himself to stay awake, and shifted to pull his backpack off. He pulled out his phone and texted Farah a quick update on Dirk and the possible Blackwing visitor earlier. A moment later, he could see she started typing, and waited until her response popped up. She texted, 'ok we'll talk about it at the diner later. lots to discuss.' Todd responded with a quick 'sounds good. will let you know if anything changes.' Send. A thumbs up from Farah. Todd stuffed the phone into his pocket and dropped the backpack on the floor. He leaned back in the chair and sighed, glancing out of the window through the thin gaps in the window shade. His heartbeat and breaths slowly synced up with the beeps of Dirk’s heart monitor and Todd barely noticed as the edges of his vision darkened and he faded into sleep.

Dirk shifted in his sleep, shifting his wounded shoulder, sending a burst of pain into his nerves, and he woke up with a soft gasp. He could hear the beeping of the heart monitor slow down as the pain receded into a dull ache and he took in his surroundings. He barely remembered the detective man dragging him into the hospital...whenever that had been, hours or days ago, he remembered a lot of blood, and being very tired and then he was here. It was rare for him to be somewhere so quiet, the dim lights and the sterile room, the almost oppressive silence, and the aching feeling in his body reminded him uncomfortably of his time at Blackwing. But this is the hospital. He’s not at Blackwing. He’s in the hospital. Even if Colonel Riggins… His heart started to race, mind spiraling into paranoid thoughts, and he felt his breath catch in his lungs, until his eyes landed on the chair across the room, slightly hidden in the shadows, holding his lightly snoring... friend? Ex-friend? Assis-friend? Todd. He felt a wave of relief. Todd wouldn’t be in Blackwing. His panic faded from his vision, and he heard the heart monitor’s frantic beeping slow. Dirk stared at Todd, he knew Todd would have felt uncomfortable by it if he were awake, but he’s not awake, so… he stared. He’s quite surprising, not at all what he expected when he first saw Todd at the Perriman Grand as he ran up to the penthouse, though in his life, he should be used to not having any sort of expectations for anything, since they mostly always end up completely wrong in very strange and unexpected ways, so… Dirk fought to quell the fluttering of hope threatening to overtake his mind, the hope that Todd brought by sitting there across the room. He reminded himself of Todd’s words. How angry he had been. That he never wanted to see Dirk again… It’s not like it should be surprising. Dirk had learned a long time ago that people didn’t stick around him, they got tired of him and his weird behavior, his chaotic life, even if they acted like they liked it…or liked him. They always left. And he would be alone. Just like he always was.

Dirk frowned and looked back at Todd. But maybe… he didn’t have to be alone? Todd let out another soft snore and shifted in the chair. Dirk wondered what could have made Todd return. They had solved the Spring case. Sent the machine back. Presumably, Farah took Lydia somewhere, maybe the detective man was helping her… but Todd, here was Todd, sleeping in his hospital room, waiting for… something. For what? Another case, always another case to solve. The Todd case, a particularly difficult one. Dirk thought through the facts. What he knew about Todd. He was unemployed, and his apartment was practically unlivable, perhaps he wanted to stay in Dirk’s new apartment until he could figure out what to do next? No, that would require spending time around Dirk, and he had said he never wanted to see him again. Maybe, something with Amanda? Perhaps he still hoped Dirk could fix things for him, could help with Amanda… somehow? The time-travel bit didn’t work, but maybe Todd thought something holistic might help? That could be it, right? Dirk watched Todd’s eyes twitch in his sleep. Dirk frowned and shook his head slightly. No, but Todd knew, he saw how Dirk’s… ‘thing’ worked. He knew that it didn’t work like that. Dirk sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. His heart sank. Maybe Todd was still mad at him. Maybe he just came here to make sure Dirk knew he was serious about what he said. To say good-bye. Dirk pressed his head back into the pillows. He was exhausted. His shoulder throbbed with a dull and slowly sharpening ache. His head swam with the remnants of whatever anesthesia and medications they had given him. He just didn’t have anything else to give, and he certainly wasn’t looking forward to being shouted at again, or called a monster, or blamed for all the extraneous side effects of the case, things that he had no control over… He took a breath, letting the familiar tingling waves of the universe come to life in his nerves. The ever-present push that guided him where he needed to go, that told him where he was supposed to be was quiet, resting…satisfied. This was where Dirk was supposed to be. He sighed, resigned to whatever fate would bring him next. He’d never had control over his life before, so no use trying to force it now.

