#i want to beat deimos with a rock but in a good way

[offbrand-mango]

drawing has been kicking my ass so i tried drawing in a different way and now im cured

[mysticstarlightduck]

WIP Questionnaire Tag

Thanks for the tag @diabolical-blue (here)!

I'll go with Supernova Initiative for this one!

1. What’s the first part of your WIP that you created?

I had wanted to write a science fiction/space opera story for years now! I've always been a huge fan of Star Wars and similar series, and I've always wanted to write something similar! I guess that the actual first part of this WIP I've ever created was the setting - it has remained the same/similar from the first iteration of an idea of this story, while the main characters, title, and plot underwent many, many changes until it all got to the version I'm currently writing!

2. If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

Curiously enough, the Supernova Initiative book series is going to be more akin to a "TV Show" format - like Clone Wars, The Last of Us, or Game of Thrones - than a traditional novel format. That's a bit complicated to explain further, but the gist of it is - the chapters are going to be the "episodes", which in turn will be divided into acts/seasons that take place in specific time frames, with the first (5 episode/chapter) taking place 10 years before the main story!

If I had to choose, I would say that the theme song would be a rather energetic rock/pop song! With a similar vibe to these:

(Check out the full WIP playlist)

I'm Dangerous - The Everlove

Shame! Shame! Shame! - Reinaeiry

Let's Do This - Outskrts

El Dorado - Stellar

Anti-Gravity - Runaground

I think that the song would need to have this rebellious/badass energy, mixed with a generally fun beat and good lyrics that touch on the overall theme/plot of the series! Plus a generally youthful vibe!

3. What are your favorite characters that you made? Why?

I really love most of the main cast from this WIP!!!! But my Top 3 definitely are Jack Tithus, Gabi Ophyria, and Deimos Soll!

Jack is a really sweet, kind, and slightly reckless guy, who is at the same time outgoing, extroverted, and funny when he wants to be. He is defiant towards authority and fiercely protective of those he loves, to a dangerously selfless degree, all of which are tropes/traits I really enjoy in characters.

(Plus, in a way, Jack is one of the characters that kind of holds a condensation of some of my own personality traits, in good and bad ways - which was something accidental at first, but which I then embraced. )

Gabi Ophyria was one of the characters that came to me a bit later during the plotting of this book, which was surprisingly clear to me from the get-go. She's a brash, loud, fierce girl who lets no one talk her down and who believes in fighting for what she believes in. She also has anger issues - which is something she struggles with and eventually overcomes as her arc progresses, especially as she learns to let herself be vulnerable and trust others rather than try to be unbreakable all the time.

Deimos Soll is one of the most badass characters in this WIP and I just adore him. In a superficial, bad summarization, lol he's basically a young adult, alien version of John Wick and honestly is one of my all-time favorite characters I've ever written. He starts out in the backstory chapters as an awkward, fearful teenager lost in a moon he knew nothing about, but eventually grows into the deadliest and most efficient sniper this galaxy has ever seen, and one of the biggest threats to the Junction. I just adore writing introverted badass/morally grey characters who have a heart of gold. One of my favorite tropes!

4. What other pieces of media do you think your fanbase would share?

Definitely other space opera/sci-fi adventures like Star Wars, Star Trek, or Voltron! Those stories introduced me to the space opera science fiction genre which I love so dearly, so I think that pretty much anyone who likes that genre will probably like one of those movies lol. I also think that my future fanbase might also like Six of Crows or the Bad Guys (the DreamWorks movie), as the "found family of misfits working on a heist" trope is a pretty big trope in the first acts of this WIP as well!

5. What has been your biggest struggle with your WIP?

I think the hardest part about this WIP is that its structure is something I haven't seen before - as in, it's essentially a "TV Show but make it a Book Series" at its core. That means I have to improvise a lot with how I structure the story's chapters and how I structure all the events of the story. One good thing about this format I'm trying to recreate is that it is really visual, and I'm a really visual writer/person, so that means I get to make a really vivid world and characters!

6. Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!

There are! A lot of them actually. Since this is a science fiction/spare opera adventure, a lot of the story involves the main characters traveling from planet to planet, especially during their heist mission and after the plot progresses.

They visit all kinds of planets and thus all kinds of biomes - the dusty mining moons like Cethea III, giant winter desert planets like Ivion, or flourishing forest dwarf planets like Stryxus. Cethea III - the homeworld of the MCs in the backstory chapters - is known for giant elk-like oxen that roams the dusty wasteland, as well as smaller lizard creatures and a few strange, venomous mammals. They also have giant birds, known as Harpies, which have a powerful screech capable of blowing out one's eardrums when too close.

Ivion is a gigantic winter desert, home to equally gigantic winter creatures, ranging from two-headed mountain lynx to absolutely enormous dragon-like creatures that burrow underneath the blanket of ice. It is also known for famously adorable, three-eyed, surprisingly big rodents similar to lemmings, which live in packs.

Stryxus has a biome akin to that of a tropical rainforest, which means the wildlife within it is incredibly varied despite the planet's small size, and that it has a vast variety of insects, mammals, lizards, and all kinds of animals you would expect from that environment. And even some you wouldn't expect.

The oceanic depths of Thallassen, in the heart of the Khosmonian galaxies, host especially gargantuan creatures, from pacific whale-like creatures with four, giant glowing eyes, to monstrous predatory lamprey-like creatures that lurk in the water.

7. How do your characters travel/get around?

The main form of transportation between planets, settlements and galaxies are starships/spaceships of varying shapes, sizes and fuel capabilities. Each planet has its own varied form of in-land transportation, but ranging from different animal mounts, hoverbikes, bullet trains, specialized boats/ships, submarines, and/or especially flying cars in the big cities.

8. What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

I'm currently writing the first draft of this WIP, and am around the third or fourth chapter of the Prologue Act (which consists of five chapters, or episodes). I already have an alpha reader (@sarandipitywrites) who is helping me a lot with ironing out the details of this story! I'm really happy about the progress I'm finally being able to make!

9. What aspects (tropes, maybe?) You think will draw your audience in?

General tropes: Found Family, Heists, Space Exploration, Whump (especially Lab Whump), rebelling against the system, Dystopian Utopia, Secret bioengineering scheme (as the main threat from the villains), loveable cyborgs/robots, etc!

For romance: Friends to Lovers, Rivals/Enemies to Lovers, Grumpy/Sunshine, etc

Familial/Friendship Tropes: Wholesome father-daughter duo (who are a former assassin and his feisty adoptive daughter), Protective Older Brother & Willful Younger Sister, Adoptive Siblings, general group of misfits fighting against an oppressive government, etc.

For more tropes & details, check out the WIP Intro!

10. What are your hopes for your WIP?

I hope I'll be able to finally finish the first draft of this story this year and that I'll publish it (probably self-publishing or something similar!) in the near future! I generally also hope to have a lot of fun writing it, and that other people will have fun reading this too (especially my friends)!

Tagging (gently) @your-absent-father @ray-writes-n-shit @drchenquill, @saltysupercomputer @agirlandherquill

@sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @cowboybrunch, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart @sm-writes-chaos

@leave-her-a-tome, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams

@the-golden-comet, @elshells

And OPEN TAG

[atonalginger]

Snippet Sunday

OOoo It's Sunday and I have a snippet from something other than Starborn Saga xD Thanks @eridanidreams for the tag :D

If you are reading this and you have something you'd like to share then come join us! Tag!

Tonight's snippet is from my Rekindling the Heart Sam Coe x Doc Melody story.

--

The walk back to the spaceport was quiet, save for the small family of mossgnath Jamie and Sam came upon. The largest one rumbled a warning at them and stamped their feet but with a few quick steps to the right they avoided real conflict.

The sun was slowly slipping behind the distant hills as they reached the outer wall of the spaceport, several Akila security guards standing watch giving nods to them as they entered. The spaceport was quiet, save for a pilot arguing with one of the technicians over whether the heatleeches on his ship came with him or not. She rolled her eyes at the argument; it didn’t matter how they got there so long as they killed them.

Jamie took Sam’s hand and led him to her ship on the far end of the landing pads, “we can drop off the artifact and clean up before you head back to Coe Manor.”

