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adrinktostopyourthirst · 7 months ago

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Bucky Barnes | Series | Loose

Part two of the Rebellion Series

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: You and Bucky have no idea whether you can trust each other. There is an understanding, but you're not sure of what that understanding is and why it seems to run so deep.

Warning: Angst, violence and fluff (?)

Words: 4,1OO

It is hard enough already for Bucky to fall asleep at night. Yes, it has gotten better in recent years, but there will always be that part of him – awake and aware – that registers every sound and movement, even when he should be knocked out. Though he wouldn’t admit it, that part of him sat more alert ever since you had joined the building. Perhaps because Bucky still wasn’t so confident in your allegiance.

He can’t stop overthinking it. He has seen what you’re capable of. Would you be capable of even more if people cornered you? If you felt like you had no other choice but to manipulate and kill your way out? After all, wasn’t it possible that you felt like you had moved from one prison to the next?

You’d been a delight at dinner two nights ago, but Bucky can’t turn off his brain. This is the part that made you win people over. The way you’d gotten along with Natasha like a house on fire, the way you’d shared stories like you and his team had been friends all along… Yet you had no trouble letting a side of yours slip through the cracks that tantalised Bucky beyond belief. The way you had looked at him, teased him–

The faintest rustle has Bucky shooting back to his current place in time. Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. He holds his breath in an effort to hear better.

Nothing.

However, something doesn’t sit right. Something is off. He’d learned that hypervigilance was a side effect of his trauma, but he had a hard time believing his intuition would betray him like that. Not when he had relied on it so successfully for years.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he whispers to the dark ceiling.

“Yes, sergeant Barnes?”

“Is everyone in their respectable rooms?” he tries.

“I cannot divulge that information,” the voice sounds and Bucky sighs. He musters up some strength and swings off his duvet before climbing out of bed.

Yeah, he doesn’t trust you for a second.

…

Your heart is pounding in your throat. This isn’t part of your skillset – the escape and combat. Though perhaps if you do the former correctly, you won’t have to resort to the latter. Escaping the compound had been surprisingly easy, which strangely made your chest hurt. It was way too easy to escape. But it made sense. Steve had told you that you weren’t being held captive and you being here was all in good faith.

Faith you just broke by making your escape.

You probably should have been more patient. Winning their trust a bit more and then making an escape, make sure they really don’t see it coming. But the dinner had made you antsy and impatient. You had to get out.

If you’re entirely honest with yourself, you know that getting attached to a new group of people and deciding to escape then – or worse, leading them into their demise later – would be worse than getting away now that no one has attached themselves to you. Or you to them…

Breaching the edge of the surrounding forest, you finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding. You did it. Out of sight, out of mind. You’re free. No more captivity, no more expectations. All you need to do now is leave the country, change your name and possibly dye your hair. Sounds easy enough. A bit dramatic, but not impossible.

That is, until you get dragged backwards by a hand over your mouth and you lose your footing. The hard body behind you is the only thing keeping you from tumbling to the muddy forest grounds. Your breathing is ragged as your hands both fly to grab the forearm attached to the hand covering your yelp.

The metal forearm.

“Rule number one of making your escape: never assume you’re in the clear,” Bucky’s voice rumbles through the night air, his mouth so very close to your ear. “Shouldn’t have dropped your guard when you reached the edge of the forest.”

His gloved hand removes itself from your mouth, but you know better than to make a run for it, or to scream. He twists you by your shoulders and you muster some playful guilt to your face, masking your disappointment. Disappointment… but you feel strangely relieved. Maybe the largeness of finally being free felt somewhat overwhelming. Move to another country and change your name? It’s ridiculous. And that, when the people here have been so patient and kind to you…

You let out a soft laugh, “Worth a shot, no?”

Bucky studies you intently and something in your gut stirs at it. Not even Natasha seems to have as good of a read on you as Bucky does. It makes you feel naked. Makes you feel like all of your carefully crafted plans are flimsy and no good. Makes you feel like you have to stay far, far away from Bucky. Like you need to run. Now.

And how the hell did he manage to figure out you were making your escape?

You wait for him to tell you off, preach against your indolence and call in backup to shove you into something more similar to a prison cell. But Bucky sighs, disappointed and tired.

He seems so, so tired.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says and you furrow your brows at him.

His defeat has your chest clenching tightly. You want him to punish you, scold you. At least show that he cares. Why? You’re not sure. Maybe you need to know that the relief you felt from being caught is somewhat mutual in a sense. That the people here don’t just see you as a weapon, despite the burden, but that you’re someone worth saving. Worth keeping around.

Worth healing.

“That’s it?” you ask. “No scolding or punishment?”

Bucky scoffs humourlessly. “You get a kick out of punishment, darling?”

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.”

“I’m not your fucking baby sitter,” he mutters and starts walking back to the building, rightfully assuming you’ll follow. “If you want, I can ask Steve to tell you off in the morning. He’s better at that sort of thing anyway.”

Some pathetic part of you wants to sulk at his response like an ill-tempered child. “Then why come after me?”

It stays quiet for a second as you cross the field towards the compound. “I couldn’t let a poor escape plan be successful.”

You can’t help but snort at that answer and decide that fine, you’d play along for now. But you wonder if the curious Bucky you’d seen a few days ago had completely vanished since that dinner.

…

The next morning, Bucky gets cornered by you after breakfast. He looks down his nose at your defiant face.

“You didn’t tell anyone about last night?” you ask him and he raises his brows, unimpressed.

It had surprised you that no one at breakfast mentioned anything or gave you even so much as a dirty look. Clearly, none of them are aware that you tried to make your escape last night. And you cannot for the life of you figure out why Bucky is taking it easy on you. Is he smart enough to assume that your own guilt will do more damage than he ever could? Is this part of some bigger scheme of his? Perhaps he is actually as tired and unbothered as he looked when you saw him in those woods.

“What happened last night?” he asks with a telling smirk. The current look on your face is worth the lack of sleep he had tonight. It’s too easy to rattle you. You roll your eyes and Bucky smirks even wider at that. Is he… flirting?

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” you try again.

Bucky remains quiet and fights to keep a straight face. He did expect your question, but why didn’t he tell anyone? Because he thought you and him would get along after those tiny moments during that first dinner? Because the team would have let you walk away? Because Bucky doesn’t want you to go… Because he thinks he can help. Help the world. Help you. He thinks he can help you. And you can help him. And–

“Want me to tell them now?” he says instead.

He barely notices the flash of panic in your eyes before you cover it with an annoyed scoff and turn on your heel to walk away. He watches you. Every step until you are out of sight.

“You said she trusts you,” Steve’s voice sounds from behind him and Bucky schools his face back to bland interest before he turns to Steve. “That doesn’t look like she trusts you.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Steve frowns pensively. “Well, speed up the process. We have an important mission and we need her for it.”

“What?” Bucky almost loses his restraint, his body flaring in alarm. “Steve, she hasn’t had any training. She was locked up for months. It’s too big of a risk–”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, Buck,” Steve tells him regretfully, but instantly notices that Bucky isn’t buying it. “This is the thing we needed her for.”

“She isn’t some kind of weapon!” Bucky exclaims and he notices Natasha turning away from her conversation in the nearest common room to see what the commotion is about. He gives her a warning look, then lowers his voice. “Steve. This could’ve been me,” Bucky breathes. And there it is. Recognition flickers in Steve’s eyes. “We can’t use her like this. She’s all alone.”

Steve looks past Bucky’s shoulder as if you’re still walking away from him. Angry frown, uptilted chin and swaying hips– Bucky almost looks. Then Steve sighs and looks back at his friend. “Take all the time you need. If she’s ready, I’ll explain the mission to her. I think she might want to help.”

…

Bucky reads over the file until his eyes turn bleary. Steve was right, you will want to help.

He thinks you can handle it, but… what if you encounter a trigger on the way? What if it all becomes too much? Bucky realises he isn’t nearly close enough to care this much, and he doesn’t, but who else but him is going to care whether you live or die? Sometimes Bucky wonders if even you care whether you live or die. What would have happened to Bucky if everyone had given up on him? He knows damn well that he’d be long dead if not so many people found him useful.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Bucky never had a choice. So he finds himself knocking at your door at 10pm with the file in hand.

After opening the door, you barely manage to get a word out before Bucky extends the folder towards you. “Steve needs your help on this. It should be fine, but the choice is up to you.”

Quick. Brief. He’s just the messenger and the decision is all yours. Bucky turns and makes to walk away – before you can spot all of the thoughts crossing his mind – but your voice stops him.

“Will you be there?”

The question takes him by surprise. Turning back towards you and slowly walking to the doorframe you’re standing under, he creases his brows together. “You need me to come along?”

You shrug abashedly. “Will you?”

Bucky studies your face intently. “Yes,” he lies. He’ll figure something out with Steve.

“What if I can’t do what you need me to do?” There it is again. He doesn’t get why this vulnerable side of you keeps surprising him so much.

“You’ll be useful,” are his terrible words of comfort. He wants to palm himself in the face.

The suppressed smile you give him heats his face and he’s sure you’ll call him out on his horrible people skills, but you stay quiet. The silence grows and grows and Bucky starts to shift nonchalantly, wondering if he should walk off and let you read the file in private.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“You’re coming?”

“Yes,” you affirm and look up at him, handing the file back. “Do you not want me to go?”

“It’s your choice,” he tells you and gently takes the folder.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Some wall snaps up inside of him at that tone – at that hopeful look in your eyes. “You could use the mission to make your escape,” he says with a shrug and makes to turn away from you again. “I won’t stop you this time.”

He walks away, leaving you to gape at his retreating form.

…

The mission was simple enough.

Sam, Natasha, Bucky and you would be attending a gala. Supposedly, there is a certain divide between the guests in attendance. Your job is mainly to feel out just who will be willing to join your cause. What goes unsaid is that you’re also required to butter them up to spring into action when your team would deem it necessary.

The party is in full swing and everyone is finally losing their mask of formality and enjoying their evening. You just hit the sweet spot of their susceptibility and you sweep into casual conversation about politics. Seeing who keeps quiet, who isn’t scared to speak up, whose faces harden at the prospect of change, etcetera. All of your antennas are on and when you know people have stopped paying attention to you, that’s when you dare a glance across the room where you know Bucky is standing.

All dapper and handsome, wearing a very expensive suit.

All of you have taken thorough action to look exceptional and to blend in perfectly with the high class crowd. Being charming is easy enough, looking it was a necessity – yet, all of it does still feel very far removed from yourself. Like a betrayal to the woman who was locked up mere weeks ago. However, being a true professional, you don’t allow your thoughts to linger too much and channel back to the matter at hand.

Then you feel it.

The searing heat that starts at your legs and spreads all the way up to your chest and cheeks. Like a virus burning over your skin. And you know what it is – know who it is. So you look back in the direction of Bucky, if only to catch him in the act.

But he’s unbothered. Brooding and observing from the bar in the shadow of the room, somehow alone and undiscovered by most of the crowd (a skill you assume he has acquired over the years). And his eyes are still on you. They glide down and back up for even more emphasis and you swallow away the dryness in your throat.

Gliding a sensual hand over the arm of the man next to you, you excuse yourself with a warm smile and slowly stride over to the culprit. Bucky waits patiently, and you swear you see a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as you walk over. He hands you a spare glass of champagne and turns his back to the room when you’re close enough to hear him.

“It’s working,” he says and you swear he sounds slightly impressed.

“Did you assume I’d fuck up?” you taunt and lean over the bar, sipping at the glass flute between your fingers. Bucky turns to you and his eyes sweep over the curve of your partly exposed back, the hollow of your spine and the curve of your ass. Then he holds his breath for a moment.

“Wouldn’t be mad if you did,” he tells you and his tone sounds gentle. You know that’s why he’s here, even though neither of you said it out loud, you know he’s here to stick up for you if you can’t get it done yet. If you’re not ready to be that person again.

Just like he probably knows that you’re here because the guilt of trying to escape from your saviours was eating you alive. And you didn’t want to prove Bucky right by escaping. You had glanced at the exits a few times and debated it, yes, but then looked at your team and thought against it. Looked at Bucky and–

“We’ll leave in five minutes,” Bucky murmurs as he finishes his glass. “I noted down all the people you signed as potential allies and who definitely isn’t.”

“There’s a few we can convince to help,” you cut in.

“What? The woman who runs that capitalist shitshow?” Bucky frowns. “Nah, she’s only motivated by money.”

You smile at him knowingly. “Money is a great motivator and our movement could benefit her greatly, so you just have to nudge her in the right direction.”

Bucky studies your face then and you might have found it less penetrating when he looked at your body with that stare. That intrigue. “And you already have a plan to tip her over to our side,” he concludes.

“You chose me for this for a reason, did you not?” you ask.

His eyes drop to your mouth. “I like a woman who takes her job seriously.”

You have no idea where that came from, but decide to go along with it anyway. You smirk and empty your flute, gently setting it down on the bar after. “Here I was, thinking you didn’t like anyone,” you purr and saunter off to find your other teammates and round up today’s mission.

You turn around when you hear Bucky yelling out your name, but then the room spins and debris flies everywhere. You’d cry out if the wind didn’t whoosh from your body and your ears don’t hollow out. You want to voice your discovery, as futile as it is, but the scream dies in your throat.

Someone just blew up the building.

…

It feels like there’s ash in your mouth. And throat. Your body bleats in pain, but nothing too severely. Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe you can’t feel a limb that’s no longer there. Maybe–

The room is dark except for an orange hue that travels over the ceiling and walls every few seconds. You’re slumped in a velvet chair and your fingers pluck softly at the fabric. One by one, your senses weave together and you hear the soft sounds of someone working on something. Paper ruffling, some gentle work, someone who’s trying to be quiet. You rasp in a raw breath and see a shadow at the bottom of your vision. But your body is relaxed. Or… Well, as relaxed as it can be.

There was an explosion.

“Have some water,” Bucky offers from his kneeling position between your legs and nudges his chin to the glass at the small table next to your chair. His voice is soft, raw. And when you squint at him while you blindly reach for the glass, you see soot on his face, dust on his suit.

“Are you alright?” you ask and your voice reminds you to take the drink. The water feels like heaven in your throat and you nearly gulp down the whole glass.

Bucky pauses at your question and surely he didn’t expect that to be your first question. “I’m fine,” he grumbles and focuses on the task at hand. Which, you quickly realise, is cleaning up the wound on your thigh.