He swallowed thickly, his dry throat immediately protesting, and he coughed. He flicked his eyes to Todd, hoping the noise didn’t wake him, and gratefully, it didn’t, delaying their inevitable conversation when he finally did wake up. Dirk glanced around the bed for some sort of call button, smiling triumphantly finding it on the table beside him, (and wisely placed on his uninjured side) the button glowing softly. It was barely two minutes after pressing the button when the door swung open, bumping the wall with a soft thud, and a nurse with a kind face strode in, clutching a purple clipboard in her hand.

“Mr. Gently. Awake at last, I see.” She said, her voice a normal volume, but in the quiet of the room, sounding extremely loud. Dirk flinched and glanced over at Todd, who shifted slightly in his sleep, but didn’t wake. The nurse looked over at Todd, a look of recognition passing over her face, then smiled apologetically back at Dirk. “How are you feeling?” She asked more softly, walking closer to the bed.

“Much better, actually. Thank you. The blood’s staying inside my body now, so practically back to normal, I’d say.” His voice crackled limply out of his dry throat, despite his fruitless attempts to return to his typical levels of manic speech. He cleared his throat. “I’m pretty thirsty though. Water’s fine, but could I perhaps bother you for a cup of tea?” She smiled, putting up one finger, asking him to wait, and reached out to the collar of his gown, pausing a moment until Dirk nodded, somewhat unsure of what she was doing when he only asked her for a cup of tea. He was fairly certain a cup of tea wasn’t some American slang for ‘please take my clothes off’, but he’d never been to Seattle before, and he wasn’t going to be rude to someone that is helping keep him alive…so... She pulled the loose collar away from his shoulder, and carefully checked the bandages, brushing gently over the gauze. Of course, she was checking the bandages. Stupid Dirk. He rolled his eyes at himself.

“Doesn’t look like it’s bleeding too much.” She glanced at a small patch of red soaking through the bandages. “We’ll get this changed again before you go, and make sure you, or your partner,” she motioned to Todd still sleeping. Was that a blush creeping up on his face? Dirk watched for any signs that he was actually awake, and the nurse kept talking. “know how to change it. I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake. She should come in soon to check on you, and if everything looks good, you should be able to go home today.” Home. That stupid word always squeezed painfully at his heart. He shook the feeling away, like he always does and nodded. The nurse smiled at him. “And I’ll see about that cup of tea.” Dirk grinned back.

“Oh, thank you. You have no idea how much I need one. As you can probably tell, I’m from England, it’s practically essential for me to live.” The nurse gave him an amused look, glanced over at Todd again, and left, shutting the door quietly behind her. Dirk sighed and leaned back in the bed, keeping one eye on Todd who shifted again in his chair.

“I know you’re awake.” Todd smiled, his eyes still closed for a moment before he cracked them open. He sighed and stretched his arms out above him and arched his back, groaning.

“How are you feeling?” Todd said, looking pointedly at his injured shoulder. He hadn’t pulled the hospital gown back up over his chest after the nurse checked his bandage. “Is it still bleeding?” Dirk looked down as he reached up and touched at the red spot of dried blood that had seeped through.

“The nurse said that it looked okay, didn’t look like it was actively bleeding anymore. They’re supposed to come check it and change the bandages in a bit.” Todd hummed, apparently satisfied with the answer. Dirk remembered what the nurse had said about Todd and blushed. Partner. “How long were you awake?” He wondered if she just assumed their relationship about them, or, maybe, Todd had said something... If he was blushing because he did hear and he did say something… He wasn’t about to ask him directly though. Not right now.

“Not that long… Just at the end there. Your tea excitement woke me up.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“What about you? How are you feeling?” Dirk asked, studying the dark rings under Todd’s eyes, the heavy slump of his shoulder. Todd’s forehead wrinkled.

“Me?” He shook off Dirk’s concern, forcing himself to sit up. “Fine. I’m good. I’m not the one that had two arrows in his body and lost all his blood.” Todd smirked, fighting to be as casual as possible, despite his conflicted emotions bubbling just under the surface.

“Sure, but you also did have an alarming amount of electricity go through your body… and I’m pretty sure one of those machine guys tried to strangle you at one point? You were in just about as bad shape as I was last night… plus you don’t have the benefit of all the free pain medication.” Dirk said smiling, trying to keep his voice light. Todd frowned.

“Free? You do realize you’re in America now right? They don’t just hand that stuff out. Sure hope the universe has good health insurance.” Todd said, laughing under his breath. Dirk blanched.