He chuckled as she pulled him along, “if you insist.”

They stopped outside her ship, a sleek looking custom job with a Taiyo landing bay open to greet them. She watched Sam step around to the side of the ship, looking over the black and teal paint job and general shape.

“Darlin’, that cockpit is low.” Sam nodded at her Nova Galactic Magellan CX2 attached to a first level hab. The bottom weapon mount sat a mere two feet off the pad.

She laughed, “They let me do it.”

He shot her a look the brim of his hat obscured. The faint curl of his lip told her he was amused and yet still shook his head.

“I wanted to keep the clean flow of landing bay to pilot seat that the original ship had without the super aggressive Deimos style cockpit. They’re good, don’t get me wrong, but it’s so cramped and sterile. Nova has better windows and a more comfortable pilot seat. I don’t feel trapped when I’m flying.”

“The cabot series exists too,” He slowly made his way back to the loading ramp, “wouldn’t kiss the ground every time you land.”

“It looked bad,” she shook her head, “plus where’s the fun in that?”

She could see his look now that he stood toe to toe with her. A subtle smile and weary eyes, “won’t be fun when you clip a rock and get stuck grounded on a barren moon.”

“I’ve been flying the Phoenix Aria for 3 years like this and never once hit anything bad enough to be at risk,” she crossed her arms, “Nova Galactic may look held together with gaff tape and dreams but its pretty damn sturdy. Real function over form design.”

“What’d she used to be?” he looked up at the b class grav drive above them, “before you dressed her all up.”

“Oh she was a custom job when I found her,” Jamie led him up the ramp, “found her in the Denebola system. I was surveying the planet and came across a group of spacers guarding what looked like an observation station. I make a point to liberate places like that so they don’t further damage the equipment or find research they shouldn’t have. The place ended up being much bigger and more dangerous than I’d planned for but in the end I found the ship and a unique spacesuit and helmet. There was a whole base down there with extensive surveillance and security systems. I almost thought about staying for a while and getting it up and running but…I had evidence that more spacers knew about the place and didn’t want to have to constantly beat them back so I loaded up the ship with everything I could carry and radioed the team I’d flown in with to tell them I needed to take my new ship to a spaceport to register it.”

They were now standing in the computer core of the ship, the cockpit hatch locked up. Jamie closed the landing bay door and locked it behind her. She watched as Sam slowly explored the computer core, looking over everything she had strapped down and taped to the walls.

“I renamed her the Phoenix Aria when I registered her because I didn’t want the attention. Then I set about redesigning her; she had an armory I didn’t care for and a Deimos captain’s quarters. If I wanted to sleep on a table I’d live out of a living hab. Plus I needed a research lab if I didn’t want to constantly be returning to the university.”

“What was she called before?” Sam returned to her side.

She smiled, “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“She was this gray and olive number named the Razorleaf. Zippy little fighter with a little shielded cargo hold but not something one could realistically live in.”

Sam blinked slowly, his mouth falling open incrementally with each blink.

She laughed at his response, “See, you wouldn’t believe me! Best part of the ship is I don’t get harassed by spacers anymore. They scan my ship and flee the area. Even with the name change, they know the ship. My friend who works at the New Atlantis spaceport said it had to do with the old girl’s registry and SIN. Could undergo a dozen name changes and full body makeover and will still scan as the Razorleaf.”

“The Mantis was real?” Sam finally asked after a long silence.

“Is.”

“Jamie, are you trying to tell me—“

“I don’t go around looking for trouble but I will finish fights I find,” she motioned for him to follow her up the ladder to the second level, “I leave the real crime fighting to professionals.”

[rotten-games]

What’s the easiest way to fluster the ROs or make them smile?

Hoooh boy, haven't done one of these in a while so hopefully I still have it!

Usually I'd interpret 'fluster' as make blush but seeing as how you specify the 'make them smile' part I won't be mean. Very much.

Rott

Ardwen - Give him something shiny, like jewellery or a fun rock. Okay, maybe not a rock unless it's a gemstone. If you give him a normal rock he'll pout.

Arke - Beat him in a duel. Or just in a fair trial of some kind. Hell, maybe even thumb wrestling... okay, maybe not thumb wrestling.

Bex - if you want children, talk about having children. If not, any expression of genuine enjoyment at mundane things (snow, a cute cat, etc)

Cal - putting effort into a craft of some kind. She's always happy to teach. Or being super friendly with her companion animals and pets, talking to them in a baby voice.

Druvel - flirting. Even bad flirting can garner a grin. Perhaps he'll even teach you how better to woo him.

Emil - Teasing him. What? He isn't smiling don't be rediculous!

Ettia - doing something spontaneously.

Gwyn - same as his sister but with a dangerous spin.

Herron - bring him tea on late nights of working. Better yet, get him out of his chair and doing something else.

Keller - offer stories of your home, so she can share her own.

Korrin - listen to their tall tales, however implausible they may be. Interrupt them with questions, challenge their credibility. Most of all, make them feel alive.

Lokeira - give him gifts, participate in snuggle piles with he and Druvel, stroke his hair.

Nox - Find her a job. A violent one. She might just bring you along with her. (A date? Nah, don't be rediculous)

Necrolym - have a nap or cook with him, if you can handle his bossiness in the kitchen.

Qora - offer to hunt with her. Yes, you know she prefers to do so alone. Yes, you can be quiet.

Severa - Give her a memento of Xactha, even just a small one.

CoI

Spotter - Hug them.

Carol - Help her with work. She won't ask for it, she doesn't want you to, either. Don't ask, just do.

Lowrie - Keep track of their hats. You laugh but they really do keep losing them.

Harley - play a game. Whether it's tic-tac-toe, some strange variation of checkers, or an amalgamation of many old classics, just distract them for a time.

Doc - Give her a massage at the end of the day, to ease her weary bones... if you can find her.

Allard - let them babble, eventually you may find some truth creeping into their words.

Ridley - Listening. Just... listening. Even if they have nothing to say.

Mordred - spending time with him as your wolf selves. Mordred might claim it as his 'true' self but you both know it's not true. It's simply... freeing.

Deimos - companionable silence. Deimos doesn't fluster but he may just thank you if you're patient.

Arthur - trust him. He knows what he's doing.

Perci - go with her inane plans. She knows she sounds mad, go with it anyway!

Saga - teach them something new. They may not immediately thank you with words but they'll show it true on their face.

Adrastea - Simply sit by their side. If they are the queen then be there ruling by their side.

Dagda - let them sing their little tunes, let them dance their little jigs. Don't stop them from having a good time, don't judge them for their happiness, even if it's false.

[improbable-outset]

Saw that you’re open for requests and I looked through your writing prompts list sooo,,,

mayhaps Deimos/Dedmos with “i think i’m losing myself (again)” ? 😳

Of course. Here shawty, fresh out of the oven for you, a perfect blend of angst and fluff combined ! <3

𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞

Deimos x gn!Reader

Word count: 954

MadCom Masterlist | AO3

TW and CW: Brief mentions emotional breakdowns and anxiety and descriptions of death. Established relationships. Yes I know he has a rock jaw but let’s just pretend that he can still be vocal okay??

Summary: Being a wanted criminal and a trained mercenary, one will assume that you’ll have to hide your sensitive sides - or that’s what Deimos believes.

Most may believe that resurrecting someone from the dead is absurd. Outright preposterous. How can someone bring another back right after their life has been extinguished? But in Nevada, pretty much any sort of madness is possible. That includes resurrecting someone or even zombifying them.

However, as most people would assume that being alive again is a good thing, it doesn’t always end well - once you come back to life, you don’t really forget how you died.

With Deimos, he still remembers it vividly. He remembers how his vision was slowly blurring before blacking out as his consciousness slowly slipped away. They say the last sense to go while in the dying process is your hearing which was probably why he wasn’t focused on the sheer heat of his ripped flesh but rather on the high-pitched ringing in his ears right after the shotgun which went on even after his unresponsive state.

Despite his life being restored, he feels like he still hears the ringing in his ears. Perhaps he was just going mad but the sound makes the hair stand on its end. It feels like a reminder of his mortality. A countdown to his second death.