Next to him, there’s a small container with small shards of glass in there and a used pair of tweezers. You feel the prickle of the wound at your thigh and observe closely as he presses some gauze to the puncture wounds. His hands are firm and steady as he wraps a bandage around your thigh to secure the gauze. His calluses scrape against your soft skin and you almost swear he takes more time than he should securing the bandage.

You heave a deep sigh and straighten up in the chair. “Natasha and Sam?”

“Natasha was sent to hunt down the ones responsible and needed an aerial patrol, so she took Sam.” Bucky clenches his jaw and you have a feeling it took some convincing to get Bucky to not go after the bastards himself, to let Natasha handle it instead. “There were deaths, lots of wounded.”

You flinch at that.

Bucky notices it. The glaze over your eyes and the tightening of your fingers into the soft fabric of the chair. He barely allows himself to hesitate and he covers your left hand with his right one, taking your fingers and stroking his thumb over your knuckles. “We got out as many as we could, no one saw the explosion coming,” he explains and hopes the information brings you some peace. He’s desperate to take that haunted look off your face, but doesn’t know how.

He gives you time then. Allows you to sort through your memories and shush them. He strokes his thumb gently and squeezes your fingers every once in a while to anchor you to here, to being safe. Your breaths go from shallow to deep as they slow. He hears your heartbeat steady and watches clarity fill your eyes again.

Fuck him. Those eyes.

“Tomorrow, we go over your list and see what we can do. Let’s get some rest for now.” He pushes to a stand and moves to remove his hand from yours, but you hold onto him.

“I’m sorry for trying to escape,” you rasp and Bucky tenses at that. He did not expect that confession. Didn’t expect an apology either – he didn’t think one was warranted.

You slowly push to a stand and Bucky’s heartbeat spikes as you wobble on your legs before you steady yourself. His eyes search your face frantically and he tries not to linger at your lips for too long. You gently stroke a hand down his arm before brushing past him in thanks, and Bucky has to take a deep breath. A flash of you doing the same thing to one of tonight’s guests comes to him and jealousy hits him, a little too viciously. Just like it did when he saw it earlier tonight.

He turns around and watches as you walk up the small bag he packed for an instance like this. You pull out some clothes and Bucky shamelessly stares while you do it. He almost sighs as the sight of that orange hue travelling over your form, most of the sleek dress still intact and definitely still doing its job of making you look good enough to eat.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he blurts. But he stands still as he watches you freeze. You slowly turn to him and tilt your head at him curiously.

Then, a slow smirk spreads over your face and your brows raise playfully. Bucky frowns as he tries to read the expression on your face, even if the lightness of it makes him want to drop to his knees in relief. This is much, much better than that haunted look that was there mere minutes ago.

Until one of your hands lifts from the bag, a small scrap of lace dangling from your fingers. “I am never letting you pack our getaway bag again.”

Bucky matches your smirk and strides over to you, close enough that you have to tip your chin up to maintain eye contact. “You can choose not to wear it,” he shrugs and the nonchalant gesture makes your legs weak. Slowly, he starts unbuttoning his own pants and shirt, stripping himself of his clothes and tempting you to break that eye contact. “But we’re sharing a bed, so you decide what is less tempting for me to look at.”

It takes everything inside of you not to balk at this… flirtation. But it’s nice – so fucking nice to deflate that balloon of tension after a mission like the one you had tonight. To have banter and humour and perhaps a little friendship.

“I better not catch you looking at all,” you snipe, but have a hard time keeping the smile off your face.

Bucky smiles too then and gives you a wink powerful enough to set your clothes aflame. “Too bad. You can’t ask that of me and look like that.”

That does render you a bit speechless and Bucky takes his win as he strips himself to his boxers. Climbing under the sheets, Bucky’s powerful body shifts and ripples with movement.

This is going to be a long night.

#ok this is NOT worth the wait #but its here which is a HUGE win for me #i hope you like it #not me being way too impatient to write a slow burn #the upcoming smut better be good too #pls tell me what u think i have obviouslty not forgotten about you guys #<3 #rebellion series #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #writing #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes oneshot #oneshot #series

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spacebubblehomebase · 7 months ago

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I just noticed, in your HHStargazers AU no one has pupils - except for Alastor and, if she's canon, Carmilla. Does that mean slit pupils are a sign of a demon in disguise?

Good eye! 👈👈👀 (Pun unintended.) Though I don't really plan for this trait to be repeatedly shared amongst the disguised demons. Mostly to not limit my designs to an obvious tell. But the slit pupils were indeed intentional flaws I added in for those two in particular. Because according to MY headcanon, both angels and demons are beings beyond human comprehension. Thus, it's only to be expected that even when they TRY to fit in, they'll be unable to keep EVERY aspect of their uncanny nature concealed. At best, they're imperfect imitations of what "normal" should be. It just so happens that in my AU, angels have a much easier time concealing most of their little quirks and oddities away than the sinners for my own reasons and as for WHY no one ever grew suspicious of the eye thing, it's because Charlie's curiosity could be easily curved. While for Lucius to point this out, he'll have to admit that he's been staring at Alastor's eyes a lot whenever he gets close enough to drown in the depths of his gaze and- EHEM!!! Which he's NEVER done, mind you! AhahaHAH- What slit pupils??? Never noticed those before. Nuh-uh. NO siree. NOPE! Lucius is normally so, SO normal about Alastors VERY much normal eyes in a TOTALLY normal amount of normal. A-ANYWAAAYS!!! Lucius would also be a hypocrite if he was bothered by them considering his own occupation and the people he's usually surrounded by (yet to be revealed). As for the other humans, Alastor doesn't care enough about their opinions for it to be a threat to him and people often just avoid the guy unnerving them with his creepy ass stare. So it's all good! Hope you like these bonus fun facts! 'Cause I have a feeling I left you with just as much questions as answers, but that's the fun of an ongoing story, yeah? Stay tuned~! 😉✨️ -Bubbly💙

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arcanegifs · 19 days ago

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So so so sooooo surreal that I will finally have new material to work with after gifing the same scenes for like 3 years lmao

#its crazyyyyyy i hope the wait is worth it #personal tag

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itsjaywalkers · 9 months ago

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a lil smth under the cut for u guys (part 3) <3

(light nsfw)

part 1 part 2

“Well, it’s not perfect, but it’s decent enough, so it’ll have to do,” James says, and Regulus it’s too busy trying to keep his breathing under control to be bothered by the other man’s words. “Relax your shoulders a little, love.”

“Don’t,” Regulus hisses, even though he isn’t sure himself if that response is because of the nickname, or James’ touch, or James’ closeness, or something else entirely.

“Don’t what?” James asks, sneaking a hand up and massaging one of his shoulders until both of them sag.

“You know what.”

“I don’t even think you know.”

Regulus huffs loudly, and hates that he can’t argue back.

“Show me how you do a jab,” James requests, his hands returning to Regulus’ waist after one last press on his shoulder.

Regulus clears his throat slightly, feeling a bit flustered all of a sudden while he raises his right arm and gets ready to do what James asked. He only hesitates for a couple of seconds before doing the punch, not as confident as he’d usually be after having James criticise him so much.

He knows he’s no expert. He isn’t even that athletic to begin with. But he still has a boxer brother, which means he’s definitely not as clueless as James is making him out to be.

Maybe if it were someone else, Regulus would find it in himself to fight back, defend his knowledge and Sirius’ teachings. But, as it turns out, having a professional boxer watching you try to punch is an incredibly humbling experience. Especially one as mind-blowingly good as James.

Not like Regulus would ever tell him that.

James hums. “Not bad,” he says, and really, it shouldn’t satisfy Regulus as much as it does. “It’s a bit too slow, though.”

Regulus tilts his head back, in an attempt to look at the other man, but he barely lasts a second after realising how fucking close both of his faces are.

His heart beats wildly in his chest. He can only hope James doesn’t notice.

“How so?” Regulus wonders, so relieved to hear his voice sounds completely normal.

“Jabs focus on speed over strength,” James explains calmly. “It’s a matter of overwhelming your opponent, rather than properly hurting. The punch has to be quick, and once the arm returns, it’s gotta go up, protect your face. Like this.”

He grabs one of Regulus’ arms gently, moving it forward and then back very slowly, to demonstrate how to do it, and then fast, jostling Regulus’ whole body with it.

“See?” James murmurs, and he could swear that his tone has gone lower. “You don’t have to worry about being strong enough. It’s all about speed.”

“Okay,” Regulus replies with a tiny nod, doing his best to concentrate on what James is seeing, and not on all of the points where they’re touching. Or on how close James is. Or how nice he smells, despite all the sweat—maybe even because of it. “I think I get it.”

“Yeah? Wanna try again on your own?”

Part of Regulus wants to snark back, argue that it’s only a stupid jab and James is just being picky because he’s a professional boxer and it’s not like there’s an actual science to throwing a punch. But having James holding onto his waist must be clouding his mind, because he just gives another nod, and does his best to replicate James’ movement and speed.

“Yeah, that’s it,” James breathes out, and Regulus can almost hear his smile. “Very good, love. You’re a natural.”

“Oh, I’m a natural now?” Regulus huffs out, but it comes out more teasing than irritated.

“Or maybe you just have a great teacher,” James adds playfully, accompanied by a squeeze on his hips.

“You’re right, Sirius is pretty great,” Regulus responds with a shrug, relishing in the way James clicks his tongue.

“But I’m better.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“Wait, what happened to ‘James’?”

Regulus feels heat rushing to his cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

James chuckles way too close to Regulus’ ear, and his breath hits the side of his neck, goosebumps breaking all over his skin. Regulus has to swallow a very embarrassing and very needy sound before it makes it past his lips.

“C’mon, love, we were getting along so nicely. Don’t try to ruin it now.”

“You’ve finally lost it,” Regulus states, trying to laugh the whole thing off. It probably doesn’t work, though, considering how unstable he sounds. “There’s not a single universe in which you and I get along, Potter.”

“Liar,” James whispers. “I’m growing on you.”

“Whatever gave me away?” Regulus grumbles, sarcasm dripping from his words.

“The fact that you’re letting me touch you,” James murmurs, voice smooth and silky, feeling like a caress. “How you keep leaning against my contact, and catching yourself at the last second.”

Regulus’ breath hitches. “That’s—”

“The way you’re not even arguing with me anymore. Not really,” James continues, unrelenting, his lips grazing Regulus’ earlobe and making his eyes flutter shut. “If anything, I’d even dare to say you’re flirting.”

“You’re delusional,” Regulus spits, too breathless to sound as furious as he’d like to. “The fucking audacity—”

“And,” James cuts him off, tone so frustratingly smug, “I bet you’re aching between those pretty legs of yours.”

Regulus lets out an embarrassed noise, barely suppressing the urge to press his thighs together.

“No,” he croaks out, shaking his head a little and face burning.

“No?” James mocks him, pressing his smirk behind Regulus’ ear. “Shall we check?”

One of James’ hands moves slowly, sliding from its place on Regulus’ waist to rest under his navel, fingers playfully caressing his waistband.

Regulus hates how that mere touch is enough to turn his mind into static. To make his heart stutter in his chest, and the mess in his underwear almost unbearable.

“Potter—”

“No.”

Regulus’ eyebrows shoot up, and before he has the chance to ask, he feels James’ teeth at the side of his neck, nipping teasingly and dragging a fucking whimper out of him.

“What—?!” he begins, completely red in the face and attempting to move away from the other man for the first time since he allowed his touch.

James holds him tighter, bites down harder. “Behave, Regulus, or I’ll fucking make you.”

Regulus doesn’t listen, despite how the tone of James’ voice makes him tremble like a leaf. He keeps resisting, an outraged sound leaving his mouth while his body betrays him and becomes even wetter.

“Oh, you don’t get to play the clueless card on me,” James murmurs, his teeth giving way to a devilish tongue that turns Regulus soft and pliant, his attempts at freeing himself growing sloppy, lazy. “I always do my best to be patient, to respect your boundaries and control myself, but you’ve been a damn tease all afternoon, and I’m fucking done.”

“What the fuck are you even—”

“Enough,” James growls back, and it’s so commanding Regulus’ mouth snaps shut with a clack.

There’s a beat of silence, and then James is laughing under his breath. “Good boy.”

It’s filled with mockery, bordering on mean, and yet, it still makes Regulus moan like a fucking bitch in heat, eyes rolling to the back of his skull and body going completely boneless.

“Fuck,” James whispers, a mix between awed and devastated. “I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known. Is that what does it for you, baby? You wanna be my good boy?”

Baby.

Regulus moans again, even though it’s weaker this time, but he still shakes his head, or tries to at least, holding onto the last traces of sanity and refusing to let James win whatever twisted game they’re playing.

“C’mon, you were doing so well,” James mumbles, tongue licking up the side of his neck. “And you can’t fool me anymore. Not like you ever did, but still. I know you wanna be good for me, baby. Know you wanna please me, let me use you in whatever way I see fit.”

He tries to shake his head once more, but somehow, his brain gets the order wrong and Regulus ends up nodding instead.

“That’s right,” James coos, dropping a kiss on his skin, long and lingering. “Now, say my name, Regulus.”

“James,” he gasps almost against his will, mouth moving before his mind can catch up.

The other man groans and then attaches his lips to his throat immediately after, tongue pressing down as he sucks, the sting feeling absolutely heavenly.

Regulus tilts his head to the side to give James more space, eyes hooded and limbs heavy, back coming to rest against James’ chest.

“James,” he says again, without being prompted this time and the word almost sounding like a whine.

“Fuck, you’re driving me insane,” James hisses against his neck, peppering the skin with open-mouthed kisses, his tongue and teeth mapping out Regulus’ skin. “You don’t understand how long I’ve been dying to do this.”

Regulus whimpers, hands moving on their own volition and reaching behind him until they bury themselves into James’ messy locks. He pulls, a bit harsher than intended, but before Regulus can manage to apologise, James is moaning loudly, the vibrations on his skin making him shiver.

He pulls again, and James bites down on his throat hard enough to leave a mark. Regulus doesn’t have it in himself to reprimand him, or to tell him to stop. His brain is unable to focus on anything that isn’t James’ mouth working down his neck.

“We could’ve been doing this ages ago if you weren’t so fucking stubborn,” James sighs, lips caressing his exposed shoulder and dragging another obscene noise out of Regulus. “I knew you wanted it. I knew you wanted me.”

“James—” Regulus pants, apparently unable to speak anything else apart from the other man’s name.

It’s kind of embarrassing, how pliant a couple of kisses and a few dirty comments can make him. Regulus isn’t usually this easy, especially not in bed; he likes having a modicum of control, always ready to remind his partner that he doesn’t enjoy being bossed around. But, and as much as he hates to admit it, James knows what he’s doing.