“Right…” Dirk blinked and then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t think that will be a problem.” Todd shrugged and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t about to argue with that, Dirk had obviously figured out something that worked for him…sort of… who’s he to tell him different. Todd rubbed a hand over his arm. Dirk frowned. “You sure you’re alright, Todd?” Todd looked up at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He shook his head, looked down at his hands resting in his lap, and sighed. He made no move to respond, sitting quietly. Dirk leaned forward towards him “Todd?” Todd’s head rose up again, his eyes rimmed with red, and mouth tight. He shook his head, blinking away tears that started to fill his eyes.

“I’m not… I’m not really… good at this, Dirk. I haven’t…” He shook his head, letting his hands fall open in front of him. “I don’t know how to do this.” Dirk’s frown deepened. Distantly, he could hear the beeping of the heart monitor speed up again, but his focus was on Todd.

“Do what?” Todd shook his head and didn’t answer. What could Todd possibly be talking about? Dirk usually didn’t mind not having the answers, was pretty patient about waiting for the universe to just show him what he was supposed to know, but this was excrutiating. “Todd, come on. Do what?”

“Fix things?” He said with a shrug. Dirk cocked his head to the side. Todd let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know… To fix everything? Fix my life? I mean I screwed everything up with Amanda, she hates me, my job, my apartment, my life is destroyed, and,” he paused and looked up at Dirk, his eyes bright and glistening in the light coming through the window shade. “You… I-“ Todd choked on his words, staring at his hands and shaking his head. Dirk was...confused. They solved the case. Todd could move on. He didn’t have to deal with Dirk messing everything up again. Was he still angry with Dirk, that his ‘power’ isn’t enough to fix what he did to Todd’s life, that he lied to Todd?

“Todd...I... I don’t understand? What I said… I’m sorry. I know you don’t want anything to do with me anymore… but I can’t… help you…I don’t… I can’t fix things with Amanda… it’s not…how it-“ Dirk looked up from where he’d been staring at his lap. Todd had stood up, his face even more broken up that before, guilt deforming every feature of his expression. Dirk stopped in his rambling attempts to apologize, and Todd shook his head and walked to the side of Dirk’s bed.

“Dirk. No, I-” He groaned, frustrated at his inability to say what he means. His eyes met Dirk’s, and neither could look away. “I’m sorry. Dirk, I didn’t come here for you to fix my mistakes... and I never should have said any of what I did to you. I was angry at myself. I ruined my own life, and when I realized that there wouldn’t be an easy solution to fix it... you were just there, the perfect target for me to blame everything on. That wasn’t fair of me, and I’m sorry, Dirk.” Todd blinked back the shine that was filling his eyes and turned away. “I’m sorry that you ended up with an asshole for a friend, and I don’t know how to fix that, to fix what I’ve done.” Todd was close enough to the bed that Dirk was able to reach out and take Todd’s hand in his. Todd looked up, surprised, the sound of the beeping heart monitor in the background. Dirk didn’t say anything, but the unfiltered and sincere fondness and forgiveness in his expression was a clear enough answer that even Todd understood. “I really am sorry, Dirk. And I understand if you don’t want me around anymore.” Dirk smiled and rolled his eyes.

“You really don’t get it do you?” Dirk had a playful glint in his eyes. “We were meant to know each other, it’s destiny, the will of the universe, fate... or something.... I can feel it, so that means no arguing... and no more calling yourself an asshole. Because you’re not.” Todd opened his mouth to deny it, but Dirk lifted a finger to silence him. “Nuh-uh. You apologized, and that was quite a lovely apology, Todd. Now, you just have to be better. That’s how you fix it.” Todd frowned.

“What if I screw things up again?”

“Don’t worry, Todd.” Dirk grinned. “I know you will. But so will I. And so will everyone. It’s an annoyingly beautiful part of being a real human person. Look, I know you have a good heart, and I know you aren’t perfect,” he turned his head away. “To be perfectly honest, you’d be pretty boring if you were.” He added with a playful glint in his eyes, before he let out a heavy breath, and his expression fell. “I won’t lie to you and say that what you said to me didn’t hurt me. It did. I thought… you know that I’ve never… had anyone…” he flicked his eyes to Todd. “Stay. You saying what you did… It’s everything I say to myself. Everything Blackwing raised me to believe about myself. Hearing that from you…” He shook his head, blinking away tears, unable to continue. Todd quickly dragged his chair beside the bed, sitting and pulling Dirk’s hand into his. He shook his head emphatically, expression intense.