Even as he is just sitting here in your room, watching as you help with cleaning his equipment and oiling his gun, he feels dissociated from reality. He’s quieter than usual which was outlandish for someone like him. Though he does act on impulses, it is rare that he allows the raw emotions to get to him. Raw moments like the time he realised he was falling for you and couldn’t stop spilling about how amazing you are to Sanford or the night when he finally confessed his feelings to you.

He often masks the sensitive side with humour and jokes to avoid getting hurt or at least convince himself that he’s okay and everything else is fine just to keep things moving. Tonight that humorous side seems to be dimmed out so it was hard to hide it now.

“Alright, I think that’s the last of it,” your voice breaks him out of his trance, almost startling at the sudden sound.

“Huh? Alright cool,” he drones. His words almost came out slurry. You stare at him intensely, almost taken back by his small response. He doesn’t even realise how glum he just sounded.

“What’s going on with you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dei, you haven’t said a word since you came back. You’ve been quiet all night. What’s gotten into you?”

Of course you would sense something was up. Deimos never misses a beat when he finds the opportunity to say a witty remark. Whether it is a sly innuendo or a sadist comment. Either way, it’s never quiet with him.

“It’s hard to explain…”

“Well, we’ve got all night for you to explain and I’ll try and figure it out. I’m your partner Deimos, it's my job to make sure you’re okay,” your comment made his cheeks warm - he really admires your determination. But how exactly is he supposed to explain that the thing that was bothering him is his own death that has already happened once?

“Well… it’s been almost a year since I ‘died’. ” Deimos isn’t the best at reading people easily but right now he could almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to process what he just said - or just thinking that he’s out of his mind right now. He already feels like he’s drowning in an ocean. But watching your expression, he now feels like he’s sinking deeper and deeper. “I told you… you won’t get it-” he was ready to dispose of the whole situation and was hoping the rest of the night wasn’t going to turn out awkward.

“No no. I understand, believe me. You think I haven’t seen the outrageous experiments the agency has done?” Fair point. “I’m just a little taken back. You never told me this,”

“I wasn’t ready to tell you yet and I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable,”

“Well, you’re alive now and hopefully it’ll stay like that for a while. That’s all that matters now, right?” you said sheepishly and gave a hopeful smile, trying to lift up the mood but Deimos’ mind is still in distress.

“Yeah, but sometimes I feel like I’m losing myself again. I can’t stop thinking about how I’m gonna die again. I know what to expect now and it’s pretty terrifying,” he grimaced at the memory again and the God-awful ringing that was in his ear.

“Sweet boy, come over here,” Deimos isn’t new to the nicknames you gave him but something about the way you said it now was making his heart stutter. He doesn’t have to move much since you’re already on your way toward him to envelope him in a warm embrace. “You always make sure that I feel safe, it’s only fair that I make sure that you feel the same too,” he already feels more secure with your arms wrapping around his form. You make him feel at home. “I know it’s hard to forget about death with all the killing on the battlefield, I can’t stop that. But I can try and make your life worthwhile, distract you from the awful thoughts.” You murmur in his neck, sending a tickling yet comforting vibration through him. He finds himself inhaling the smell of you and burying his face on your neck.

You both stayed like that for a while, Deimos can already feel the tension easing just a little. He pulls his face away to look at you. You were studying his face, eyes roaming around and trying to read him.

“Thank you, angel. Really appreciate it.”

Was this okay?? I tried my best and feedback is always appreciated!!

Last divider by @maysdigitalarts

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-four - a song of the fates

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

“DON’T STARE TOO closely into the mist,” Tryphena chides from the helm, watching as Tundareos and his sister peer into the heavy fog, “last time you almost drove us into the rocks chasing sirens.” Lesya smiles, looking over her shoulder at the dark-skinned lieutenant as she helps man the rudder. For a brief moment, the lingering grey parts, allowing a glimpse of the Attikan countryside —patches of ash and toppled stone, yet the crimson banners of Sparta are nowhere to be seen.

A short while later, Tryphena calls to the crew, and the trireme jolts before falling still. The cool fog parts again, revealing the stone towers and wharf of Piraeus —the Ippalkimon docks near the Adrestia, tying off the mooring lines. The port is deserted in comparison to what it had been before. There are no bustling traders or hurrying slaves, nor sound —bar the sad tolling of a distant bell. 

Lesya and Tundareos pace down the gangplank, joining Kassandra and Herodotus in surveying the desolation. Wagons sit parked as though abandoned in haste. Some on their sides with the contents spilled and pillaged. It takes a moment for the smell to sink it, an insidious and potent stench of decay. The gods have forsaken Athens, Lesya thinks as she looks up at the Temple of Asklepius. 

The few sentries posted around the harbor wear rags over their mouths and noses. “Move along!” One of them shouts, gesturing toward the promenade running inside the enclosing sleeve of the walls protecting the road connecting Piraeus and Athens. 

“We speak to Aspasia and Perikles and then we leave,” Kassandra announces looking between the historian and Lesya —her brother standing at her side— before they set off on the promenade and through the grey mist. The path is different from the one they had taken nigh a year ago. The drone of flies, weeping, and plaintive chants fill the air. 

Bulky shapes line the roadsides, Lesya guesses they are shanty huts of refugees, but ahead the fog breaks, and bile rises in her throat. The ramshackle shelters are long gone, in their place are serried piles of dead as far as any of them could see —thousands of corpses. 

Some are soldiers, most are not. She stops, staring into the heap of cadavers —eyes shriveled or pecked out by crows, jaws lolling; skin broken and partly rotted or riddled with angry sores. Lesya has dealt out her fair share of death, leaving mangled corpses across Hellas, but nothing can compare to this —a dangling limbs, clumps of hair, dripping pus, blood, and seeping excrement. No wonder the Spartans abandoned the siege. Too many people cramped within the walls had cleared the way for the pestilence to rise and ravish the denizens and those fleeing to safety from the countryside. 

The path of death does not diminish as they near the agora —the stench of burning flesh and hair is heavy in the air, as is dark smoke. Lesya watches as men and women shuffle past with cloths on their faces, bringing fresh dead to add to the piles —one of them drops the body of a young girl and staggers away, sobbing. 

A troop of hoplites march by, pushing the sick aside. “Kleon,” a woman starts, straightening after kneeling next to a heaping pile of dead. “He seeks to use this plague like a lever, to make the acropolis hill his own. He’s bought the loyalty of citizen soldiers and has a demigod on his side.” She coughs, the rattling sound muffled by a cloth, and stumbles away. Lesya’s stomach drops, Deimos is still here. 

“I’m going to find mater,” Tundareos announces, doing well to hide his fear, though Lesya can still see it —one in three Athenians rest among the dead. Kassandra and Herodotus move along toward Perikles’ villa. After a moment’s pause, Lesya turns to follow her brother. She trails a step behind him, eyes downcast as she remembers what happened the last time she was here. More bodies line the streets. Some finely clothed and others stripped of their silk robes and jewels. Lesya's hands clench into fists. One in three, her mind echoes —she will not give herself false hope. 

Tundareos stops before the mosaic path and looks up at the pale stone —he was still a boy when he ran away in search of his sister. Now, though, he clasps onto her shoulder, smiling. It may have taken half his life, but he is returning home having found her. Mater will be proud, he thinks, anticipation and hope swelling within him. Lesya cannot return his smile in good faith. 

“Mater!” He calls, passing through the andron. Silence answers. Gathered in the courtyard are hushed voices, surrounding a corpse swaddled in linen. They are too late. Among those gathered is Hippokrates. Tundareos surges forward, pushing through the acolytes, and kneels at Kalanthe’s side, shoulders shaking. 

Lesya stops, staring at what she had known in her gut to be true. Hippokrates approaches her, resting his hand upon Lesya’s shoulders. The plague spared neither rich nor poor and Kalanthe had fallen into hard times since the death of her thesmothetai husband. Guilt twists in her stomach. She is not sorry for killing Leandros —would do it again given the chance— though a piece of her wonders, if her mother would have fallen to the sickness, had Leandros lived. “I’m sorry,” the physician confesses —both for the death of their mother and the desecration that must follow in an attempt to spare others. There will be no burial for Kalanthe, only a pyre or a nameless pit. 