Although, maybe it’s not even a matter of skills. Maybe it’s simply that it’s James, and despite how much he’s tried to deny it, he’s been desperate for him almost since the moment he laid eyes on him.

“God, baby, you taste divine,” James grunts, sucking on his collarbone almost at the same time that his fingers dip into Regulus’ waistband. They don’t get very far, and it’s more of a playful contact than anything else, but his breath still hitches. “Can’t wait to put my mouth between your legs.”

Regulus makes a keening sound, hips twitching, and James chuckles cruelly against his shoulder.

“You’d let me, right, baby?” James goes on, the hand that had slipped inside the basketball shorts changing its course and travelling up up up, until they’re caressing Regulus’ chest, following the shape of his scars. “There’s no point in pretending you’re not fucking gagging for it at this point. Just look at you. Look at you. I bet you could come from this. From me marking you up while I whisper in your ear.”

“N-no,” Regulus huffs, blinking furiously and doing his best to break out of his daze. “You’re too—too full of yourself. This isn’t enough, it could never be, and I—”

“Not enough?” James questions, stopping his ministrations. Regulus bites his tongue to stop the protest at the tip of his tongue. “Is this your way of asking for more, baby? Because you’re gonna have to do better than that. I don’t listen to brats.”

Regulus wishes he could scoff, elbow James in the stomach so his touches stop clouding his mind and tell him to fuck off. Maybe even show him how well he can throw a stupid punch.

But his body isn’t listening to his mind. It doesn’t care about what Regulus truly wants. Or what he’s been telling himself he wants, at least.

That’s why when he parts his lips, none of the curses he’s been preparing come out. Instead, there’s only need and lust. “Please,” he whimpers, closing his eyes tight momentarily. “Please, James, I—I just—”

James shushes him gently while circling a nipple, Regulus’ toes curling inside his toes and cunt clenching around nothing. “Oh, baby. It’s okay. I’m gonna take care of you so well. Give you exactly what you need.”

“Yeah,” Regulus exhales, hands spasming around James’ curls. “Please.”

“Gonna let me fuck you, baby? Let me finger you nice and open, so you can get ready for my cock?”

Regulus moans and nods and thrashes around, one of his hands slipping from James’ hair just so he can grab one of James' by its wrist, pushing his arm downwards and hoping to get some relief where he truly needs it.

James stops right before he reaches his waistband, a cocky grin curving against Regulus’ skin.

“Well, well,” James breathes. “Aren’t you a needy little thing.”

“C’mon,” Regulus complains, uncaring of how childish he sounds. He feels too fucking drunk on everything James to be able to think about anything else apart from getting off.

James laughs again, because he’s mean like that, and Regulus can already feel some tears prickling at his eyes out of frustration.

“You have to tell me what you want, Regulus,” James says, and his voice is so damn casual it actually hurts. “This won’t work otherwise.”

There’s no this, Regulus wants to snap back, but then James is pressing nearer, until Regulus can feel the outline of his hard cock against his ass. It makes him gasp and push back against it, really pleased by the little hiss James lets out at the pressure.

“See what you do to me, baby?” James whispers, dragging his lips over his shoulders, the side of his throat, behind his ear. “We barely did anything, and yet I’m so fucking hard it’s actually painful. You’ve no idea of how many times I’ve jerked myself off to the thought of you. Wishing it was your hand instead. Your mouth. The inside of your cunt.”

Regulus’ knees shake, a mewl escaping his parted lips, and James’ grip on him turns even stronger.

“I bet you’ll feel all tight and warm around me,” James goes on, tone husky, words dripping with so much desire it makes Regulus light-headed. “Make the sweetest sounds, too. I used to think you were too uptight and that I needed to fuck the stubborness out of you, but it turns out that you’re real fucking dirty, baby. Grinding back against my cock and opening your legs the moment I praised you a little. Oh, if they could see you now, baby. Big bad scary Regulus Black. Reduced to a pathetic, whimpering mess.”

“Shut up,” Regulus grits out, but he doesn’t stop rubbing his ass on James’ cock, or pulling at James’ wrist insistently, in an attempt to get his hand inside his pants. “You’re all bark and no bite. Spent all these months telling me everything you wanted to do to me, and now that I finally give you a chance, you’re only teasing and babbling in my ear.”

“Good try, baby, but you should know by now that that attitude of yours only turns me on.”

“Yeah? Then how come you’re not fucking me yet, huh?”

James’ other hand, the one that hasn’t stopped gripping Regulus’ waist for a single second, lets go and climbs up, taking a hold of Regulus’ chin. James uses it to tilt his head back, forcing their gazes to meet, and Regulus despises how he feels himself get slicker at the flash of danger on James’ gaze, the sharpness of his smirk.

“God, the mouth you have on you, baby.” James cocks his head to the side, considering, and he grips his chin even tighter. “So fucking filthy. And so pretty when you beg.”

“I don’t beg,” Regulus murmurs back, aware that it’s a lie. He still narrows his eyes when James barks out a laugh.

“Yes, you do. You already have. And you will do so again, if you want to come.”

“I don’t need you for that. I can just—just walk out of here, leave you hanging and get off all by myself—”

“No, you can’t. I’m sure you’ve also jerked off while thinking of me, right, baby? All that tension, all that repression, I know it took its toll. Did you finger yourself slow and deep as soon as you got home after our interviews? Came with my name in your mouth?”

Regulus only glares at him, not even trying to defend himself. What’s the point, when James can see right through him? Lying won’t do him any favours.

“You did,” James states, ridiculously pleased with himself. “You’re not gonna go and waste this chance over your wounded pride, baby. Argue all you want, but we both know you’re not going anywhere. Not when you’re practically drooling at the thought of taking my cock.”

“Don’t act like you don’t want it as much, if not more, than I do,” Regulus grumbles.

James shrugs, leaning forward and forcing Regulus to do the same. Until their noses are grazing each other, breaths intermingling.

“Never said otherwise,” he retorts with ease.

“Then what the fuck are you playing at?”

“Nothing, really. Just waiting for you to tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you, baby, I swear. You just gotta ask.”

Regulus purses his lips, but James does sound sincere, and at this point, it’s not like he has anything else to lose. It’s too late to try and save face, and his dignity, or whatever was left of it, took its leave the moment he allowed James to get this close.

Besides, he wants this. He wants James. Has done so for a while, probably since the very beginning, and not even he has this much self-restraint.

“Fuck me,” Regulus says in a soft exhale, watching the way James’ pupils eat at his irises. “Please, James, fuck me. I need you inside me, it’s—fucking unbearable, really, and I’m gonna lose it if you don’t—”

“Yes,” James gasps out, nodding fast, moves turning erratic as he finally slips his hand under the shorts, under Regulus’ briefs. “Yes. Of course, baby, anything you want, I’m��shit, you’re so—let me just—”

His fingers rub at his clit playfully, pulling a moan out of Regulus, before they continue their path down, until they’re running through slick curls, teasing at his entrance and marvelling at the wetness they find there.

“Fuck, baby, you’re fucking dripping,” James whispers in wonder. Regulus can only whimper, pushing against his eager hand. “And it’s for me. All for me. Fucking hell, just—come here—”

It’s when James tilts his head up, clearly wanting to kiss him, that Regulus finally manages to go back to himself. That Regulus remembers where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s doing it with.

Reality hits him with such harshness that the ground seems to tilt under his feet, leaving him breathless, and dizzy, and having to swallow down a wave of nausea.

What the actual fuck is wrong with him?

“Wait,” he squeals, James’ mouth already touching his. “Wait.”

To the other man’s credit, he does stop immediately at Regulus’ words, pulling back and fingers freezing where they were exploring at his cunt’s entrance.

Regulus takes a gulp of air, heart rumbling loudly inside his head, his brain screaming at him to get a fucking grip.

“Reg?” James calls him, a worried frown twisting his features while his eyes roam all over his face. “Baby, you okay?”

“Don’t—” Regulus wheezes out, clawing at James’ arm until he gets the hint and takes it out of his pants. He can’t think with those thick, calloused fingers resting on his cunt. “We can’t do this. It’s—no, James, just—no.”

Something pained flashes in James’ gaze, before it disappears, being substituted by a harshness Regulus has to look away from. “Regulus—”

“No,” he repeats, a lot firmer this time. “I’m not—I can’t, James. I’m sorry, I really am, but I just can’t.”

Regulus doesn’t stick around to hear James’ response, or watch his reaction. He moves away from him, legs shaky but still managing to support his weight, and he exits the ring without daring to glance back.

#AND FINALLY #ITS DONE #god i cant believe this silly scene ended up being so long #especially when i wrote it . without actually making an effort . since it's just a snippy and i was simply having fun #but i guess i should've expected it #anyways hope u guys enjoy!!#and that the wait was worth it!!#if u see any mistakes or something that doesn't make much sense #no u didn't #it's almost 4am and im knackered #be gentle with me etc #going to sleep NOW #boxer james agenda

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demenior · 11 months ago

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So i've been writing Fealty 2 in an odd way to try and keep myself from getting in my head and stalled about it, but it means I purposefully made it really hard to know the Real length of the wip as a whole...

We're sitting at about 100k in less than 10 chapters.

Objectively I understood this. But. Seeing the number... like oh, okay. Maybe this is something that takes this long to write.

literally every single chapter of fealty 2 is like... 12-18k long.

help me.

#someone save me from myself #or don't #i hope its worth the wait #few more chapters to go #a life of little things series

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ioniansunsets · 1 year ago

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Hi! Recently found you, and i LOVE your writing and ideas! Their very tasty, like high-quality chocolate &/or caramel!

I offer (potentially angsty) scenario(you don't have to do) with heartsteel kayn & Idol or k/da!Reader?

What if a stage malfunction happened during readers' (or kayns) show?? (Or a sabotage from a fan? Perhaps?)

(Bonus: & What if... reader or kayn got hurt?) Thank you if you choose to do this ask🩷 (Sorry ahhh-- this is my first time sending an ask)

✖ Heartsteel!Kayn x KDA!Reader Where Reader Gets Injured✖

✖ Word Count: 1.4k

✖ Tags: Established R/S, Mild Injury, Ends with Comfort, IDK if I'd even tag this as Angsty (maybe a tinge)

✖ A/N: I think its cute how Ahri, Akali, Evelyn and Kai’sa all technically can dash towards you with their actual in game skills LMFAO so cute...these girls would do anything to protect you. I think it’s very cute when a lover goes batshit insane with worry for you. Have mercy too, I’ve never been hospitalized, only visited people LMAO

Also thank you for asking this! I am so happy that you love my thoughts and words ><

✖ Wrote This Listening To: Drugs and Candy

----

There were always toxic fans. You knew that, and Kayn of course knew his fanbase were sometimes as batshit insane as him. But the past few weeks were great! Social media was abuzz with positive comments about you two, fans congratulated you at fanmeets praising how cute you looked with Kayn.

Everything pointed towards how the fanbase took the official announcement of you two dating well but of course, you know delusional, parasocial fans existed too.

What you don’t know, was how they got past security.

You don’t know how they sneaked past all the checks and stage tests.

Maybe it was on you, maybe you were training too hard and were too tired to notice.

Maybe the high of performing live on stage and all the bits and bops of things to do left it so you didn’t notice the creak of the bright lights above you. The lights in the same pink purple hues of Kayn’s hair. The last thing you remember was the crackle of lights, the screams of your fans, and all your band mates in a blur dashing towards you.

It was arguably just as bad for Kayn.

Sure he wasn’t there, he wasn’t injured, he wasn’t the target of the attack nor was he the one in the hospital but there was nothing worse than hearing that you were still out cold, uncertain of how hurt you actually were.

There was nothing worse really, seeing the clips circulating online of what happened being reposted by all sorts of accounts. The blood that flowed from you onto the stage, oh god he didn’t even know humans could bleed this much.

There was nothing worse than knowing that he was stuck on tour and couldn’t be by your side.

There was nothing worse than not being able to call you and check on you because according to Akali you were STILL in the ER right now, you’re still unconscious and the doctors have no updates. How! It has been at least 4 hours since your opening act. Since the incident.

There was nothing worse, than fighting with his bandmates and managers, begging to go back to be by your side, and only after Alune stood up for him saying how “ The Heartbeats would understand why Kayn was missing. Let him go or he would just sneak off at night and do it anyway.” That management allowed them to postpone their weekend show so he could book a midnight flight to you.

There was nothing worse, than sitting alone in the private airport lounge, checking socials for updates and finding out HIS fan was the one that was caught on CCTV being the perpetrator, the one that did this to you, the love of his life. They even wore a jacket with Rhaast’s icon sewn onto the back, almost mocking him. Sure you were the one physically hurt, but the way his emotions were all over the place, the way his heart refused to calm down, the way he haven’t felt so much like throwing up since he left his old band. He hated this.

Hands tightening around his already cracked phone, the only reason he hasn’t angrily thrown it against the wall was because Akali messaged him telling Kayn how you were stable now, you lived fine, you were still sleeping but you were out of surgery at least. He swallows hard, quickly picking up his small luggage as he runs over to the gate to board his plane. Kayn breathes heavy, only thoughts about being by your side when you wake up keep him walking and keep the absolute rage and chaos Rhaast has at bay. The flight couldn’t be any longer to him.

He ran, the second the Taxi dropped him off at the hospital he phased through walls and booked it straight up to your room, leaving Akali to sigh as she signs him in. The way his hands shook as he slowly opened the door to your ward. Feeling like it was somehow rude to phase through this one way although one, you were still unconscious and two he already violated the privacy of half the hospital.

“ My little demon…This is all my fault.”

Kayn slowly walked to your side after he steps in, watching and noting how you had your eye patched up, how bandages trailed down your body, how pale your skin was. He was going to throw up again, seeing you this way. Ahri who was in the room watching over you let him know you could still see of course, and nothing plastic surgery can’t fix about the scars. You would be fine after a week or two of rest. The shards of glass from the strobe lights missed all the important bits, only scratching up your brow, cheek and collar. Ahri offers Kayn a small sad smile before leaving to give him time with you. The other girls in K/DA has some cuts and bruises saving your from the falling light but otherwise were fine.

It was another hour of your steady breathing and the beeping of machines around him. To Kayn, it felt like hours. Inconsolable hours where his thoughts went wild. Rhaast kept at bay from trashing the place solely from how weak and shaky your breathing was. So when the beeping finally started to pick up Kayn was standing up, hand holding yours, calling out to you frantic and concerned as you slowly blinked and opened your eyes.

“ Oh my god you’re finally awake baby.”