“You’re not-”

“I know.” Dirk stopped him, firmly. He pulled his hands out of Todd’s leaving a cold chill in the empty place that remained. “I know.” He sighed. “I don’t… I don’t expect you to fix that. My childhood…traumas. I just… I need you to understand that you hurt me. That what you said hurt.” Dirk’s tear-filled eyes flicked up to Todd’s, piercing with their intensity. Todd nodded quickly. He took a deep breath, and nodded again more firmly.

“I do. I understand I hurt you, and I am sorry, Dirk.” Dirk reached back for Todd’s hand still stretched towards him on the bed, and patted it once.

“Good.” He nodded with a satisfied smile. Todd realized he’d been forgiven. He felt the heavy weight on his body lighten, just slightly.

“Thank you, Dirk.” Todd awkwardly lifted his hand for a handshake. “Friends, then?” Dirk smirked and cocked his head. Were they handshake friends? Was that something they did? He didn’t think they were handshake friends…

“No,” Dirk responded and Todd frowned, suddenly unsure if he misread everything that Dirk had said. “Partners.” Dirk grinned at Todd’s confused face before it flashed into embarrassed realization that Dirk knew what he had told the nurse earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Look, technically, sort of, we are partners, Dirk, like detective partners or something, and I wasn’t sure if they would let me see you if I wasn’t some sort of family-ish person…“ Dirk basked in Todd’s rambling smugly and Todd closed his mouth with a glare. “You know, maybe I liked you better when you were unconscious…” Dirk laughed and Todd gave him an annoyed-ly fond frown. He shifted his foot, bumping against his backpack on the floor, his eyes widening in realization. “Oh, hang on, I brought you something.” Dirk cocked his head in interest as Todd picked the backpack up off the floor.

“What? Really?” Dirk watched as a familiar yellow came into view as Todd unzipped the backpack. He felt his heart flip, and he gasped as Todd laid his leather jacket onto his lap. Dirk ran his fingers over the silver zipper, and turned to Todd, ready to thank him when Todd shoved another handful of cloth into his hand. “Oh, uh…”

“It’s just… uh… one of my band T-shirts… figured you might want something comfortable to wear out of the hospital… and you know, your jacket, of course.” Dirk was, for once, speechless. He opened his mouth, trying to find the words, blinking away tears, and just settled for smiling and nodding as he ran his fingers on the soft gray material of the shirt. Todd picked at the edge of the shirt still hanging off the edge of the bed. “And I don’t have many of these left, so… try not to bleed all over this one, okay?” Dirk smiled, and looked back up at Todd.

“Thank you. This is…” He sucked in a breath, shaking his head again. “Thank you.” He nodded. There was something in Todd’s eyes when he looked back at Dirk, something that Dirk hadn’t noticed before, that he wanted to figure out, but the door was suddenly shoved open, Dirk’s nurse holding a steaming cup in her hand, and when they turned back to each other, the moment was gone.

“Got your tea, dear.” She noticed Todd sitting beside the bed. “Oh good, your partner’s awake. Another nurse is headed by to change your bandages.” Todd blushed, looking anywhere but at Dirk who was wearing a similar expression. Dirk took the offered cup from the nurse gratefully, and carefully blew over it as she pulled his tray table over the bed for him. Todd moved the jacket and shirt to the end of the bed, out of the potential spill zone.

“Thank you.” Dirk said, mostly to the nurse, but also to Todd. The nurse nodded, looking between both of them with a smile, and then walked back out of the room. Dirk sniffed hesitantly at the steam wafting from the cup and narrowed his eyes. He sniffed again more forcefully, like he was trying to decide if what was entering his nose was going to kill him or not. Todd watched him smiling fondly. Dirk glanced over, raising his eyebrows at Todd from behind the cup. “What?”

“Nothing.” Todd shook his head, still smiling, and leaned back in his chair.

“Right...” Dirk blew one more time on the warm liquid and carefully took a sip before he unceremoniously spat it back into the cup and shoved it onto the table, with a betrayed look on his face. Todd laughed, and Dirk turned to him with a glare. “That is the worst cup of tea I have ever tasted in my life. I’m not even exaggerating! I swear, you Americans and your so-called tea. She probably made this in a microwave… or with like a dirty puddle of water she found on the pavement.” He shivered in disgust, eyeing the cup like it might suddenly burst out of the cup and force it’s way back into his mouth.

“What? You really expected gourmet tea from a hospital?” Todd rolled his eyes. Dirk glared while trying to get the taste off his tongue.