The acolytes lift Kalanthe’s corpse, carrying her from the villa for a final time. Tundareos moves back to his sister’s side —watching the dark-robed figures disappear into the grey haze. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks around the empty villa. There are no slaves bustling, no lyres being played, no fire burning in the brazier. “Pater?” Tundareos calls and silence answers him again —he looks up as if pleading with the gods, lost. 

Lesya’s blood runs cold, heart dropping to the pits of her stomach. She hadn’t told him Leandros, the man who sheltered them as children, was killed by her hand. There will be no more hiding after today. “Tundareos–” she rakes a hand through her copper hair, pacing around the courtyard “–I killed him,” she tells him, unable to mask the small shred of pride in her tone. 

“What?” He asks —the weight of Lesya’s words not sinking in or either he does not wish to believe his sister had murdered their father. 

“He was a hateful man who sacrificed me to the Cult, Tundareos!” Lesya shouts, voice trembling and laurel eyes burning with hatred. Everything ill that had befallen her in life was his fault. It was because of Leandros of Athens that her humanity and identity had been stripped away, leaving behind a hollow shell of a once lively girl. “It’s because of him I’m a monster!” It was nigh impossible to sleep with memories haunting her and no matter how much she scrubbed her hands, Lesya could still see the blood of innocent on them. There was no other way to describe what she and Deimos had become at the hands of Chrysis and the Cult of Kosmos. 

Tundareos’ face twists in ire and resentment. Leandros had not been a kind man, but he had loved his sons above all else and that love had been reciprocated. His hands turn to fists at his side. Perhaps you truly are the monster they say you are, sister. He swallows the thought, but cannot contain the mix of rage and grief. “He was my father!” He roars —spittle flying in the outburst. 

“I cannot change what I have done, brother,” Lesya starts, meeting his cold and clear gaze, “and even if I could, I would not bring him back.” Leandros —son of Kalliades— deserved to rot in the depths Tartarus for the pain he caused her.

Between his mother’s death at the hands of the pestilence and his father’s ruin at the hands of his sister, Tundareos cannot stomach the thought of looking at Lesya again. He turns his cheek to her and draws in a heavy breath. “Sister,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse, “go.” Lesya flees, wiping away tears, and travels down the street leading to Perikles’ home at the base of the Acropolis. 

No guards are posted though Aspasia pales, her back going rigid upon seeing Lesya enter the villa. Enyo always brings death and destruction in her wake. The champion has never seen her face without a weeping ivory mask, but her voice is unmistakable —the Ghost of Kosmos. “Leave us,” Aspasia tells Sokrates and the others taking shelter in a calm, commanding voice. They leave in silence, dispersing into several rooms with lowered heads. 

“You fucking snake,” she hisses, closing the distance between them in three strides and seizing the hetaera by the neck. Fear flashes in Aspasia’s amber eyes —there is no one here who can save her should the disgraced champion choose to act. Lesya squeezes harder. 

“She’s different!” Aspasia gasps, speaking of Kassandra as her hands wrap around Lesya’s wrist. “Not like Deimos,” she pauses, straining for breath, “or you.” Lesya’s face contorts, her grip tightening for a second more before she lets the hetaera go with a shove —sending her to the ground. Her hand goes to her neck, rubbing the tender flesh. Aspasia looks up at the weapon she helped create, a weapon that could still be put to use. “See me safely to the Parthenon,” she requests, but Lesya just laughs.   

“You trust me not to hand you over to the mob?” Kleon stirs the mobs to riots —many of them want to see Perikles’ head mounted above the city gates for his inaction against Sparta. Blaming him for the rise of this pestilence that had claimed both young and old alike. It would be easy to give Aspasia to the mob and let them dispose of her. The Ghost of Kosmos dead at the hands of the oppressed, it does not sound like a bad thing to Lesya. 

Her amber eyes narrow. “I trust you not to betray Kassandra,” she says, rising to her feet. Lesya swallows, after potentially losing her brother, she is not willing to risk the loss of a friend for vengeance. 

THE EAGLE BEARER joins them on the steps of the great temple, tears streaking her face. Phoibe. It is all cut short by a ragged cry from behind the great wooden doors. Kassandra and Leysa push them open just as Deimos sinks to a crouch and wraps a mighty arm around Perikles’ neck. 

He looks up, meeting the eyes of his sister, Aspasia, Hippokrates, Sokrates, and Lesya. “I’m going to destroy everything you ever created,” he whispers in Perikles’ ear, placing his blade edge on the Athenian general’s neck. Deimos’ arm jerks. Aspasia cries out and lurches forward, stopped by Sokrates. The Eagle Bearer looks to the side grimacing as blood spouts and soaks Perikles’ robes —his wan body turning grey in a trice. Lesya’s gaze burns into him with all the grief of the day rising in her gut. Deimos releases the corpse and stands, his white-and-gold armor streaked with blood. “Stay out of my way,” he hisses, flicking off the blood dripping from his sword.  

The handful of masked men accompanying him advance, but Lesya slips away to pursue Deimos, confident Kassandra would be able to dispatch the remaining guards with ease. He is halfway down the marble steps of the Acropolis Sanctuary —armor glinting in the moonrise. “Deimos!” She shouts and his shoulders tense. “Stop!” Now her voice is baleful. 

He turns, unsheathing the Damoklean sword and levels it toward Lesya as she nears him with her own daggers drawn. “You need to stay out of my way, too,” he growls. She ignores him —knocking him back with a powerful kick. He has to be stopped. Lesya spins out of his advance but does not react quickly enough to block his elbow from colliding with her jaw. She spits blood and drags the back of her hand across her busted lip. 

“You’ve gotten slow,” he remarks, coming for her again. He swings his sword and the tip streaks down her shoulder and lower back, slashing open her leathers and tearing through her tricep —her side and arm suddenly hot with blood. She cries out and staggers backward, but levels her blades again, knowing she has endured worse pains than this. Deimos clenches his jaw as he eyes the blood sluicing down her leg. “Don’t do this,” he rasps —if they cross blades again, he might not be able to stop. 

She steps forward again, jabbing the point of her blade at his thigh and narrowly missing. He lashes his blade in a flurry of quick swipes and it is all she can do to parry them. There’s a moment’s opening and she sees a weak point at his knee and calf. Lesya stabs out, but like a viper’s tongue, he strikes downward, blocking the cut, and flicks his blade up, slicing across her face. Blood and sweat sting her eyes —her strength ebbs away. 

The blades in her hands clatter against the stone and then she is falling. The pale stone around them is painted with splotches of bright red. He watches, aghast this has been his own doing. “No,” Deimos utters. Sheathing his sword, he kneels and scoops her into his arms. She whimpers. “Lesya,” he breathes, stroking over the bloody cut at her hairline —he hadn’t meant for it to go so far. Her eyes are wide, staring up at him but unfocused.

He takes her to Hermippos’ residence —the air is thick with burning herbs and sweet incense to mask the scent of death. Deimos threatens to cut out the Cultist’s tongue if he speaks to anyone about this night. Hermippos has always been cowardly and Deimos uses the man’s fear to his advantage. Slaves scuttle in and out of the bedchamber, bringing water, rags, and a fresh poultice. 

Deimos tends to her with shaking hands, his heart heavy and guilt-ridden. You kill Perikles or we kill her, Kleon’s words echo in his mind. It is your choice, Deimos. It had not been a hard choice. Sitting back on his haunches, Deimos runs his hands down his face and is startled to feel the dampness on his cheeks. He waits at her side almost until the morning light.

“Enyo.” That is not her name, but Lesya responds out of instinct. A pair of tawny-gold eyes meet her own. Deimos. His face is a mixture of troubled emotions. Pain. Guilt. Anger. Two calloused hands settle on her sides —helping her sit. Fresh tears spring up in her eyes at the burning pain in her back and side. She looks around the dimly lit bedchamber, finding her bloody armor and exomis piled in a corner, and stained rags are strewn over the floor near a washbasin with red-tinged water. It is a familiar situation. One she and Deimos have been in too often. 