You watched your boyfriend cry, silent tears falling as he spoke over and over about how he should have curated his audience more, warned them to not pull shit like this to you. Anger about how could his “obsessive fans” not know that hurting you would hurt him just as much. Frustration about not being in the audience this time to save you. Sorrow about seeing how much pain you were in right now because of him. Anger once again from Rhaast this time about how incompetent your security was for letting a mistake like this go unnoticed and finally…overwhelming relief that you were ultimately ok. It was new, seeing him so scared, so worried, no doubt all of these emotions were because of just how much Kayn loved you but still, you felt bad making him worry so much. Finally he updates you, telling you about what happened, how you would be ok, he would make sure of it.

“ I…I’m sorry you had to go through this because of me. If you want to leave me because of my fans I will totally understand.”

You watched his voice crack as his hand grasps yours tighter. Your lover’s brows furrowed as he thinks hard. Biting his lip so hard you could almost see it bleed.

“ No Kayn! I would never! It’s not your fault. None of it was your fault, my own crazy fans could have done this to me too y’know. Plus if I breakup with you, they totally won.”

You reply, throat a little dry from not speaking so long but you had to tell him. No way you’re letting some insane fan ruin your performance, your day and your relationship. You watch him finally smile a little as you speak, the corners of his lips barely curving, tears stopping at your frantic attempts to make sure he knows just how much you love him back. No way in hell or heaven would you give up what you have with him because of some lunatic. Especially after seeing just how much he loved you, flying here for you? Putting his work behind for You? How could you let this man go.

“ Hey, at least we can get matching eyepatches now?”

At your comment, he lets out an exasperated laugh.

" I’m sorry, I should be the one making you feel better not the other way around. Here.”

You watch as Kayn slips a finger under his eyepatch, pulling it off carefully before bending down to give your bandaged side a small kiss. Hands uncharacteristically gentle as they worked their way around your hair and all the gauze to put his eyepatch on you. Giving you another quick kiss on your lips before pulling away.

" Looking good darling."

" Only because you style me so well!"

Yeah, it will be ok, the two of you were motivated, hardworking idols, a setback like this meant nothing. As he smiles again at you, the signature cheeky, prideful smile you’ve come to love from him. Your heart flutters. Yeah, something like this won’t stop you from loving him.

#I THINK THIS WENT OK #I love kayn........i dreamt of heartsteel kayn last night so here we go more kayn x reader #SORRY THIS TOOK LIKE A MONTH Oh my god im so sorry #I HOPE ITS WORTH THE WAIT........#Kayn League of Legends #Heartsteel!Kayn x Reader #Shieda Kayn #Kayn League #Heartsteel Kayn #Anon Answer #Heartsteel!Kayn #Kayn x Reader #Kayn LoL #KaynLeague #K/DA Reader #SCENARIO

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satansxknitwear · 2 years ago

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Still swingin' 🌻😎

✨My links✨

#Check out my OF (in my links) for this full set unsensored and for a little tour of my toy box!!#Also any support in the form of reblogs... tips.. treats... Etc you could give me right now would be endlessly appreciated 🥺i miss my blog #Satans knitwear #Alt pinup #Pinup girl #I hope this week treats you deliciously my loves!!#Im traveling to see my besties on friday and i am SO NERVOUS but cant wait to be reunited at last #Train tickets cost so much money omg. But its gonna be worth it. I might get you guys to help me pick out some outfits #Gotta be hotter than hell for my girls #Strappy lingerie #Pretty lingerie #Harness lingerie #Stockings and suspenders #Pasties #Tassles

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isatohlee · 2 months ago

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Sinking Friend

Sea Angel belongs to @breadnabreadd

Man O’ War Jellyfish from @lovemonstress

Seal based one from my lovely moot @jelliannn

The only human by me

#lee art #digital art #fanart #roblox pressure #pressure oc #mutual fanart #muriel #its finally done #worth it #i hope you guys like it!#tried to show each character #and their unique features #had a bunch of fun with the glow #i tried my best not to miss any details #but ik i missed muriel’s bag #i was too far in to fix it #without losing it in the process #anyways this was fun drawing ocs rather than the silly fish man #cant wait to draw more of em

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aquaquadrant · 2 years ago

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from eden, part V

Word count: 13,626

Warnings: Violence, strong language, mild body horror, blood/injury, death, emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, unreliable narrator, shipping (nothing explicit, just kissing and suggestive implications), grooming (non-sexual)

Summary: Following Tango’s escape from Hels Tek, head scientist Atlas finds himself in hot water. With his sponsors unhappy and his scientists’ faith shaken, the situation quickly spirals into a full-on nose dive, and he suddenly faces losing everything he’s spent decades building. But fate is a funny thing, and after receiving help from an unexpected place, Atlas just might discover that some things do, in fact, happen for a reason.

A/N: WELP I did it again. This oneshot has to get split into two because Atlas’s ego wouldn’t leave enough room for another POV (he needed over 13k to himself, greedy bastard). So, the next one will pick up right after this and will hopefully be out in a timely manner (no promises ofc). Here’s a link to read the previous parts of the au and all the other info!

Note that there are some Helsmits in this, but there are also lots of random OCs/NPCs in the background. They’re not important, they’re just there to help fill up the Hels roster. And ofc, Atlas himself isn’t supposed to be the Hels of anyone we know, he’s purely an OC. Hope y’all enjoy, please reblog if you do! This was a labor of love so it’d really mean a lot <3 - Aqua

~*~

from eden, part V - to the strand, a picnic plan for you and me

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, a player just woke up to very bad news.

“Drowned?” Dr. Atlas Syn, head scientist of Hels Tek Laboratories, demands furiously as he leaps out of bed. “How could he have possibly drowned?!”

(An addendum: he’s not leaping out of his actual bed. Rather, he sleeps on a 2x2 pad of moss, the softest substitute for wool available. His real bed is hidden deep beneath his feet, within an obsidian safe room that’s fully stocked with armor, weapons, food, and whatever other resources he might need in the event of his untimely demise.

Owning a bed is a prestigious thing. Not all players are well-off or well-connected enough to obtain a bed from the scarce wool merchants in Hels, all of whom guard their rare sheep fiercely. Instead, most players utilize respawn anchors to set their spawns, as the materials required to craft one are far easier to come by than wool.

The only players who are aware of the bed’s existence are Atlas himself and the man who gave it to him, and that’s how Atlas likes to keep it. If certain enemies or rivals of his were to discover his bed, them breaking it is the least of his concerns.

It’s a privilege to own a bed, allowing him to bypass the thousands of blocks of treacherous terrain he’d have to travel if he died, but it’s also a great risk. Setting one’s spawn via bed or anchor doesn’t allow for the same protection as afforded by the default world spawn and its anti-griefing perimeter. Knowing the location of a player’s spawn allows for the deployment of traps- the longest death loop Atlas has ever seen lasted a solid month, and only ended because someone got fed up enough with the constant death messages to free the poor chump.

Anyways, this is all besides the point. Atlas leaps out of ‘bed.’)

“We aren’t sure, sir,” the player cowering in front of him says. Some new intern, Atlas thinks, which is probably why he was the one chosen to inform Atlas of this unpleasant development. “But there appear to be bloodstains on the inside of the farm-”

“Where is he now?” Atlas cuts him off, pulling up his communicator. It takes a bit of scrolling through all the usual random death messages to find it: Tango drowned.

He curses himself for having his notifications silenced. But really, who doesn’t? Death messages are so numerous in Hels, the constant beeping would be intolerable. Not to mention it would be a dead giveaway- pun intended- in any situation that required stealth or discretion.

“We don’t know, sir,” the intern says with a wince.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“We don’t know, sir.”

“Who last checked the respawn anchor?”

“We don’t-”

“Okay, let’s try this,” Atlas says, pinching the bridge of his nose even as a grin splits across his face. “How about you tell me what you do know, and we stop wasting time?”

The intern straightens his back. “The incident was discovered when myself and Drs. Riposte, Ironclad, and Heligan arrived this morning. There’s no evidence of a break-in, everything outside the farm is completely intact. The only damage to the enclosure itself is the chains, they’ve been snapped near the shackles- probably due to respawn. No one was awake when it happened, but the last person to clock out last night was Dr. Clear Cut, at 0200.”

Of course. Atlas isn’t surprised; Clear doesn’t know the meaning of a twelve-hour work day. What’s more surprising is that the mad doctor actually remembered to clock out this time. “Has anyone questioned him yet?” Atlas asks, grabbing his lab coat off its hook.

“No, sir,” the intern says. “But security is fetching him now, they’re bringing him to the farm.”

“Very good.” Atlas gives a short nod, pulling his lab coat on before swiftly exiting the room. The intern jogs to catch up, falling into step beside him. “Assemble the rest of the staff in conference room A1,” Atlas orders. “I’ll be in to speak with them once I’ve finished with Dr. Clear.”

“Yes, sir.”

Atlas abruptly stops walking, whirling around to loom over the intern. “And this probably goes without saying, but I do not want word of this escaping the premises,” he says, his tone dangerously light, a smile through gritted teeth. “Do you understand?”

The intern nods frantically. “Yes sir, Dr. Atlas.”

“Very good.” Atlas turns away. “Thank you, that will be all.”

The intern’s rapid footsteps fade off down the hallway, allowing Atlas to continue alone.

It’s a short walk to the lab. Atlas is once again thankful that he decided to have employee housing built so close to the actual laboratory.

(Every now and then, new hires complain about having to live on the premises, reluctant to leave their own bases behind. But it saves so much time, and he placates them by allowing them to decorate their rooms however they see fit- within reason, of course- and by giving them ample time-off to make trips away from the premises- which he gradually decreases over a matter of months.

Eventually, they accept that they don’t have time for a life outside of Hels Tek, and then things run much more smoothly.)

Atlas comes to a stop in front of the lab’s main entrance, pressing the button that opens the iron doors. He enters into a short hallway that leads to a piston door, casting a quick glance around himself before entering in the combination to open it.

(The laboratory’s design is quite clever, if he does say so himself. All the outer walls of the facility are four blocks thick- the exterior and interior decorative blocks, and then two blocks of cobblestone in the middle. They’re part of an anti-break-in system; an infinite piston tape and cobblestone generator combo that will replace any block that’s mined away, faster than even the best enchanted netherite pickaxe can break them.

Although evidently, all the clever designing in the world cannot account for the stupidity of players. What good is a facility that can’t be broken into if their one prisoner was able to break out?

Even as he’s thinking about what next steps he should take and how best to minimize the fallout, part of his mind is pondering how they ended up in this situation in the first place, running through rapid-fire scenarios. He’s realized that for Tango to spawn outside of the farm, the respawn anchor must’ve been drained of charge. That’s not something that happens overnight- this is clearly the result of ongoing negligence, and he cringes to think how this might reflect on him personally, as head of Hels Tek.

Ah, but he’s let his train of thought get away from him again. He can worry about these things after he has his property back.)

Atlas’s footsteps are wholly automatic as he makes his way through the lab, towards the chamber where the Tango Tek farm is located. Stopping in front of the door, he fishes a slip of paper out of his lab coat pocket- his ID- and drops it into a dispenser embedded in the wall. The security system reads his paper and then spits it back out, the door swinging open for him.

Atlas steps inside, and the door locks shut behind him.

The room is empty save for three people; two security guards standing on either side of a scientist, hunched over in a chair as he works on a redstone component. His curly mustache is more unkempt than usual, the facial hair positively frayed at its edges. The man must’ve been woken abruptly, for although he’s wearing his lab coat (stained and wrinkled, as always) his shirt is partially unbuttoned and he’s not wearing a tie.

Atlas clears his throat. “Good morning, Dr. Clear.”

“Mornin’,” Clear replies automatically, not even glancing up from the comparator he’s fiddling with. His thick accent is even rougher in the early morning, a slurred drawl that never fails to get on Atlas’s nerves.

Atlas disregards him for a brief moment to stride over to the farm, the small glass enclosure against the opposite wall of the room. As promised, it’s largely intact and untouched- the only differences are the black bloodstains smeared against the glass, the snapped chains hanging from the sides, and the complete and utter absence of a blaze hybrid inside. As expected, the respawn anchor fitted into the wall has gone dark; out of charge.

Atlas turns back to Clear. “You were the last one at the lab this past evening, is that right?” he asks, neatly folding his hands behind his back.

“Right, sure,” Clear mutters absent-mindedly. “Got a lotta work t’do, you know. Ain’t gonna do itself. Gotta be perfect.”

“Of course,” Atlas replies smoothly. Normally he wouldn’t tolerate such inattentiveness, but he’s long since learned to pick his battles with Clear. “Before you left, do you recall if Tango Tek was still functioning properly?”

“Who?” Clear asks, unbothered.

“Tango Tek, the blaze farm,” Atlas emphasizes, managing to keep his tone slow and patient. “Was the blaze hybrid still inside it when you left?”

“Blaze?” Clear frowns, one greasy, redstone-stained hand coming up to twirl his mustache. “No, no, no, I don’t work with blaze,” he chatters, more to himself than anything. “Don’t do a lotta damage, them blaze. I’m more of a TNT-duper myself. World eaters, y’know, that sorta thing-”

“Dr. Clear,” Atlas says calmly, stepping forward, “might I have your undivided attention for a moment?” He reaches out and grabs Clear none-too-gently by the chin, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. “I’m asking if you remember seeing the blaze hybrid, Tango Tek, inside his farm before you left the lab last night.”

Finally, finally, clarity sparks in Clear’s bloodshot eyes. “Oh. I suppose he was, yeah,” he says with a shrug.

Atlas leans in closer, close enough to smell the potion of swiftness on Clear’s breath (and thank the universe for that, because otherwise the man would probably be comatose). “Did you see anyone or anything out of the ordinary before you left for the night?”

Clear snorts. “Ordinary. Who decides that, huh?” Just like that, his gaze is clouded again as he starts rambling. “What’s ordinary to one person might be extraordinary to another, y’know. After all, everythin’ is relative, innit?”

Atlas sighs. “Indeed.” Releasing his grip, he steps back.

He never truly suspected that Clear had anything to do with Tango’s escape- the man’s mind is too fragmented to concoct a plot like that- but he’d been hoping Clear would have some sort of useful information for him. Evidently, it was too high of a hope.

“Go prep the flying machines,” he orders. “After I debrief the rest of the staff, I’ll be taking a team over to spawn to correct this little mishap.”

Clear gives a faint nod, already having turned his attention back to his comparator. “Right, sure. Just lemme finish this last-”

“Now please, Dr. Clear,” Atlas says firmly.