“Ugh. I think they actually had better tea when I was in Blackwing. And that place was the worst.” Todd’s eyes widened at Dirk’s mention of Blackwing. He wasn’s sure how to respond to that…especially considering Dirk’s visitor from earlier… Dirk seemed to notice his discomfort. “Sorry.” Todd shook his head, swallowing thickly.

“Dirk-”

“Not really something I want to talk about right now… I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Dirk fiddled with the edge of the cup of tea. Todd looked at him carefully. He had to tell him. They were being honest with each other. Dirk needed to know.

“I know… it’s a touchy subject… but Dirk, I need to tell you something. Earlier, when I came in-” Dirk grabbed Todd’s hand.

“I know they’re still coming for me, Todd. You don’t have to…” He sighed and glanced at the door. “Are they here? Are they waiting for me?” Todd frowned and shrugged.

“I…I don’t know. When I came in, they said some man with a moustache and military ID visited you, saying he was your father. I think I saw him leaving when I was walking in. I don’t know if there’s anymore.” Dirk seemed to process what Todd said, and nodded, surprisingly calm.

“Colonel Riggins. The man that approached me the other night at your apartment building I told you about.” He sighed. “Not really much I can do about it though. If they really want me, if that where I’m supposed to be-” His hand squeezed Todd’s. The heart monitor beeped faster, suddenly aggressively loud in the quiet room.

“Dirk?” Todd stroked Dirk’s hand. Dirk shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed.

“I really don’t want to go back there.” His voice was suddenly very small. Todd stood up from his chair and pulled Dirk into his arms, being careful around his injured shoulder. Dirk sunk into the embrace, gratefully, breathing heavily. Todd could feel his body shaking slightly.

“You won’t. Dirk, okay? You won’t. Farah and I, we’ll keep you safe. And even if they do find you, we’ll track you down, and bust in, guns blazing, and get you out of there. You’re not alone anymore, okay?” He felt Dirk nodding in his arms, a wet warmth soaking into his shirt where Dirk had pressed his face. Todd brought a hand up to stroke the back of Dirk’s head gently. “Look, Farah wanted to meet up a little later today, once you’re out of here, and we can talk to her then. She’ll know what to do. We’ll make a plan, and figure something out.” Dirk sniffled and pulled away, looking up at Todd with red-rimmed eyes. He nodded. “Okay?”

“Okay… I mean I highly doubt that you, or Farah, even with her impressive number of guns and ninja-like fighting skills, will be able to take on a secret military organization, but it’s a nice sentiment, Todd. Thank you.” Todd frowned. Dirk raised his eyebrows. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic right now. It really does make me feel better, Todd. I never had anyone before that even wanted to try to be there for me, so I really do appreciate it.” Todd nodded before he sat back down in his chair, returning his hand to rest on Dirk’s. Dirk smiled softly. The heart monitor was back to being a steady background noise. Todd’s eyes fell on Dirk’s abandoned disgusting tea.

“You want me to go down and see if I can find you some better tea?” Dirk’s eyes crinkled into a smile, and he shook his head.

“Don’t want you to go anywhere,” he said pulling Todd’s hand to his chest. Todd felt his heart twist. “Besides, I don’t have any faith that you would be able to tell the difference between actual tea and this cup of sewage either.” Todd let his mouth fall open.

“Wow. That seems very rude.” Dirk shrugged with one shoulder.

“Maybe that’s me now. Maybe I’m just a rude detective man.” Todd responded with a disgustingly fond look and shook his head. Dirk blushed.

They heard the door push open again, and didn’t pull apart until the new nurse came over to the bed to change Dirk’s bandages, giving them both step by step instructions on how to do it, that neither of them will probably remember later, and will have to try and get Farah’s help with figuring it out. Todd grimaced at the sight of the arrow wound on the front of Dirk’s shoulder, angry stitches pulling his skin into place again. Dirk’s lips pressed tightly together as the nurse gently placed the fresh gauze over the wound and wrapped the clean bandage around his shoulder. A woman walked through the door as the nurse finished with the bandage, her hair neatly tucked into a bun behind her head, and smiled at Dirk, as she picked up the chart from the end of the bed.

“Mr. Gently?” Dirk nodded. “I’m Dr. Peyton. You’re looking much better than when you came in last night. How are you feeling?” Dirk nodded, shifting his shoulder slightly to adjust with the tightness of the fresh bandages.

“Good. Fine. A bit sore, I think whatever you people gave me is wearing off.” Dr. Peyton nodded, and pulled an orange bottle from the pocket of her white coat.