Deimos pulls his hands back, taking in her scars and injuries as though he has just remembered it is his hand that harmed her. “Where am I?” Lesya asks, raising her hand, fingertips ghosting over the scab cutting through across her brow up into her hairline. 

“Athens still,” he answers. An ember catches flame and burns in his dark eyes. “I told you to stay out of my way.” If she would have just listened to him, all of this could have been avoided. He looks down at his hands, numb. He had hurt her. 

“You know I can’t,” she mutters, reaching for the small tie holding stained white pteruges to his gold-and-white cuirass. Deimos does not object. Instead, he pulls free the knots, ripping the breastplate from his chest and the belt from his waist. Lesya takes his face in her hands, pulling him toward her until his rough lips find hers —hands slipping down his sides. He eases her back down on the feather-stuffed mattress, never breaking the kiss. 

Warmth blossoms in Lesya’s chest, sparks igniting when he parts her lips with his tongue. She finds an uneven brand at the base of his ribcage and sighs into his mouth —it had not been there that night in Korinth. “Deimos,” Lesya breathes, her heart aching to know they will have to part ways again. He braces his weight on his forearms, cupping her cheek as he meets her laurel gaze —something about how she looks at him now, after everything, makes his heart ache too. They were each half of the other’s soul as the poets would say.

No one could escape their fate and Lesya and Deimos’ were always meant to be entwined.

@wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fjor-ok-skadi @fucking-dip-shit

[knightmaring]

tw self harm, blood, mentions of abuse, murder, death.

The stones were placed deliberately, a winding maze stretching out of the cave's mouth. He didn't know if Deimos was the god or hero of his people's religion, but it was a vital part of his identity and one of the only ways he could think to explain to his father.

Hudson sets the last stone in place and grabs his bag, pulling out a paper house. "Hey, Deimos..." he calls out to the night sky. "Dad or father. I don't know what you want me to call you, but, uh, it's me? Hudson. Your son." He steps forward into his maze. "I'm not really good with words and I don't know what sort of ...offering  you're expecting." He continues on, winding around and into the cavern's mouth, swallowed by its darkness.

"I hope you don’t mind if I explain a few things first.” This wasn’t an offering of fear, because despite the fact that his father was the literal god of fear, Hudson didn’t feel… scary. Sure, people were intimidated by his stature and sometimes his skin color, or the simple fact that he was a man, but for the most part Hudson felt like a hamster in wolf’s clothing. “It’ll make sense in the end, I hope.” His heels click against the hard rock of the cave’s floor, each step accompanied by a soft jingle of the bobs of his spurs.

“My life's been... rough." He murmurs, licking his lips nervously. "The first five years my sisters and I, we were on and off the streets, in and out of foster care. Until we met Craig," he pauses and sets the house down on the floor between his boots. "It was the first real home we had and he was real nice, at first." Pulling his dagger from his belt, Hudson cuts the back of his hand. Blood trickles down, spilling around the paper house. "I was five years old when he married mom, and once that happened, it was like a light switch went off on him."

Shuffling forward, Hudson continues onward, a hand on the cave's wall to guide him. "I met Mr. Floyd a few months after that. Really cool dude. Taught me and my sisters a bunch of stuff. He's got a raccoon, Dipshit." Hudson pauses again, rummaging through his bag until he finds what he's looking for: a paper raccoon figure. "Mr. Floyd taught me to shoot a bb gun." He says, setting it down between his feet and repeating the process of cutting himself.

"We used to practice behind his shop on pictures of famous people. I got really good at it." He grins at the memory, finger gunning the darkness with a soft pew.

The grin slips away and he's back to wandering the maze nature had built into the mountain, a hand pulling out another paper creation from his bag. Calloused fingers rub at the folded edges of a gun. "Craig got worse. Mom didn't want to leave because we'd be without a house or food, which meant we'd get torn apart again... I was scared he might kill her or my sisters one day." He drops the paper gun, pressing the knife to his hand until he feels the sharp stick and the wet slick of blood again. Hudson lets out a hiss of pain. "So, I killed him. Pew!" Hudson mimics the finger gun motion again. "Right through his left eye."(edited)

The demigod grows quiet, frowning in the darkness. "The cops came and took mom away. My sisters and I ended up in foster homes. Separated." He pushes onward, the sound of ruffling wings and soft chirps from the cave's ceiling draw his gaze upward. Bats, he figures. "I bounced around a few homes after that, but the worst house was the Young’s. They used to put stuff in my food at night." His voice dips down to a strained, barely audible whisper. "I dunno if it was so I wouldn't fight back or if they thought I wouldn't remember, but---" Hudson's voice cracks and he stops, heart hammering in his chest. "I remember bits and pieces of what they did to me. Sometimes, I'll remember new things."

Hudson drops a paper cross to the ground, letting more blood rain down. A gust of wind that brushes past him, a soft flapping of fleshy wings trailing it. "Don't worry, life got better after that--- Some law got passed not too long  after that and me and my sisters all got to go live with my grandma." He drops a little bird to the ground and continues with his trek. "Then, Mr. Floyd helped my mom get out of prison and they got married!" A blood slick paper ring is dropped.

"Things were good for a few years. For me, at least. My sister Denver had a harder time," he explains. "Craig had beat her real bad when we were young; got nerve damage in her leg. So, she was in constant pain... and," with his bloodied hand, he pulls out a paper hawk. "She lost hope that it'll ever stop hurting, that the chaos in her head will ever stop without the heroin." Kneeling to the ground, Hudson sets the bird down gently. "I got selfish, started spending more time with a girl in school---my first ever girlfriend---and I was barely home. Barely around to see Denver, to listen to her, to be there for her." He draws a fresh cut across his palm, wincing as he deepens it, almost as if he were punishing himself. "She got into a car accident. Killed some wealthy white dude who was out biking and drove off."

For a moment, Hudson simply sits there, letting his palm make a mess around the paper bird. It was one of the best years of his life, but all the good and happiness he experienced seemed small and insignificant when held up next to the heartbreaking events that lead up to his arrest and imprisonment. "We lived in Arizona, so you know, my sister coulda been tried as an adult even though she's just 16 and if that'd happened, then she woulda ended up on death row." A tear streams down his cheek. "So, I took the fall. I got that trial and ended up with that sentencing. She went to rehab, about four times. Then she overdosed five years later. I wasn't there for her again. I couldn't even attend her funeral.”

He sniffs back the avalanche of snot threatening to break free. "Prison sucked. Got stuck in the system for eight years, but thanks to a bunch of laws, my sentence was reduced to life in prison, then reduced again, and then commuted." He hisses as he pushes himself up off the cavern floor and presses onward. "Bounced around between jobs, bought my first house," if a mobile home counted as a house. "I was pretty active in the local anarchist community, and then uh, well, I ran for a city council seat... and I won."

He feels out the paper creations in his hand, and tosses the one he was fairly certain was a rainbow. "I jokingly proposed we legalize gay marriage in the city... as a publicity stunt for gay tourism, and uh... well, my bill passed." He lets out a laugh. "Yeah, the state government sued and apparently, that was the nail in the coffin for it to get bumped up to the Supreme Court." There's pride radiating off him. "Funny, huh? Bunch of scared old geezers suing us because they're afraid other cities in the state would copy cat and they'd be known as a gay state... well, their fear backfired on them real hard."

This was dragging on, and while he knew gods technically had all the time in the world, he suspected they also had the shortest attention spans in the world. "I met the love of my life a few years back," his grin softens into a pained smile. "Gideon, he's the most beautiful man I've ever met. He swept me off my feet with just a smile.” The lawyer was all sharp edges, cool as a cucumber, but there was a softness in his gaze when he looked at Hudson. Even his touches were soft, handling the demigod as if he were a delicate work of art. Hudson had never felt so cherished in his 30 years, and it hurt to think he might never experience that again. 