Clear heaves a sigh, sliding out of his chair. “Alright, alright…” He straightens his back with a loud pop before immediately reverting to his horribly hunched posture. “Flyin’ machines, right… where, exactly, can I find them?”

Atlas snaps his fingers at the security guards. “Do make sure he gets there, won’t you?”

The two players quickly nod and usher Clear out of the room. Atlas takes one final look at the empty farm before departing.

~*~

It doesn’t take long for Atlas to get everyone caught up to speed.

Hels Tek isn’t as large an operation as one might presume based on their reputation. Their numbers include fifteen scientists (including Clear and himself), ten security guards (including the two currently babysitting Clear), and two interns (for the time being).

All of them gathered in an average-sized conference room during an emergency might’ve been cause for a headache, if not for Atlas’s tight leadership. They await his instructions in stony silence, masking the nerves they must surely be feeling. Once he informs them of the situation, there isn’t a second spared for outrage or disbelief or panic- they simply ask what to do next.

They don’t have a protocol in place for this sort of emergency (an oversight on Atlas’s part, he’ll admit) but every one of his scientists is used to rolling with the punches. He quickly divides them into teams; one to search the entire lab top to bottom in case Tango simply respawned outside the enclosure and has hidden himself somewhere, one to form a perimeter around the premises to steer away any happenstance visitors, and one to accompany Atlas to the world spawn, where Tango most likely ended up after his death.

Atlas takes most of the security force with him as well, because even with flying machines, the journey to world spawn is long and dangerous. Every second spent chugging along through the smoke-filled air feels like an eternity, making Atlas quite aware of the invisible timeline closing down on him.

The longer Tango is free of Hels Tek, the greater the risk of him slipping away forever. And even worse, the greater the chance of Hels Tek’s sponsors catching wind of this disaster.

(There’s one in particular that Atlas shudders to think about discovering his blunder.)

For the most part, their formation of flying machines is left alone. Hels Tek is well known in this area, and has earned its reputation for dealing with troublemakers severely. Every now and then, they do get arrows sent their way, from bold (and stupid) players hidden amongst the landscape. There are also a couple close calls with ghasts, the monsters spawning out of nowhere in a burst of fireballs and demonic screeching.

But it’s nothing they can’t handle. The security guards make quick work of mob and player alike with their own volley of arrows. Those Power V crossbows pack quite the punch, reminding Atlas how nice it is to have wealthy sponsors.

Which he might lose, if he can’t recapture their blaze farm.

Eventually, the biomes start to give way to the horrendous moth-eaten terrain of the outer spawn chunks. It’s barren as always, with no signs of life amongst the patchwork of holes. Once the actual world spawn is in view, the pristine natural landscape, Atlas signals for the fleet to stop. Flying machines can enter the anti-griefing perimeter around spawn, but if they stall or get stuck for whatever reason, there’s no removing blocks, so they’ll be floating up in the air forever.

Which isn’t the end of the world, but it’s a meaningless waste of resources that Atlas would prefer to avoid if possible.

Fishing his water bucket out of his inventory, Atlas slides off the side of his flying machine. His stomach lurches as he drops, placing the water down just before he lands to negate any fall damage. Straightening up, he scoops the water back into the bucket and puts it away.

“We go on foot from here,” Atlas announces, as the rest of the search party follows suit. “Keep your eyes peeled, he could be hiding anywhere.”

“Yes, sir!” comes the chorus.

Traveling becomes considerably more difficult at that point, dodging holes every two steps. But soon enough, they reach the start of the spawn radius. Using the stone they’ve brought with them, they stack up to ascend the squat, sheer cliffs left behind by players long ago, digging for blocks the second they were out of the anti-griefing perimeter.

(Hels is ancient. By the time Atlas spawned into existence, the world already looked much like this, and has changed very little in the years since- as best he can tell as someone who seldom visits spawn, anyways.

But he remembers the day he spawned in. He remembers toddling over towards the cliffs on short, unsteady legs and dropping off the side, the painful crack of fall damage, his first damage, rattling through his feet. He remembers a sudden urge overtaking him, an instinct written into his very code, to start digging and gathering resources. And he remembers taking his tiny fists to the nearest block, an oak plank, only to find it’d been left by some other player to plug up a one-block hole that went all the way down to bedrock.

That wasn’t a fun fall.

He had to wonder, why would a player even bother to plug up a single hole in that disaster zone? It wasn’t as if anyone who’d respawned would have wooden planks on them, or a way to gather them, so it must’ve been someone coming to spawn instead of trying to escape from it. And so he’d decided, with all his two minutes of life experience, that it must’ve been done deliberately to trick someone, newly respawned and desperate for resources, into falling down that hole.

Just like he did.

That was also the moment he resolved to never let himself be outsmarted again.)

Atlas hops to the ground within the spawn radius just in time to see a dark shape flying up one of the netherrack mountains surrounding spawn. Before he can blink, it vanishes into the cliffside- probably into a hidden cave.

Well. Atlas had been hoping to find Tango here (even a respawn won’t have been enough to return him to full strength right away so he can’t have gotten far), but perhaps he’s found a witness.

“Fan out around the perimeter,” he says over his shoulder, as the rest of the group pull themselves up onto the level ground. “I think I see someone who might be able to help us out.”

“Yes, sir!”

Atlas approaches the mountain at a leisurely pace, arms folded behind his back. He comes to a stop at the foot of the cliff and looks up, allowing a wide grin to spread across his face. “Yoo hoo, hello up there!” he calls.

Silence, unsurprisingly.

“I’m not here to hurt you, I just need to ask you a couple questions,” he continues, voice cheery. “I can come to you if you want, we’ve got flying machines. It’d be no trouble at all.”

It’s a very clear threat, shoddily wrapped under the guise of politeness. And it seems to do the trick- a figure slowly creeps over the edge of the cliff, peering down at him.

The player isn’t very imposing; he’s pale and scrawny, practically emaciated, with big, hollow eyes. He’s an avian hybrid of some kind, black wings just barely visible poking over his shoulders. Interesting, but not important at the moment beyond what he can tell Atlas about recent arrivals to spawn.

He doesn’t seem to be wearing any armor, and as such, likely isn’t a spawn camper. Why else a player would hang around spawn, Atlas doesn’t know, but since he fled at their arrival he probably wants to be left alone. That increases the likelihood that he’ll answer Atlas’s questions readily, if only to get rid of them.

“... yes?” comes a soft, but labored, voice.

He sounds quite weak. Atlas’s grin widens. “Do you know if a blaze hybrid respawned here?” he asks. “He would’ve shown in the chat as Tango.”

The player seems to nod- a faint gesture from this distance.

“Wonderful!” Atlas claps his hands together, noting the way the player jolts at the sound. “And did you happen to see which direction he went?”

Slowly, the player lifts one trembling arm to point eastward. “Over… there,” he says, tone wary but seeming genuine. “Haven’t seen… him since…”

Atlas hums, pleased that at least someone is cooperating with him today. “Thank you very much.” He snaps his fingers- immediately, several members of the search party peel off from the group to head east. “Now, have you been at spawn for a while? Do you know how long ago he respawned here?”

The player hesitates. “Not… sure…” It sounds like he’s cringing, afraid of not knowing the answer, so it’s probably not a lie.

“That’s alright,” Atlas assures him, pulling up his communicator. He scrolls through the death messages again when something catches his eye. The first message after Tango’s death; Bravo has joined the game.

The only players that join Hels are children, new-spawns. They can burst into existence at any moment, with no rhyme or reason; sometimes there’ll be ten in a row, and sometimes weeks will go in between. It shouldn’t stand out as unusual… and yet, the names have an odd similarity that won’t leave him alone.

(Already, a part of Atlas’s mind has snatched up the idea like a wolf and ran with it. If the two events are connected- Tango’s death and Bravo’s entrance- then there must be something bigger than random chance going on. If there’s a way for players from other worlds to travel to Hels, and potentially viceversa, then Atlas has to be the first one to know about it.)

“Who’s this Bravo that joined shortly after?” Atlas asks, as casually as he can.

The player’s answer is just as casual, despite the way he sounds as if he’s on death’s door. “Just… a kid.”

“Mm.” Now that Atlas is looking more carefully, he sees an actual message from Bravo, asking for help. That message is promptly followed by several deaths, interspersed amongst the regular deaths of other Hels denizens.

Of course. Just a stupid kid.

(Atlas purges the idea from his mind, embarrassed to have given it any significant thought at all.)

Sighing, Atlas puts his communicator away. “Alright, that will be all. Thank you.” He turns away with a wave, moving to rejoin the search party. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

The player’s response is so faint, Atlas almost misses it.

“... thanks... you… too...”

~*~

Only minutes later, a new message comes through the chat.

AnimosityGaming starved to death.

Well. That explains a lot.

~*~

They don’t stay around spawn very long.

Since the spawn chunk can’t be altered in any way, there’s no possibility that Tango has made himself a hiding place by digging or placing blocks. So after a quick sweep of the area, they move on to the outlying chunks. Searching through these is a more difficult task than it’d seem, because despite the terrain’s barren appearance, there’s an infinite maze of tunnels underground from years of desperate players trying to safely make it out of spawn.

They split into pairs and fan out, searching for hours on foot until Atlas finally calls in the towel, fed up with bumping his head on the two-high ceilings. After ordering everyone back to the flying machines, they continue their search from the air, flying in concentric circles around spawn. Even this method is limited by the terrain- high mountains and low overhangs from the nether ceiling blocking their paths.

(He should’ve let Clear install TNT-launchers on these things.)

As the day wanes on, Atlas grows increasingly frustrated. Tango shouldn’t have been able to get very far from spawn, not in his condition, unless he asked for help. But Atlas knows the blaze hybrid’s mind quite well, and knows that asking for help is the last thing he’d do.

(It’s the last thing any sensible resident of Hels would do.)

So they should’ve found him by now, or he should’ve had another death. Hels is a dangerous place for anyone, even more so for a very weak creature with absolutely no resources to speak of. After spending his last few months in the farm, Tango should barely be able to walk. And yet somehow, he’s managed to evade them, and death itself.

(Atlas would be impressed if he weren’t so infuriated. Clever devil. He’s always privately thought that Tango would’ve been an excellent Hels Tek scientist, if he weren’t spawned as part blaze.)

As a last resort, Atlas swings by the Arena.

It’s been a while since his last visit- he doesn’t make a habit of it. Too chaotic for his tastes. But he knows its recruiters often pick up cannon fodder from spawn, and they’re especially keen on nabbing any kind of ‘exotic’ player for their fights.

The two recruiters that greet him, a cat hybrid and a large zombie player, heartily assure him they haven’t been by spawn lately. They even take him on a tour through the underground cages, where gladiators of all shapes and sizes await their fates. And sure enough, none of them are Tango.

The recruiters promise to let Atlas know if they see him. However, Atlas doesn’t fail to notice the sly look they give each other when he takes his leave. They’ll almost certainly be out to spawn soon, to try and catch Tango for themselves.

Perfect. Just perfect. He’ll have to have someone keep an eye out at the Arena, in case they actually end up finding Tango in the coming days. Normally, he stays informed on the major businesses of Hels through his various sponsors. But that doesn’t work very well when he needs to be informed of something he’s trying to keep from them.

Wouldn’t that be a bad look, for the blaze farm he’d just shown off as part of his big Phase Two proposal to suddenly appear as a new punching bag at the Arena.

In any case, it’s late into the night before Atlas finally gives up the search. The last actual civilization to check nearby is New Helington, and showing up there would be like signing off on his own death warrant. Besides, if Tango was foolish enough to seek refuge in the city, then Atlas will hear about it anyways, and at that point he’s already doomed.

Their ride back to the lab is spent in stony silence. Atlas can tell everyone is wary of his temper- and certainly, there’ll be a time for that- but right now, he’s too preoccupied with figuring out how to fix this. All he wants to do when he gets back to the lab is down a potion of swiftness and pour over all his collected research and data on Tango, in the hopes of finding a way to track him.

But as soon as Hels Tek comes into view, they’re flagged down by a scientist on the ground.

“Dr. Atlas!” FlySpeck calls, her voice tightly wound with nerves. “There’s someone here to see you, says it’s urgent. I tried to tell him you were out but he won’t leave-”

“Who?” Atlas asks, sliding off the flying machine.

“bXMiner.”

Atlas’s stomach sinks.

Whenever Alisker needs to conduct business, he usually does it through some other underling acting as a go-between. It’s not often he sends his right-hand man bXMiner, and when he does, it’s usually a bad sign.

There’s only one thing that could have prompted the visit. “Where is he?”

FlySpeck casts a wary look over her shoulder. “We put him in the lobby to wait.”

“Thank you, I’ll see him now,” Atlas says curtly, brushing past her.

He walks to the lobby at a speed just shy of running- it simply won’t do to be seen running around in a panic at his own lab, but he knows he shouldn’t keep bX waiting. Not because the man is particularly impatient, but because the longer he’s away from Alisker, the more Alisker’s mood will sour. And Atlas has a nasty feeling Alisker is already quite displeased with him.

(Of course Alisker found out. He has eyes everywhere.)

Atlas sweeps into the lobby with the casual presence of a man with nothing to fear and nothing to hide. “Hello, Mr. bX!” he says warmly, as if greeting an old friend instead of a glorified attack dog.

The man waiting on one of the benches looks over at Atlas with a grin. “Hey, man,” he says nonchalantly, rising to his feet.

He doesn’t quite match Atlas’s height, but he’s certainly the bulkier of the two. Broad shouldered and well-muscled, bX is a formidable force. His face, however, is deceptively pleasant, his teal eyes bright and kind. They match the shimmering diamond chestplate he’s wearing over his smart leather ensemble, as well as the trident strapped across his back.

(Atlas isn’t surprised to see it, despite the weapon’s usefulness being somewhat limited out of water. They love using tridents at the Arena, and it seems bX never gave up the habit.)

“Thank you for your patience,” Atlas says smoothly, coming to a stop in front of bX. “I do hope my staff have been accommodating?”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” bX assures him. He gives Atlas a knowing look. “Rough day?”

Atlas manages a polite laugh, despite the implication that his appearance and demeanor are visibly haggard. “You could say that. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

bX tilts his head. “You mean you really don’t know why I’m here?” he asks, a playful hum in his voice. He’s having fun with this, the bastard.

“Well, I have an educated guess,” Atlas allows, with enough amusement in his voice to imply he’s in on the joke rather than being the butt of it. “But I must admit, I’m surprised to hear from Mr. Alisker so soon.”

bX shrugs a shoulder, scratching at his well-groomed beard. “People might not chat in Hels, but we certainly whisper.”