“That’s normal. You’re going to be sore for a while. Fortunately, the arrows missed some important muscles and tendons, so you should be able to make a full recovery as long as you complete your physical therapy sessions. You’re very lucky. Most shoulder injuries can lead to extremely limited range of motion, if those arrows had hit you anywhere else or any deeper, you may have had a much more difficult recovery.” Dirk nodded, trying to keep himself from rolling his eyes. Stupid universe and it’s stupid precisely hitting arrows…just enough to not kill him or seriously injure him, just enough to remind him who’s in charge…again. Dr. Peyton held up the pill bottle and gave a quick explanation of how much Dirk needed to take and when. Dirk stared up at her, his eyes glazing over, too much words for having just barely woken up from a night of almost dying. Todd was fighting to listen closely to her instructions. The doctor finished talking and held the pill bottle out to Dirk, who took them slowly. Dr. Peyton said something else Dirk didn’t quite hear. He saw her mouth moving, but the words blurred into the soft hum of the room, the only sound he could make out, the steady beep of the machine next to his bed. Dr. Peyton pursed her lip and looked at Todd pointedly, raising her eyebrows.

“I’ll make sure he takes them at the right times. Got it all here.” He said tapping his head. Dr. Peyton didn’t respond, and then nodded at them both.

“Alright, well, you’re all set then. Your nurse will be back in a few minutes to help get you all sorted, and then you’re free to go.”

Dirk nodded. His head felt fuzzy and the pain in his shoulder had started to burn and itch under the bandages.

“Thank you, doctor.” Todd said. The doctor left, swinging the door shut behind her, and leaving them once again shut away in the sterile silence of the room. Todd absently rubbed his neck. His brief nap in the hospital chair had left his muscles feeling more sore than they had when he arrived earlier and now that his brain wasn’t distracted by his Dirk guilt, his body decided to remind him of all the pain he was in.

Dirk picked at the lid of the pill bottle, fighting to steady his breath, and breathe through the steadily increasing pain. The fact that he was holding a bottle filled with pain medication that could help treat the pain was out of his capability to understand in the current state of his mind. He leaned forward, bringing his knees up towards his chest, and rested his head down on his uninjured arm, trying to hide the groan that escaped his throat.

“Dirk?” Todd leaned over to try to get a closer look at Dirk’s now hidden face, and laid his hand on his back, gently stroking it up to his neck, and resting at the edge of Dirk’s hair. He felt Dirk relax into his touch, and sigh softly. Todd’s fingers combed up the back of Dirk’s scalp, through the fine auburn strands, just as soft as Todd would have imagined them to be. He tried to ignore the warm feeling filling up his chest, panicking at feeling something that he hadn’t let himself feel, he hadn’t deserved to feel... or thought he was capable of feeling. Dirk groaned again, louder, obviously in pain. Todd noticed the pill bottle wrapped in his hand. He reached out with his other hand, pausing before he grabbed it.

“Dirk, can I-?“ Dirk nodded into his arm and loosened his grip without looking up, and Todd took the bottle from him. He reluctantly removed his other hand from Dirk’s head, and opened the bottle, carefully shaking two pills into his hand, pouring a cup of water from a pitcher on the tray table next to him, and holding them out to Dirk. “Here, take these.”

Dirk turned his head, so he could look at Todd, still leaned against his knees. His eyes were heavy. His lips turned up slightly and he nodded in appreciation before sitting up with a groan. He swallowed the pills with an audible gulp and quick swallow of water and sighed falling back into his pillow. His legs slipped back down flat on the bed. Dirk breathed stiffly, shutting his eyes, but he dropped his hand back down on the bed near Todd, letting it hang open, invitingly. Todd paused, unsure for a moment before Dirk twitched his fingers, and raised his eyebrows, his eyes still closed. Todd smiled and laid his hand on top of Dirk’s, letting their fingers interlock. Dirk sighed.

They sat quietly. Dirk breathed steady and deliberate breaths as he waited for the medication to calm the burning edges of the pain in his shoulder. Todd watched him, studying the way the dim light from the window cast pale shadows across his face, the way the front of his hair was stuck straight out from his forehead in an endearingly chaotic way, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed under the skin of his neck. He was calmed by the warmth of Dirk’s hand in his, the light flutter of his pulse. Todd let his mind drift away with the steady beeps, as they waited to leave, both ignoring for a moment the danger that inevitably would find them outside the door.

#brotzly #dirk gently #todd brotzman #dirk gently's holistic detective agency #dghda #my fic #ao3

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