“Dude was a cop---well, a prosecutor, which is just a cop with a college degree. He didn’t want to be one, he wanted do civil rights stuff, but his dad wouldn’t let him. It got him killed---he got him killed." The memory of him trying to stop Gideon from bleeding out comes rushing back to him. He sinks to the ground, a paper daffodil and  heart  in hand and simply breathes. Moments pass in silence before he speaks again. “I’m not telling you this so you feel bad for me. Life isn’t life without a bit of pain.” Granted Hudson had a whole lot more than a bit. “I just wanted to show you that no matter how many times my life went to shit, I kept at it and I’ll keep fighting because I have hope.” Hope that he could beat whatever evils that threaten them. Hope that he can make the world a better place. And hope that he can get Gideon back, no matter what it’ll cost him.  He sets the last two of his paper creations down. “That’s what I’m offering.” He lets his head fall back against the hard cavern walls, staring up at the squeaking abyss above him. “I won’t stop no matter how hard it gets.” Suffering and hope went hand in hand. You couldn’t have one without the other. “I promise.”

A trail of  blood, sweat, tears, and fears turned into hope.

[laur-rants]

Transfiguration -- Ch 2: Better

Fandom: Doom Rating: Mature, because violence against demons Pairing: Sam/Slayer [eventually] Summary: There’s definitely still some strain going on here. AO3 Link Previous Chapter: Next Chapter

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Hayden paces Room 235, his long legs taking him the distance of the extended, decorative table in the center of the room in only half a dozen steps. He looks down at the ingrained wood; in stark contrast to the clean, geometric blue and white of the building, the table was actually two halves of a dark, rust-colored trunk, with the gap between the halves connected and filled with a golden epoxy. His optics traced the intricate designs; every flaw in the wood, every knot, every bore had been filled with the striking gold, making the near-black finish look as if it was bleeding rivers of molten fire. Every imperfection, perfected and made all the more beautiful for it.

Hayden runs two of his right arm's four spidery, cybernetic fingers along the table, testing their sensitivity. He detects the smooth finish, the work of the expert who designed the furniture-- but also, there is the imperceptible sensation of the tree's rings, the story of its life laid bare under the sealant. He brings those same fingers back up to his chin, resting them there in a thoughtful manner-- a painfully human thing to do, Hayden decides, and his hand drops unceremoniously to his side.

It's five minutes past the hour (and 47 minutes after his original message was sent) when the sealed and reinforced glass doors to the meeting room finally slide open with a hiss. Hayden's attention turns from the table instead to a person he hasn't seen face to face in over a decade: the Hell Walker, the Unchained Predator, the Doom Slayer. A reputation that preceded someone who was, in reality, just a single man, cursed millennia ago to face Hell alone, blessed by angels to make sure his rage was honed into the deadliest spear. The imperfect… perfected.

Today, however, he just looks tired and maybe a touch annoyed that Hayden called him here.

"Ah, Slayer," Hayden starts, his voice cool and unbothered. "Thank you for making it on short notice. I had figured you'd get tired of that hospital bed soon enough; did the doctors treat you well, at least?"

Slayer says nothing, as expected. He appears to have only brought half of the Praetor Suit with him, perhaps due to the tender bandages covering his body. His arms and torso and head are exposed, but his Praetor boots and belt remain. At the mention of doctors, Slayer's lip curls and he looks away. He decides against moving from the doorway, instead allowing the huge table to act like a chasm between the him and Hayden.

"I'll take the bandages as a good sign, then," Hayden continues, ignoring the strained atmosphere. "Nobody goes up against the Icon of Sin without retaining a few injuries along the way. Not even the Destroyer himself."

Slayer's face distorts in disgust, as well as another, hard-to-place emotion (is it confusion?). The cyborg tilts his head a half a degree, studying the man as analytically as possible. Hayden's HUD calls up Slayer's vitals; aside from the re-stitched and bandaged lacerations, he was perfectly healthy. Nothing to worry about, per usual. When Slayer shifts, Hayden refocuses on his face, anticipating a response-- instead the man just leans against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes bored. Hayden sighs; of course Slayer's being stubborn as always, so he takes the initiative, walking around the conference table in the middle of the room, tapping a button at the corner closest to Slayer. It brings up a hologram of what appears to be Earth, with demon hotspots zones marked, though they all look dramatically reduced in size.

"I am glad you're up and about, though. You may not care, but there's much to be done that you could still help with. This Earth has barely begun to heal itself but luckily it is, just like humanity, extremely resilient."

This Earth. Hayden keeps an eye on him, but Slayer doesn't even flinch at the clear distinction. He breathes a sigh of relief that neither of them feel like beating around that particular bush today.

A few more button presses bring up the Moon, and, more distressing, a shattered image of Mars.

"Luna and Mars are both of another issue. With the Icon gone, most forces are being called back to Hell on the Earth's surface meaning humanity can recolonize. Anyone directly connected to the Deags or UAC's Tier 3 recruitment are being located and incarcerated. But Luna remains dust in space, and personnel on Phobos are still scrambling with the remaining demonic forces and the new gigantic scar quite visible on Mars' surface. Luckily for you--" Hayden tilts his head in mild irritation towards the Slayer for emphasis "--your heroic actions means you won't be charged nor will you be pursued for the permanent damage done to the red planet." Hayden says that last part with dripping annoyance, and the Slayer has enough gall to grin in response, as if to say "who would be stupid enough to try and pursue me, anyway?"

"Don't give me that look, Doom Slayer," Hayden chides, but the sly smirk doesn't falter. "Mars will never be the same. Perhaps it is for the better… Argent energy is, for the most part, gone. It can still be manufactured here in a man-made capacity, but it will soon require the Crucible to make the process continuous; however, it is still powering the Fortress of Doom. It is possible humanity could regain access to Argent by reforging your blade on Argent D'Nur. I'm sure the Fortress can access that world, when you are well enough to we can--"

The Doom Slayer clears his throat.

The sound cuts Hayden off completely. He looks over, hearing that ragged noise without really registering what it meant, not really, not until Slayer rumbles out another sound before--

"Samur. Shut up."

The silence hangs as Hayden appears to obediently listen to Slayer's command. He stands up straighter, rocking back on a mechanical heel, but Slayer's gaze doesn't waver. Hayden breaks the contact first, a weakness he is sure Slayer will use to his advantage. But what else could he do but take a moment? That was a name he had not heard spoken in millennia. It was a title lost to time, a title Hayden had nearly forgotten, and almost wished he hadn't remembered in the first place.

It left him suitably silenced.

"Ah, of course." He starts, recomposing himself. "I should have expected you to realize, given enough time and interaction, who I was, or used to be." It wasn't a true facade-- this name, this body, the escape to this planet --but he wasn't fit to discuss it, not yet. Not when Slayer had already figured the truth of the matter, and he wasn't clear of all the details himself. That didn't stop images flashing by-- of racing stars, of violent dismemberment, of feeling his atoms pull apart and back together again and again--

"Information on Urdak," he continues, his even tone belying his passing internal turmoil, "is limited on this planet, if not completely non-existent outside of unreliable religious text. For us to finish our mission you needed to know everything I knew, and being directly connected to Maykr technology only enhanced what I already knew, gave greater clarity." The robot shifted on his legs, acutely remembering how he had been without those specific limbs not too long ago.

Slayer, however, shakes his head, grunting in annoyance. Even being most of the way out of his armor, even when more than three feet of height separated Hayden from Slayer, that did not stop the man's physique from radiating power and intimidation.

"Before," the Marine manages, his voice still a ruined mess. Perhaps something happened to it in Hell, Hayden hypothesizes. There's no way it was from back then, with the Sentinels. They enjoyed your war cry far too much to ever... Hayden pushes those intrusive thoughts from his mind as, somehow, Slayer continues. "Back when I woke up." His eyes dart to Hayden, look him over, and his expression goes steely.

"Liked you better, before."

Something in Slayer's tone hits Hayden personally. Before. Back when he was still Samur Maykr, back when maykr and demon called him Seraphim, back when Argent D'Nur wasn't destroyed for the sake of energy and power. It was filled with a strange nostalgia, one that pulls at a string in Hayden that was long-since cut and left to fray. Still, he manages a leveled response.