Atlas sucks in a breath through his smile. “Indeed.”

He’d known there was a high probability that someone on his staff was secretly reporting to Alisker. After all, Atlas hired most of his security force through him. But he’d been hoping they’d developed enough respect for him to trust in his abilities, and give him time to correct the problem before bringing it to Alisker’s attention.

Apparently not.

(One of these days, his hubris will be the death of him.)

Atlas spreads his hands. “I can assure you, Mr. bX, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation-”

“Save it.” bX waves him off, somehow still managing to seem friendly. As if he truly doesn’t want Atlas to waste his breath. “Papa Al wants to talk to you, in person.”

“Ah.” Atlas folds his hands behind his back, his smile sharpening. “You know, if it was that urgent, he could’ve simply sent me a message. Would’ve saved you the trip. I was just in the area, in fact, paying a visit to the Arena.”

If the pointed mention has struck a nerve with bX, he doesn’t show it. “He just wanted to make sure you got there safely,” he says easily. “You know how dangerous traveling can be on your own.”

(Translation: Alisker didn’t trust that Atlas would come voluntarily.)

“Indeed,” Atlas says, masking his displeasure. “Very well, then. Shall we take my flying machine?”

“Ah, I was hoping you’d offer,” bX chuckles. “It’s not an easy journey to make on foot.”

“No,” Atlas sighs, turning to head back outside, “no, it’s not.”

~*~

If the purpose of having bX fetch Atlas was to make him sweat, it’s certainly working.

The journey to New Helington is always long and arduous, but it’s far more nerve-wracking in bX’s presence. He spends the time making casual small talk and launching into the occasional story, as if their relationship is perfectly amiable. And even worse, he’s resistant to all of Atlas’s attempts to unbalance him, letting every snide remark and underhanded compliment glide off his back like water. As always, his demeanor is perfectly unflappable, as if the man is physically incapable of being anything but totally relaxed and jovial.

Atlas doesn’t trust it. He’s seen what bX is capable of. The front he presents only means that he’s better at covering up his true emotions, thoughts, and desires than most- which makes him even more dangerous.

(Because it’s not like anyone could truly be that content all the time. True happiness in Hels is like sunlight; unattainable, and thus supplemented by other cheaper means.)

Eventually, New Helington’s skyline rises in the distance. The city was around long before Alisker, the remnant of early civilizations that were griefed faster than they could be built, but it’s only been able to flourish under his iron fist and watchful eyes. They’ve seen great expansion in the last few years and will likely continue to do so at an ever-increasing rate. Atlas wouldn’t be surprised if the city ended up encroaching on the outer spawn chunks someday, if Alisker can be bothered to cover up the eyesore that is its current terrain.

“You can park here,” bX calls above the chugging of the sticky pistons as they approach one of the city’s gates.

Atlas leans forward to place the stopper block, bringing them to an immediate halt. “Lead the way,” he says wryly, as if he didn’t just drive himself to his own execution.

bX hops to the ground, waving at the player standing guard at the gate. “Hey man,” he calls as they approach, “keep an eye on this, will you? We’ve got business with Papa Al, shouldn’t take long.”

The player nods and steps aside, pulling a lever on the wall. The gate- a massive piston door- opens up to admit them into the city. Atlas follows bX through, pistons churning as the gate seals behind them with echoing finality.

No matter how many times Atlas visits New Helington, it’s a jarring adjustment.

Flashing redstone lamps and blocks of glowstone adorn the front of nearly every building, which are packed together in a haphazard array. The air is thick with steam and filled with sound- voices shouting and screaming, hydraulics hissing and pounding, metal clashing and screeching. There’s activity everywhere he looks; a player rushing out of a bar as bottles are thrown after him, a player tumbling off a roof and crashing through the awning of a market stand, a player chasing a little horde of kids while screaming about pickpocketing.

Truly, a brilliant reminder of why there are so few thriving civilizations in Hels. Most Hels players are unpleasant on any given day, but they’re even more unpalatable in large numbers.

The cobblestone streets are crowded, players packed together as densely as a piglin swarm. Atlas walks closely next to bX so as to decrease the likelihood of being hassled by anyone. bX is well known here- the crowd parts for them like fish in a stream.

Soon enough, the buildings fall away and the road opens up into a sort of courtyard, paved with polished diorite and framed by lush shrubbery (as lush as it can be in this biome, anyways). Looming on top of the hill in the distance, beyond the tall iron gates, is a lavish mansion made almost entirely out of quartz.

(Seems that Alisker has made good use of the piglin bartering farm Atlas had installed for him. Not that the man will likely recall that particular favor during this meeting.)

bX approaches the gate first, nodding at the two players standing guard. “Hey guys,” he greets them pleasantly. “Got a friend here to see Papa Al.”

The guards exchange a knowing look. “Sure thing, sir,” one of them says, stepping aside to open the gate for them.

Atlas gives them a pointed grin as he passes; he refuses to show even the slightest amount of trepidation lest they realize their assumptions were correct. For all they know, he could be here on perfectly pleasant business, or even a social call.

(Yeah, right.)

The paved path to the front doors slopes gently upwards as it curves this way and that, taking a rather lackadaisical route through the garden. If Atlas were here under different circumstances, he might spare a second to appreciate the landscaping. Not because he has any particular interest in building aesthetics, but because of what it represents. To own so much excess land in a crowded city like New Helington that serves no purpose except to look pretty is quite the power play.

There are no guards at the front doors, which open up into a grand entry chamber reminiscent of a lobby. In the middle of the room, a receptionist sits within the center of a circular desk. She straightens up at their arrival, notices bX, relaxes, notices Atlas, quirks a brow, and then goes right back to her paperwork, an amused smile playing on her lips.

Atlas is certain they’ll all be talking about his visit today, and the thought only sours his mood even further. He’s invested a great deal of time and effort into crafting his reputation as the intelligent, business-savvy, and ruthless head of Hels Tek; he’s not happy about being treated like a misbehaving child.

bX wastes no time leading Atlas to an elevator at the side of the lobby. After bX spins the floor selecting key in its item frame a few times, the redstone lamp in the wall lights up, and the pistons beneath their feet start to churn. The elevator jolts at the movement, starting to ascend in jerky lurches.

(It sounds a lot like the flying machines Atlas has been listening to all day and night. He’s really starting to hate that sound.)

It doesn’t take long for them to reach their floor. The elevator grows still and silent, the redstone lamp going dark, and opens up into a long hallway with a single door at the end.

bX gives Atlas a sideways glance, mouth quirked into a smile. “Three guesses as to what’s behind Door Number One.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Atlas huffs.

“Alright, alright,” bX chuckles, stepping out of the elevator. He leads the way down the hall, stopping in front of the door and rapping his fist against it.

“Hollo?” comes a distinctive voice from inside. “Who isss it?”

“Honey, I’m home,” bX drawls, his voice lighting up with mirth.

There’s a gasp. “bX! That you, sweet face? Come in!”

bX opens the door, and the two of them step inside.

Atlas has been inside Alisker’s office only a few times before- they rarely conduct business in person- but it’s clearly seen some renovations since then. Most of the walls are quartz, a mixture of smooth and polished, while the back wall is made of glass. It provides an excellent view over the lush backyard gardens of the gated property. And to top it all off, the floor is paved entirely with solid diamond blocks.

(Tacky, sure, but also an undisputable show of wealth.)

The man sitting at the desk is just as flashy. He wears a bright teal suit, dyed the exact shade of diamond, and is wearing several of the little stones on his fingers. His actual features, however, are more plain; short brown hair that’s neatly combed back and wide brown eyes set in a somewhat soft, rounded face. The only thing unusual about him are the dozens of thin lines that haphazardly zig-zag across every inch of his face, like paper cuts.

(Atlas doesn’t let himself stare; Alisker loves making people uncomfortable.)

bX waves Atlas inside before closing the door behind them and crossing over to the desk. “Sorry it took so long,” he says ruefully.

“Spank you, queenie,” Alisker hums, tilting his head up to kiss bX on the cheek.

(Atlas isn’t fooled by the tenderness of the gesture; it’s nothing more than a display of power. Showing outright affection to someone like that plainly exposes a weak spot, like baring your throat to a knife. Alisker is saying, in no uncertain terms, that this is his house, and he can do whatever he damn well pleases with no fear of retribution.)

bX moves away to stand in front of the door. Alisker now turns to Atlas, a broad grin splitting across his face. “Doc-tor Sinny!” he croons. “It’s been sooo long since I’ve seen dat beautiful face. Come in, come in! Just sit back, and relax.”

Atlas sits down in the solitary chair before Alisker’s desk, offering a polite smile. “Thank you, Mr. Alisker-”

“Uh, uh, uh,” Alisker tsks, giving him a bemused look. “How many times I told you? Call me Papa Al.”

Ugh. “Papa Al,” Atlas corrects himself begrudgingly, his smile strained. “I assure you, I can explain-”

“No need,” Alisker says loftily. He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. “Look into my eyes, and nufin’ but my eyes.”

Atlas has already prepared himself, but his stomach still jolts when the rest of Alisker’s eyes open up. Every line on his face peels open into a pair of lids, behind which an eye peers out. They’re not symmetrical in size, color, location, or orientation- it’s as if someone’s scooped a bucketful of mismatched eyes out of a bin and crammed them into Alisker’s face at random, wherever they’d fit. His forehead, the bridge of his nose, cheeks, jawline, chin- they all twitch and blink and roll completely out of sync, as if trying to look everywhere at once.

But Atlas has seen all this before, and manages to keep his gaze centered on Alisker’s main eyes, the only two located where eyes are normally found.

“I already know alllll about wha’ happened, mhmm,” Alisker says emphatically, nodding his head. His various eyes roll around in multiple directions at the movement. “I must admit, I- I was shocked- no, I was hurt, dat you didn’t tell me yourself. What’s dat about?”

Atlas inclines his head. “I do apologize for the secrecy,” he says mildly, “but I can assure you, this is just a minor setback. I didn’t see the need to bother you with this when I knew we’d have him back soon enough-”

“But you don’t,” Alisker interrupts pointedly. “How long it’s been, a day and a hoff? Two? Almost two days since you lost the blazey farm, and I gotta say, I’m not- I’m not happy.�� Absent-mindedly, he scratches at his cheek- the three eyeballs crammed into the flesh there quickly squeeze shut against his fingertips. “I wouldn’t have been mad if you’d just told me, you know.”

That’s a blatant lie, Atlas knows. He feels himself bristle. “I was just-”

“I gotta know dese things, Atlas!” Alisker interrupts, his tone chiding- like he’s scolding a child. Some of his eyes are looking at each other, as if exchanging a private glance. “Dat’s my investment at stake!”

Atlas talks a breath, centering himself. “You know I appreciate your investment in Hels Tek,” he begins smoothly, spreading his hands, “and I fully intend to deliver. But as inconvenient as this development was, we don’t need him anymore.” His lips split into a winning smile. “We have virtually infinite blaze rods stored up, absolutely no problem there, and I feel as though we’ve more than proven the concept of hybrid powered farms to be a success. We can still proceed with Phase Two-”

“Oh, can we?” Alisker asks in mock surprise, cocking his head to the side. Several of his eyes are looking Atlas up and down, scanning so intently it makes his skin crawl. “You really fink I’m gonna lend you even more of my guys and my pwecious resources so you can go catch more mob hybrids to lose? If you can’t even keep ahold a one, how am I supposed ta trust you wif a whole factory, hm?”

Keep it together. “I understand your trepidation, I do,” Atlas says calmly. “Look, we’re both businessmen. Let’s just discuss this rationally. You’ve known me a long time, I’ve proven myself to you-”

“You’ve proven dat you can’t be trusted,” Alisker snaps, finally letting some heat into his voice. “I spent all dese years funding your research, supplying your security guys, providing you wif all da information you need to be a success, the very bed you sleep on, and dis is how you repay me?”

(Atlas could point out he doesn’t actually sleep on the bed Alisker gifted him, but that information doesn’t seem pertinent at the moment.)

“I don’t- I don’t love it, Atlas,” Alisker continues, his tone grave. His eyes are glaring now, all narrow slits of pupils. “And right now, I don’t love your face.”

Atlas’s stomach drops. “Papa Al, please-”

“You were nufin’ when I found you,” Alisker says darkly, leaning back in his chair. “And if you’ve forgotten, then bX over here will remind you.”

He snaps his fingers.

bX suddenly appears next to Atlas. He doesn’t fight as bX grabs him by the front of his shirt, heaving him out of the chair until their faces are only inches apart, close enough for Atlas to smell the saltwater that always seems to hang off bX’s breath despite them being thousands of blocks away from the nearest ocean.

“Nothin’ personal,” bX chuckles before throwing Atlas against the wall.

The blow shudders through Atlas’s skull, knocking his shades clean off. He manages to stay on his feet, clutching his head and straightening up just in time to see the first punch swing towards his face.

He retreats into his mind right before the impact.

(This is probably how bX manages to stay so collected, Atlas thinks to himself, observing with detached interest while his body is beaten. bX gets to let out all his frustrations on whatever unfortunate player Alisker sics him on that day. It’s something Atlas can relate to, somewhat. After all, there are times where he has to use a little force of his own to keep his staff in line and remind them who’s in charge- because some of them still only respond to violence, the brutish law of beasts.

But he can never let himself go this far. If he did, he’d lose their faith completely. Why would they stay with him if Hels Tek wasn’t better- more civil, more orderly- than the alternative, the lawless wasteland of Hels?

Besides, he hates to admit to himself how good it feels to use violence, so he avoids it when he can. He prefers to use the more elegant method of psychological torture to break a spirit. There’s beauty in laying a trap like that, in spinning delicate spiderwebs of lies and manipulation until his victim is so thoroughly ensnared they can’t even think to fight back. It works like a charm- most of the time, that is- and it’s far less messy.

Of course, that’s not to say Alisker’s methods are ineffective. Atlas has been dreading this meeting for very good reason.)

He isn’t sure how much time passes before the beating is over. When he comes back to himself, he’s on the floor, curled onto his side. One of his eyes won’t open all the way, pain radiating through his skull. It’s only dimmed by the pain pulsing through his chest and stomach- he’ll likely have some boot-shaped bruises come morning.

He can taste blood from a split lip, smeared against his teeth- he runs his tongue along them just to check he hasn’t lost any, because those don’t always respawn.

Another small mercy; once the room stops spinning, Atlas sees his shades lying on the floor a few feet away, without so much as a crack in the lenses. Taking a slow, deep breath, he pushes himself upright- and grits his teeth against the wave of nausea that crashes over him.