"I only wanted to help them, you know," Samur -- no, he was Samuel now, and never before had he misstepped on his own name, not until Slayer had said it himself, in that accusing tone -- retorts, holding ground. Hayden's voice is still rough and mechanical, but the defensive edge laces every word. "I found an Earth, I saw what they discovered, and I knew it was only a matter of time before it led to demons as well as to you--"

Slayer heavily frowns and he coughs out a rough growl before looking away. He's quick to head back out the door he came in from, gaining physical distance from Hayden as his Praetor boots thudded heavily against the surgical tile.

A feeling of panic strong enough to spike a system warning message overcomes Hayden's HUD and his cyborg body begins to follow Slayer of it's own accord.

"This world-- you are not a constant, Slayer," He argues. "They were doomed to be swallowed whole, just like your Deimos, just like parts of Argent D'Nur, just like countless nameless realms and worlds. I had to stay, emulate you while I searched, while I tried to do better than--"

Slayer stomps away, faster now, but Hayden's longer, tireless legs are moving, closing the gap quickly as Hayden makes the cardinal mistake of reaching out to touch an exposed shoulder.

Slayer snarls, grabbing Hayden's hand and twisting it. His eyes are flashing as the hand the Slayer crushes spurts electricity, the long metallic fingers crunched in his palm. The same sensors trained to register the subtle changes in wood grain now scream in a form of pain, lighting up his visual array. The fire in Slayer's eyes burn with anger and Hayden realizes too late his egregious miscalculation.

"Using that energy… I would have never…" Slayer can barely get the sentence out before his vocal cords are working against him, causing a cough so strong he has to look away. The menace soon returns, however; the hand is mangled again, shoved away from the accosted shoulder so hard it nearly falls off Hayden's arm. The cyborg just stares, watchful and expressionless.

"You are not better, not anymore," Slayer rasps, only getting the spitting rebuke out on a whispered exhale. Then he's turning away, his throat roughly clearing, before resuming his march. The doctors and technicians he passes all turn to stop and look at him but he pays them no mind as he stomps off towards his room. Many of them soon rush to Hayden, still standing in the hallway outside Room 235.

Why had he even called Slayer there in the first place? Surely it wasn't it have this sort of outcome take place. Hayden's systems scream at him, flashing red in his peripheral. His arm was losing functions; Slayer must have cut a fuel line to the lower limb. He's dimly aware of a technician nearby, already running diagnostics, already saying something along the lines of "are you ok sir, let us just check this over, we'll have a replacement ready for you in--"

He waves off the ARC employee and turns to walk away.

Better. What did the Slayer mean, saying he wasn't 'better'? His actions have saved this Earth, saved humanity, and in time, would free his own people of corruption and let them be born anew. Wasn't all of that the outcome Slayer wanted, too? Doesn't this make all of those sacrifices worth it? Hayden wasn't looking for praise, no, but was a little acknowledgement for what they'd both accomplished too much to ask for?

He should've known the Slayer's trust wasn't so easily won over.

------

[Taras Nabad, ??? Years ago]

He is standing on the outer wall of Teras Nabad (one of the greatest Sentinel cities, he's come to learn), watching on as the inner wall begins to burn. A huge, hulking form relentlessly attacks the city, lit in the darkness of early morning by the fires of its own destruction. It tosses it's giant, horned head, the Hell essence falling from its eyes like molten tears, and the roar it emits pierces the very heavens.

The man known to the Argent people only as Slayer clenches his fists at the sight before him. His hands are begging for a demonic throat to close around, if only to calm the torrential wave of memory-induced anger threatening to drown him. Of all the fights, of everything that he has borne witness to, living a hundred lives in a personal purgatory…

That Titan. He could not defeat it. For the first time, his rage alone was not enough.

He had seen Titans in Hell before, of course, but it was always in passing, and always from a distance. He dreamt (if one could call the feverish vision he had, dreams) of ripping them asunder with his own fists, of finding creative ways to murder them, just like the rest. Perhaps he would end up being swallowed, fighting his way out, bursting with his shotgun with huge guts flying asunder. Or perhaps saw off their horns, drive in the spikes ruining their body, crashing them down into the Hell energy they themselves created. No matter the fashion, there was always a way. He reveled in the challenge of actually finding it..

But now, the challenge is before him and it is a difficult pill to swallow; Slayer, the unstoppable force, could not budge this gigantic immovable object.

He turned from the sight, finding it hard to witness another city he called home fall to demons. As the Night Sentinels he fought with found a moment of sleep, he remained restless, constantly on alert, the wheels turning too loudly in his head to bring him peace. For the first time in so many realms and so many worlds, he felt… despair. It left his mouth tasting like cinders and ash.

"You sure do take the title Night Sentinel to heart," drones a deep, ethereal voice, and Slayer turns to his right. He is startled but unsurprised to see the hooded figure of the Seraphim watching him from the shadow of the bridge tower. Slayer manages to roll his eyes and beckons the Maykr over; the Seraphim only hesitates a moment before finally relenting. He is robed in red, a robe he donned specifically for moments like this, the hood obscuring his face and his intentions. As he nears Slayer, he hesitates again, pulling the hood back only when the coast is deemed clear. The Seraphim's face was slightly different from the others of his kind, more individual than the angels and their militaristic uniformity. No, his metallic Maykr mask gleams softly even in the dark, four eyes sharp and glowing, the crescent of energy upon his forehead reminiscent of the orb held within the Mother Khan herself. Though he was close to the same height of Slayer, he floated a few feet above the ground and his body whirred softly as mechanical armor worked in perfect tandem with the tentacled flesh hiding just underneath.

Slayer smiles. It is brief and does not reach his eyes. "And you really need to shut up, Samur."

The name prompts a grin from the Maykr, as if the line is a long-standing joke between them. Samur watches Slayer, carefully, unblinking, then turns to observe the monster befalling the city. Such a huge set piece, it almost felt unreal. Here was the end the world, and at the rate the titan was moving, it would claim it by morning.

There is a silence that hangs between man and angel for a while before Samur turns to Slayer and says plainly, "I do not have much time. You know this."

Slayer nods, then swallows. "I cannot kill the beast," he confesses, and it sounds so much worse aloud than in his head. "All my tricks, my weapons… I can't rip this beast asunder. It sees my rage, my fury...and ignores it."

Samur is quiet, listening to Slayer, with an unmoved expression, but even his alien calculation appears to register the Slayer's bittersweet emotion. There is something else there, and it maykr turn and watch Slayer carefully.

"You can't possibly be considering defeat?" Samur asks, near incredulous.

"No, not like that. I can't run... I will… I will die fighting it. There is nothing else for it." He looks down, his muscular frame deflated. "This was an inevitability, Samur. I knew in my heart this would happen. I will go down fighting these monsters and my dying breath will be the final assault. It will be an end I will be proud of. I just…" his eyes soften.

"You just what?" asks that graveled whale song, followed by that imperceptible head tilt.

"I just need to be better," he mutters softly. "But I'm only a man. I'm mortal. And no single mortal can bring down something like that."

Samur remains silent and Slayer grows impatient as the helpless seconds tick by. He paces the wall, watching as the beast screams out in tormented defiance.

"I do have a plan of attack," Slayers gets out in a rush as his body pumps him with frenetic adrenaline. "But the sentinels all know it's just a suicide run at this point. We've all agreed and accepted it. We will flank in the morning, and hope to divert it's attention while the western parts of the city evacuate. Then--"

"Slayer."

"--we will do out best to swarm it, and herd it. It can ignore me, but it cannot ignore a coordinated strike. Pushing it towards the center of the City will crowd it, and allow people to escape to--"

"Slayer!"

The Slayer stops. He looks back at this creature, this otherworldly angel, and frowns in confusion, then worry. The maykr's face is expressionless as ever but there is a glaze to his wide eyes; wherever Samur is looking, it is nowhere in the present.

Maykrs were, in many ways, ridiculously alien compared to humans, but not even this weird stunted behavior was normal. Panic grips at the Slayer's heart and he steps forward.

"What?" Slayer asks, suddenly concerned, his fists closing, eyes darting and body sharpening as he prepares to fight. "What's wrong?"