(Any hope of leaving with his dignity intact has been utterly destroyed, but at the very least, he’d like to not lose his lunch all over Alisker’s diamond floor.)

Atlas can’t know for sure without checking his communicator, but he’s fairly certain he must only have one or two hearts of health left. Carefully, he reaches for his shades, placing them back on his face before pulling himself to his feet.

bX is on the other side of the desk, hands braced on it as he leans over to whisper something in Alisker’s ear, which makes him chuckle. His extra eyes have closed once more, leaving just the two normal ones eyeing Atlas as he stands, one brow quirked.

“Well?” Alisker prompts, almost sounding bored.

Atlas chokes back his anger. “Message received,” he breathes, grinning despite the sharp pain in his lip. “It was a mistake I won’t be making again.”

Alisker snorts. “If you even get da chonce…” Seemingly satisfied, he turns away from Atlas and runs a hand up bX’s arm, letting it rest at the nape of his neck. He doesn’t even look over as he adds, “I trust you can find your own way out?”

(What was it that Atlas called bX, an attack dog? More like a glorified lap dog.)

“Of course,” Atlas says shortly, heading for the door just as bX leans down to meet Alisker’s lips. “Good day, gentlemen.”

It’s humiliating, to take his own leave from the mansion in such a sorry state. He thinks it almost would’ve been less humiliating if Alisker had him dragged and thrown out, instead of forcing him to leave with his tail tucked between his legs.

He briefly debates taking a short walk off a tall building to respawn his injuries away, and to save himself the trip back to the lab, but having the death against him would be even more of a bruise to his pride.

And he’ll be damned if he lets them keep his flying machine.

~*~

After a long flight back home, Atlas is greeted with even more bad news.

Four of his security guards have quit. The cowards couldn’t even stick around to hand over their resignations in person. Sensing the start of a worrying trend, Atlas quickly assembles the rest of the staff for a meeting.

(Normally he’d give it a few days for his injuries to heal, but this is important. Besides, it’s not like they couldn’t guess what happened. A visit to Alisker is never a good thing.)

Atlas explains that yes, their chief sponsor is informed of the Tango situation, and yes, he’s quite unhappy about it. But he also explains that this is just a little snag, and that efforts to recapture Tango will begin anew very soon. In the meantime, he expects business to proceed as usual; they have plenty of other projects that require attention, and all reports are due at their normal times.

That refocuses some of the heavily work-driven scientists. But over the next couple days, there’s still far too much gossip and speculation for his liking.

And at the end of the week, three more guards resign.

~*~

“You’d better have a good reason for interrupting me,” Atlas says without looking up.

He’s given his staff strict instructions not to bother him. It’s no easy task, going through all their accumulated knowledge on Tango in the search of something that might help them track the hybrid down. All that’s come of it thus far were the coordinates of Tango’s starter base, which had turned up empty. It’d been griefed years ago, with no signs of life or recent activity. Tango probably doesn’t even remember where it is, but Atlas had the whole place trapped just in case.

The player standing in the doorway of Atlas’s office sucks in a breath through his teeth, like a wince. “Sorry, sir. It’s just, uh- well, I just need to-”

“What is it?” Atlas snaps, finally looking up. It’s the intern- no surprise there.

The intern gulps and holds out a piece of paper. “Dr. Ironclad resigned.”

Atlas blinks. Slowly, he rises from his desk and takes the paper. Quickly reading it, he shoves down the violent collision of emotions rising up inside him and drops the paper into the little waste bin beside his desk.

“Well congratulations, doctor,” he says simply, turning away. “You’ve just been promoted.”

The intern makes a disbelieving squeaking noise. “Oh! Oh wow, sir! Th- thank you, sir! I- I promise, I won’t let you down-”

“You can go now,” Atlas says dryly.

“Yes sir, right away, sir!”

~*~

The intern-turned-doctor only lasts two days before he flees in the middle of the night.

~*~

Atlas’s communicator beeps.

<InstinctEV whispered to you> I heard that old al pulled the plug on HT. True?

<You whispered to InstinctEV> Not in the slightest. If you must know, the terms of Alisker’s sponsorship deal with Hels Tek have become complicated, but the deal is still very much intact. The details beyond that are confidential.

<InstinctEV whispered to you> interesting. You know, we’re always hiring at iRaid…

<You whispered to InstinctEV> Respectfully, fuck off.

<InstinctEV whispered to you> :P

~*~

Despite Atlas’s best efforts, word spreads quickly.

Soon enough, the rest of Hels Tek’s sponsors are at the door, demanding to know about the status of Phase Two. Atlas does his best to assuage their concerns, but they insist on seeing the farm.

And from there, things go rather poorly.

Atlas’s sales pitch, insisting that Tango is not a necessary component in the Phase Two expansion, isn’t well received. By the end of the visit, two sponsors have walked out on the company. He does manage to convince the remainders to give him some time, but they make it quite clear that the terms of their investment lie entirely on Tango’s swift return.

As soon as the sponsors leave, Atlas tears through their research on Tango with renewed urgency. But aside from observations about blaze hybrid behavior and habits- which they’ve altered by pure virtue of scientific experimentation and thus cannot rely upon to be constant- there’s nothing they can use to locate him.

They’ll have to do this the old fashioned-way.

~*~

Over the next few months, Atlas sends out several more search expeditions- but all to no avail. He finally gives up when the last expedition doesn’t return; three more scientists run off with the last of his security team to seek employment elsewhere.

There’s nothing else to be done. He has to accept that Tango must’ve slipped past them, escaping to the wilds of Hels. The hybrid is probably long gone, hundreds of thousands of blocks away.

It’s either that, or else…

(There are whispers, sometimes, of players vanishing from Hels. Not dying, but well and truly vanishing without a trace, never to appear again, not even in chat. Atlas knows there are worlds beyond Hels- he’s an analytical purist at heart, and he knows Patho’s deduction is sound. He’s worked over that theorem enough times himself to nearly have it memorized.

But he’s had some of the best scientists in Hels attempting to construct a working portal for the better part of two decades now. If it was possible, they would’ve done it already.)

No, no, he’s being ridiculous. There’s nothing mysterious or otherworldly happening here, just a sneaky blaze hybrid that’s managed to evade him. All Atlas can do now is keep an ear to the ground and an eye on the chat, waiting for Tango to slip up and expose himself.

(It’s a hard pill to swallow. Atlas would greatly prefer if something mysterious and otherworldly was happening here.)

He’d send a whisper to Tango, just to confirm that the hybrid still exists somewhere in Hels and put those ridiculous fears to bed, but they took Tango’s communicator from him a long time ago; it’s still collecting dust on a shelf in Atlas’s office, unused but fully-functional.

Atlas briefly thought it could be of use; communicators are unique items that spawn into existence with their player, so he hoped there might be a link to Tango buried within its data. But the data analysis he ran came up dry. He could call in a specialist to have a look at it, but those contacts operate through Alisker, and he certainly won’t be doing Atlas any favors.

Nevermind that. The next time Tango dies, his name will appear in the chat whether he has a communicator of his own or not.

Atlas just has to be patient.

(Hels Tek’s sponsors, it seems, do not share the same sentiment.)

~*~

“- such a big fucking deal?”

“I can’t work in these conditions!”

Atlas quickens his pace down the hallway towards the sound of shouting. Tensions have been rising among his staff since another one of their sponsors pulled out a couple days ago, and he’s had to break up several squabbles already-

“You don’t work at all! All you do is stand around complaining-”

“Hybrid farming is my life’s work, you asshole-”

“And what’s it amounted to, huh?”

Atlas rounds the corner just in time to see Riposte tackle Malvin to the ground. The scuffle between the two scientists quickly turns bloody- Riposte’s fingernails rake across Malvin’s face, who retaliates by biting down on the meat of Riposte’s thumb. Diving into the fray, Atlas wrenches Riposte off the other man, throwing him against the wall.

“Dr. Riposte!” Atlas barks. “Get ahold of yourself!”

Riposte is glaring daggers, but makes no move to break free of Atlas’s hold. “He started it-”

“Oh, fuck off!” Malvin snarls from behind them.

“That’s enough!” Atlas can feel his own temper coming to a boil. “Both of you! This behavior is not acceptable at Hels Tek.”

“Yeah?” Riposte pushes Atlas off him and stalks down the hall, shouting over his shoulder, “Well, I quit!”

“Good riddance!” Malvin shouts back.

It takes all of Atlas’s self control not to whirl around and kick him.

~*~

On the first anniversary of Tango’s escape, bXMiner drops by Hels Tek.

“Mr. bX,” Atlas greets him with a smile, stepping aside to let him in. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Been a while since we’ve heard from you,” bX hums, clearly not in the mood for small talk. “Papa Al sent me to check in.”

Atlas inclines his head. “Well, I hate to disappoint,” he says, trying to sound sincere, “but if I’d made any progress you would’ve already been informed.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” bX says, shaking his head.

Atlas’s grin is so tight he might just crack his teeth. “I do hope Mr. Alisker doesn’t see the need to discuss the matter in person?”

“Oh no, no,” bX laughs, cracking his knuckles. “He just told me to give you a message.”

Atlas sighs. “Very well.”

Gingerly, he takes his shades off, folds them, and sets them on his desk.

bX seems amused by that. “Again, nothing personal,” he says, winding up for the first punch.

Again, Atlas doesn’t fight. There’s no point; Alisker is relentless and if it wasn’t bX, it’d be any number of vicious goons sent after him. Might as well just get it over with and then get back to work, so it never has to happen again.

(Atlas doesn’t know it at the time, of course, but this soon becomes a yearly tradition.)

~*~

Time passes. Still no news of Tango.

Nothing in the chat, nothing at the Arena, nothing in the city.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

~*~

On one unassuming day, Atlas is pouring over his files on Tango for what must be the fiftieth time when three unfamiliar players burst into his office, equipped with swords.

“What’s the code to your vault?” the player in the middle demands.

Atlas stares blankly at the players. Hels Tek is being raided, now. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Security has admittedly taken a steep dive, considering they no longer have any security guards employed and are only eleven scientists strong, but he didn’t think players would be bold enough to actually attempt a raid-

“Hey!” a second player shouts, raising her blade. “We’re talking to you, poindexter!”

Atlas sighs. “Very well. I know I have it written down somewhere,” he says, reaching for the loaded crossbow stashed in an item frame beneath his desk.

~*~

biaxialcloud78 was shot by Atlas Syn

Hoaxboat was shot by Atlas Syn

Ballet Bob was shot by Atlas Syn

~*~

Their villagers were slaughtered in the raid, of course, bringing the iron farm to a screeching halt. Hels Tek has a villager farm in reserve, of course, hidden deep beneath the facility. But of course, no one is willing to fetch the replacement villagers and undertake the arduous process of wrangling them several floors up into the iron farm. Atlas would assign the task to someone himself, but of course, he’s too preoccupied with his own work to bother.

So iron production halts, and scientists start running out of materials, and by the end of the week, Heligan and FlySpeck have quit.

Of course.

~*~

“Oi, Atlas,” Clear huffs, poking his head into Atlas’s office, “could’ya tell Mal to quit nabbin’ all me spare pistons?”

Atlas can’t even bring himself to be irritated. “Dr. Malvin left three weeks ago, Dr. Clear.”

“Oh.” Clear blinks. “Alright. Can I ‘ave some more pistons, then?”

“No,” Atlas says, rising to his feet, “no, you cannot. Do you know why that is, Dr. Clear?”

Clear frowns at him. “What, you gettin’ stingy on us alluva sudden?”

Atlas feels himself smile entirely without humor. “Us? When’s the last time you looked around yourself, Dr. Clear?” he asks. “All that’s left of Hels Tek is you, me, and four other people. Our sponsors are dropping like bats and we’re still no closer to recapturing Tango than we were the day we lost him! Do you even realize how many years have passed without a single whisper of his existence?”

Clear, as usual, seems entirely unfazed by Atlas’s tone. “Well, if you ask me, I don’t see why losin’ a blaze farm is such a problem,” he huffs, absently drumming his greasy fingers along Atlas’s doorframe. “Ain’t we got other things to work on?”

“Oh, believe me,” Atlas snarks, “I’d be perfectly happy to move forward with Phase Two.”

“So why don’t ‘cha, then?” Clear asks plainly.

“Because our sponsors, Dr. Clear, don’t share the same opinion.” Atlas folds his arms behind his back, walking around the desk. “They require Tango Tek in working order as proof of concept before they’ll fund my expedition, and an effort of this scale cannot be orchestrated on empty pockets.”

“Sponsors,” Clear scoffs, as if he’s only heard every other word Atlas said. “Bunch’a ninnies, the lot of ‘em. What’s a sponsor know ‘bout redstone anyhow?”

Atlas exhales slowly. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he says, “redstone endeavors of this caliber don’t have the luxury of being entirely unattached from politics and personal agendas. No one will fund science for science’s sake.”

Clear shrugs. “Then we’ll do it ourselves.”

Atlas rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“We’ve got most the infrastructure in place already, ain’t we?” Clear continues, now twirling his mustache.

Atlas knits his brows together. “Infrastructure is useless without the manpower to utilize it.”

“Then get some manpower.”

“I already told you, our sponsors-”

“If I ain’t mistaken, Hels Tek didn’t ‘ave any sponsors when I joined up.” The look Clear gives him is surprisingly lucid, framed by hard determination- a shadow of the man Atlas knew so many years ago. “Just you, standin’ there with your trim black coat an’ a grin that said you’d ‘ave all of Hels in your pocket someday, an’ I believed it.”

Atlas is silent for a moment. “Is that so?”

Clear inclines his head. “I’m still ‘ere, ain’t I?”

“I suppose you are,” Atlas says quietly. “Thank you, Dr. Clear.”

“Sure.” Clear glances away, his expression quickly clouding again. “Glad to help. Now, about them pistons-”

“Prepare a flying machine, if you please,” Atlas says, turning back to his desk.

“Oh,” Clear says, taken aback. “Oh, alrigh’ then. Fine, sure, not like I’ve got me own work to do…” he mutters to himself, starting down the hallway.

Atlas quickly starts packing. Aside from the essentials, he won’t need much. A stack of business cards, his blueprint for the Phase Two factory, and the abstract of Riposte’s thesis on hybrid farming (which is now the intellectual property of Hels Tek, of course). The sales pitch is still as fresh in his mind as the day he wrote it, all those years ago.

He’ll start with the cities. New Helington is off the table but while it may be the largest and most centrally located, there are plenty others he knows of. And if that fails, he has no problem poaching talent from other redstone communities and corporations. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time-

Clear pokes his head back into Atlas’s office.

“Uh, flyin’ machines are… where, exactly?”

~*~

Atlas’s first recruitment tour is a smashing success.

Six new redstoners to join the staff, with several more on the line and likely to join soon. Since security is still a work in progress, he ensures that every one of them is well-armed and fully capable of defending themselves. Once he has them settled in, he tasks them with whipping all the farms back into working order.

(In the years after Hels Tek’s mass exodus, several more farms have broken in addition to the iron farm, falling victim to glitches and overflow and lack of maintenance. The only reason Atlas didn’t realize this sooner was because he hadn’t had enough scientists to complain about the lack of resources.)

The feat gets accomplished in record time, as each new hire is determined to prove their mettle to him and stand out from the pack. Resources start flowing in, and crafting begins shortly thereafter. Soon, their storage system is well-stocked with all the redstone essentials.

It’s not a completely smooth transition, of course. Many of them have heard rumors about the decline of Hels Tek and there are questions about the empty blaze farm, which Atlas does his best to deflect. There are squabbles between the new hires and the old staff, squabbles about which office spaces and dwelling chambers go to who, and squabbles about what projects to work on next. It doesn’t help that the only scientists who stayed from the old payroll, including Clear, are the most eccentric and stubborn ones he ever hired.

In the end, Atlas assigns the new scientists to ongoing projects based on the skills and experience listed in their resumes, under the supervision of the old scientists (who he finds quite like being called ‘supervisors’) and with the promise that success will award them the chance to manage their own projects. That makes everyone happy, and Hels Tek sees a sudden surge in productivity, the likes of which Atlas hasn’t seen since before Tango escaped.

After two months, when Atlas feels that all the little snags that come with change have been ironed out and things are now running smoothly, he starts looking for new sponsors. He sends whispers out to a long list of his former sponsors, past and current clients, and affluent business moguls, announcing Hels Teks’ grand reopening.

Most of his whispers go unanswered- which isn’t a surprise, considering he doesn’t have Alisker’s name behind him (because although Alisker hasn’t formally revoked his sponsorship and still sends his monthly stipends, he’s no longer conducting business on Hels Tek’s behalf).

But some of them don’t. Some of them get interested responses, and with a little back-and-forth, Atlas is able to set up a couple facility tours. Once those go off without a hitch, the money starts pouring in.

And with it comes all the influence and notoriety that he once enjoyed; the peak of a mountain he feared he’d never climb again. He’s able to hire decent security (who are only interested in money, unlike the scientists that can be won over on the merit of redstone alone). The employee housing gets expanded, as does the facility itself. Projects are completed and approved for sale at a tremendous rate. Soon enough, even the Arena is sporting Hels Tek brand piston doors.

But even so, Atlas isn’t completely satisfied. That empty blaze farm burns at the back of his mind. And despite his recent progress, Phase Two still feels like a far-off dream at this stage, well out of reach- just like the hybrid who has all but vanished off the face of Hels.

(He still checks chat every day, just in case.)

~*~

<InstinctEV whispered to you> There’s a new redstoner settin up shop near the eastern wastes, seems big into farms. just so you know…

<You whispered to InstinctEV> And why, pray tell, did you decide to share this information with me?

<InstinctEV whispered to you> I tried to hire him and he told me to piss off, figured I’d let you take a crack at it.

<You whispered to InstinctEV> How uncharacteristically generous of you. What’s the catch?

<InstinctEV whispered to you> He seems skittish around monsters but you tend to only hire normies anyway. plus it’s only fair, I got five new scientists out of HT’s nose dive and i dont like owing anyone.

<You whispered to InstinctEV> I’d hardly call that a debt.

<InstinctEV whispered to you> That mean you don’t want the coords?

…

<You whispered to InstinctEV> Send them.

~*~

Atlas finally brings the flying machine to a halt, dropping to the ground.

It was a painfully long trip. Hels Tek is located a couple thousand blocks to the west of spawn as it is, and the eastern waste itself is several thousands more blocks still. It’s quite a remote place for a redstoner to settle, and the netherrack landscape is barren, bordered by an insurmountable lava ocean almost entirely spanned by a soul valley biome. Ghasts spawn all the time, taking out anyone stupid or desperate enough to try crossing or building near it- anyone hoping to head east will have to go around it, adding weeks and weeks of travel.

Even now, Atlas is keeping his distance from the glowing orange horizon as he starts towards the coordinates Instinct gave him. Dying now would almost guarantee he gives up on the idea altogether, because he can’t be bothered to make such a long trip again.

He really hopes whoever this mystery redstoner turns out to be is worth it.

There, in the distance; a modest blackstone structure about two stories high, fenced in by thick walls. Luckily, it’s far enough away from the soul valley that no ghasts are spawning. Atlas thinks he might be able to see the top of a farm peeking above the fence, though he can’t say for certain what kind.

Everything is still and quiet as Atlas strolls up to the front gate. Posted against the wall is a birch sign with ‘NO TRESPASSING, KEEP OUT’ scrawled on it. And on the other side, a second one that says ‘NO SOLICITORS, GO AWAY’.

Chuckling to himself, Atlas pushes the gate open and walks inside.

The yard is simple, but meticulously landscaped. Over on one side is the farm he saw on his way in, which he can now identify as an automatic bamboo farm. Not much on its own, but bamboo is one of the most rapidly acquired fuel sources; an essential piece of infrastructure for any large scale smelting. That shows good foresight, and at least a basic understanding of redstone mechanics.

Perhaps this trip won’t be a bust, after all.

Atlas comes to a stop at the front door of the building. It’s an iron door, with no visible button or other unlocking mechanism. He suspects it must be hooked up to a hidden hopper that reads a specific item, a ‘key’, before permitting access. That’s slightly more complex redstone, and shows a wise amount of paranoia- though of course, a truly determined raider would just break it down.

(It’s as if this player expects others to abide by gentleman’s rules without the threat of force, just the principle. Interesting.)

Atlas knocks loudly on the door. “Hello,” he calls, “anyone home? I’m looking for a redstoner.”

A sound pricks at his ears; the gentle thump of something or someone landing behind him. Just now, it occurs to Atlas that the second floor had windows- one of which was positioned right above the front door.

(Clever devil.)

He whirls around right as the player draws his sword. He means to say something witty, but his grin drops clean off his face as soon as he gets a look at the player’s face, because he knows that face, that messy blond hair and slim nose and pointed chin.

He’s staring at Tango.

Except-

It’s Tango, except the ears are too round, and there are no wither stains beneath his eyes. It’s Tango, except the teeth bared in a scowl are blunt, and the hand gripping the sword ends in fingertips instead of claws. It’s Tango, except there isn’t a single ounce of recognition or fear in his expression, just displeasure bordering on annoyance. And furthermore, there are no blaze rods floating above his head.

Atlas tilts his chin down slightly, enough to look over the top of his tinted shades, and he sees that the player’s eyes are green.

Not Tango, not quite- but close enough.

“I’m Bravo,” Not-Tango says in Tango’s voice, leveling his sword at Atlas’s throat. “Who are you?”

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, a long time ago, a player climbs a mountain.

The cluster of basalt spires in the delta north of New Helington isn’t for the faint of heart. In this biome, the risks are many; fall damage, tripping into a sneaky lava pool, and nearly infinite spawning of those damned magma cubes. Even the very air, choked with an ever-constant downpour of ash, is hostile by design.

But Atlas is here for a very good reason.

He’s gotten a tip from Alisker about some new redstoner leaving traps near the borders of New Helington. He even went through the trouble of having one of his goons sniff out the player’s base, so all Atlas has to do is follow the coordinates.

It’s not the first time Alisker has informed him of a potential new hire; several of his full-time scientists came as recommendations. But this time, Atlas is less interested in what this player can do with redstone, and more in what kind of player this is.

<Some kinda mob hybrid> Alisker had written dismissively. <Blazey, me thinks>

There’s a lot that can be done with mob hybrids, far more than a non-redstoner might think. One of Atlas’s own employees just wrote a thesis on the subject. So for that reason alone, it’s worth making the treacherous journey.

(And he’d never admit this, for fear of hypocrisy, but it’s nice to get out of the lab every now and then.)

Glancing at his communicator, Atlas comes to a stop. Based on the coordinates, the hybrid’s base should be just in front of him.

The terrain has opened up into a small plateau, perfectly in line with the normal generation of these biomes. Except there’s the slightest jut out from the far cliff- perhaps a single block too wide than what would’ve spawned naturally here. The blocks themselves are right; basalt in vertical orientation, but the positioning is off. As if someone placed them there to cover something up.

A piston door, perhaps.

(An untrained eye never would have noticed it. This hybrid is clever.)

Atlas puts his communicator away and walks up to the cliff. He’s planning to announce his presence plainly and loudly, not wanting to waste any time or come off as a threat, but he doesn’t get the chance.

A snarl fills his ears, high-pitched and animalistic. He whirls around in time to sidestep the blur of movement coming at him- he only registers them as claws when they scrape the basalt cliffside behind him, leaving four shallow gashes in the stone.

Atlas backs up a few steps, quickly holding his hands up. “Take it easy! I’m not here to fight.”

The figure has backed up as well, pausing, posture slightly hunched as he looks up at Atlas and catches his breath.

The hybrid.

Atlas peers down at him over the brim of his glasses; turns out the hybrid’s eyes are actually red, not just tinted that way through his shades.

The hybrid’s young, though not quite still a kid- somewhere in what most players refer to as the ‘teenage stage.’ His limbs are growing faster than the rest of him, though he remains at least half a block shorter than Atlas, and his face is rounded with the last stubborn remnants of baby fat. Two oversized pointed ears jut out from beneath a mop of wild blond hair. And dancing in the air just above it are several fine cylinders, no thicker than Atlas’s finger, glowing with red heat as they spin and fizzle in a defensive display.

Blaze rods. The entire reason Atlas is here.

He doesn’t let himself stare at them long. The hybrid is watching him closely, those red eyes burning with a calculated intelligence that Atlas seldom finds in a player so young.

“Hello there,” Atlas starts, keeping his tone brisk. If he tries to be too kindly, he’ll scare the hybrid off for sure. “My name is Dr. Atlas Syn, head of Hels Tek Laboratories. Have you heard of us?”

The hybrid peels his lips back into a snarl, showing off a mouth full of sharp teeth. The blaze rods floating above his head ignite with flames.

It’s not a surprising reaction. Most children in Hels grow up completely wild, at the mercy of the unforgiving world. But truthfully, the ones lucky enough to get taken in by other players or accepted into a community don’t seem to do much better.

Atlas suspects it’s part of an innate defense mechanism, built into the data of young players to protect them from the hostile environment until they’re able to properly look after themselves. Players generally don’t mellow out and start acting civilized until they’ve matured (Atlas considers himself the exception in this case). And of course, a hybrid will be battling mob instincts during any moment of stress or strong emotions, bound to their code.

Rather than react to the threat, Atlas shrugs. “That’s alright,” he says easily. “We’re quite a way’s west, word must not have reached here yet. We’re a redstone laboratory. I hear you know a thing or two about that.”

The growling stops. The hybrid eyes him warily.

“I’m on a recruitment mission of sorts,” Atlas continues, undeterred, “seeking out new scientists to join our staff. We’ve got lots of projects in the works at the moment- plenty of specialties to choose from. Now, you are a bit younger than we tend to hire for full-time scientists, but there’s an opening for an intern that I think you’d be well-suited for.”

The hybrid hesitates- his eyes flick to the side, as if debating whether or not to run. “What makes you say that?” he asks finally. His voice is higher than Atlas was expecting, strained with the characteristic cracking of youth.

Atlas inclines his head. “Whenever people talk about some new player building clever redstone contraptions, I hear about it. And from what I hear, your work is quite impressive for your age.” He lets just the slightest amount of approval enter his voice, not enough to be taken as disingenuous or overly flattering. “I think you could have a bright future with Hels Tek, with a little guidance.”

The blaze rods twirling above the hybrid’s head are glowing yellow, now- and there’s a warmer, less hostile feel to it. It’s likely no one has ever praised him before.

But he’s still on his guard. “What would I get out of it?” he asks dubiously.

Atlas counts on his fingers. “A secure base to live in, a state of the art laboratory to work in, full access to a complete stock of redstone components, nearly unlimited resources, and collaboration with the brightest redstone minds that Hels has to offer,” he says. “Hels Tek has caught the eye of several prominent beneficiaries; you’ll find we’re quite well-supplied.”

Atlas can almost see the gears turning in the hybrid’s mind. “And- and what would you have me do?” he asks, folding his arms.

“Well, that depends on you,” Atlas says simply. “Sometimes, younger interns find the work too challenging. But those that succeed go on to become full-fledged scientists running their own experiments, conducting their own research, constructing their own contraptions- with complete control over their projects.” He spreads his hands. “We don’t constrain our scientists to working on what’s most profitable, we let their passions guide them. Under this methodology, Hels Tek has recently made stunning advancements in redstone technology- with slime block flying machines and iron farming, to name a few.”

The hybrid’s pupils expand a couple of millimeters; the idea excites him. “You guys have villagers?” he asks, trying but mostly failing to keep the excitement from showing in his voice.

Atlas allows a knowing smile to spread across his face. “Like I said, Hels Tek is privy to several lucrative sponsorship deals. We’ve got all sorts of things most redstoners can only dream of. I’m sure we’d find something to suit a man of your talents.” Here he pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Though I must say, I hope your redstone prowess extends beyond simple traps and pranks.”

The hybrid actually puffs his chest up at that. “Oh, don’t you worry,” he says, his eyes flashing at the proposed challenge, “I’ve got plenty more than that.”

He suddenly strikes an arm out at the pillar of basalt beside him- a stone button, almost perfectly blended into the ashen gray landscape.

(Clever devil.)

A chugging sound fills the air. The two peculiar blocks of basalt Atlas noticed earlier are retracted by pistons and tucked away, revealing a small opening in the spire. Beyond that, he can see the inside has been hollowed out, stairs leading down to what must be the rest of the base underground.

“We can talk more inside,” the hybrid says, extending a clawed hand. “I’m Tango.”

Shaking his hand, Atlas grins.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tango.”

~*~

#hermitcraft #double life smp #traffic smp #hermitshipping #tango tek #mcyt oc #hels to pay au #HTP fic #my writing #this oneshot would not have been nearly as long if it werent for my love of worldbuilding #and atlas's need to ALWAYS get a word in #anyway i hope this was worth the wait!! <3 i had FUN but hoooo boy its a lot

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