It is a few long moments before Samur can even get close to responding. The metal of his body shines with an unseen light as his fingers twitch and his tentacles thrash from under his robes. Slayer makes a brave decision and touches the maykr, hoping to calm the creature and surprised to find his breath syncing with the maykr's own. He let's go, startled, but the contact seems to be enough to Samur to come to. He focuses on Slayer, his four eyes wide and shining.

"I know what to do." Samur's breathing continues to come fast, and suddenly his clawed hands are shakily pulling his hood back up. "I-- we-- Slayer, it can be done. I can give you what you seek."

There's a stunned silence between them. Slayer's blue eyes narrow as he looks skeptically at the maykr. Then Samur reaches out for him, a strong metallic grip on his shoulders.

"Slayer, I am -- I have seen -- please, do you trust me?"

There is a fraught energy about Samur, an individual usually so composed he could be emotional opposite to Slayer's perpetual energy and intensity. The marine searches Samur's glowing eyes, seeing the thinly veiled terror there, and remembers his earlier words: I don't have much time.

Right now, none of them did. And the clock was still ticking.

Slayer nods. "Yes. I do," he responds. "Tell me, what needs to be done?"

[lasersthings]

To Mars, from Mars

Dear Mars:

You are good enough. You are worthy of love and respect. You are covered in, and in fact pretty much made of dust. You are inhospitable to human life. And that’s what makes you beautiful.

And you just wrote one paragraph of your therapy-mandated self-affirmation letter. Good for you! Nailed it. Boss planet. You’re well on your way to completing this week’s assignment for Dr. Charon’s “Learning To Love Yourself” seminar for celestial bodies. Finish this, and you can go back to your regularly scheduled sit-and-spin. Or, orbit-and-spin, as you like to call it, cause you’re so dang funny. You’re a boss Or-Bit-ch. See? Another one of your classic MARS PUNS.

And orbit-and-spin, that’s another thing you’re good at! You hurtle through space at a speed of 53,979 miles per hour. That doesn’t just happen. I mean, it sort of does, but…  it’s complex gravitational forces and balance that you’ve maintained for over 4 billion years. Not once have you hurtled completely out of orbit and crashed into another planet, destroying you both. Sure, you’re clumsy, with your avalanches and your dust storms. But you have never destroyed two planets in one go, by tripping slightly out of your orbit. That’s what I call SPIN CLASS! Right? Nailed it. 100. straight fire.

And you know what else you’ve never done? Hosted an ecosystem so fragile that one organism can completely mess it up in less than 6 million years. You’re consistent. You’re still standing. You fit into the same size atmosphere you’ve always fit into. You’re killing it, Mars. Boss bitch. Big ups.

But let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Elephants. Well, mammals. Well, anything that resides on earth. Well, earth.

Recently, you’ve been beating yourself up because you’re feeling guilty.

Your buddy earth wants you to be hospitable to their forms of life. Earth wants you to have lots of a specific kind of water. Earth needs it. Earth is counting on you. But Earth is your friend, Earth is not your project.

But you’re beating yourself up about this. You’re mad that your air is wrong, your soil is arrid, your poles are frozen. You used to be proud of that arrid soil and that crystallized oxygen! You wore outfits specifically designed to show it off! And not just because earth needs to offload some of its pests, you’re feeling guilty.

You think you need to be more like Earth. But a friend who asks you to change yourself is… well, is being a silly billy, I’d say.

And sure, Earth won’t stop writing weird fan fiction and producing fan films and fan comics and game about “terraforming” and “colonizing” you. It’s flattering, if not a sudden and strange alteration to your geologically-long relationship. It’s a bit like Earth is MARVIN in on your martian autonomy. Maybe earth should give you some SPACE. Like, on average like 225 million kilometers. But, emotionally.

And perhaps, yes, earth is doomed without you. Oops. But it’s not your job to save anyone, and the fact that you even want to save them means that you’ve got a good heart. A good core. Of iron, nickel, and sulfur.

Mars: you’re great. You are a vast and complicated world made of amazing compounds and climates and trajectories. Even if you aren’t the savior of Earth and all its parasites.

And you’ll always be great. One of the great things about you is your sense of wonder. Venus says your thoughts are boring and dense, but she’s an air-head (or at least a gas head, am I right?) haha, you ROCK, mars. Oh man, a double!

Where were we? Oh yeah. sometimes you wonder about what’s the point of it all. It feels lonely, being lusted over by Earth, being bullied by Venus for billions of years. You feel like you’re doing something wrong. Like somehow you’ve lost the point.

Well, the point is probably about something like friendship. Realistically, it’s about hurtling through space until the heat death of the universe. But also, friendship. About your buddies, Phobos and Deimos, who do truly like you, even though they’d have to say that anyway cause they’re your moons. You should get better at accepting their compliments. They aren’t just your sidekicks - they’ve got gravity, too.

It’s about Earth and Jupiter, your needy neighbors, who like you a lot, even if they keep asking you for stuff. Even about Venus, who’s just jealous that Earth’s so obsessed with your similarity in size and gravity.

Maybe the point is also a little about about finding some of your own happiness, and your own meaning, and your own part of this void. You’re great at that.

You have the exact amount of water that’s right for you. You are the perfect color, and the perfect moistness. Your craters are shapely and your poles are frigid, you hot hot cold planet.

And you love yourself too, good work. You’re even good at therapy. Love, Mars.

[queercapwriting]

J’onn’s Britney Spears CD

“PROMPT: WHY EXACTLY DOES J'ONN HAVE A BRITNEY CD IN HIS CAR” prompt from @@letswreakhavoc 

Kara fiddles with the sound system on the way to Mars.

Of course Kara fiddles with the sound system on the way to Mars.

Because, apparently, some features of the old baby blue convertible stay the same, even when Martian technology is masquerading as old Earth tech.

Some features like J’onn’s CD selection.

Which, currently, is a Britney’s greatest hits collection.

“J’onn,” Kara starts, because she can’t imagine going back to Krypton if it were still in one piece. She can’t imagine what he must be feeling, but she thinks she has a pretty good idea. And if that were her, she’d want someone to distract her.

And besides, she really wants to know.

No.

Needs to know.

“Is this a question about our life-or-death mission?” J’onn asks, his eyes on the nav menu.

“Sort of?” Kara asks, and J’onn sighs.

“What is it, Kara?” he asks, though he thinks he already knows.

“Why... why do you have a Britney Spears CD just... sort of loaded and ready to be played in your space car?”

There’s a long silence, and Kara wonders momentarily if, in preparation for returning to Mars, J’onn is practicing only nonverbal communication.

“I knew I was coming to pick you up, and I... I recall you blasting Britney and Justin music quite loudly from your room as a teenager. I thought, since we’re going off world for a highly dangerous mission, you would appreciate the stress-free selection.”

Kara nods, but her brow is furrowed and her lips are pursed.

“Okay. But even if that were true... and Alex is the one who can pass lie detector tests, J’onn, I’m not sure about you -- “

“I trained your sister!” 

“We’re getting off topic.”

“Are you sure Detective Sawyer isn’t training you in interrogation?”

“Again, off topic,” she singsongs, but she’s grinning broadly. “Even if that were true, the question still stands as to why you even have a Britney CD in here to begin with.”

J’onn shifts uncomfortably, and Kara waits, because yes, she has been getting trained by Maggie in interrogation techniques.

Apparently patience is important.

And sure enough, at the very moment that the silence stretches so taut that she wants to sing something just to snap the quiet in two, J’onn speaks.

“As I said, you used to blast it from your window as a teenager. I... began exploring the genres of music you and your sister seemed to... appreciate most.”

“So you also had a punk rock phase?”

J’onn gingerly avoids the question.

“I was interested in learning as much as I could about you both, and obviously I couldn’t simply reveal myself and speak to you, so I -- “

“Explored our genres of music.”

“Correct.”

“And that... included Oops I Did It Again.”

“It seemed to have resonance with you.”

“And you... after all these years?”

Something like a smile pulls at J’onn’s lips.

“Hit Me Baby One More Time seems a more appropriate anthem to prepare for where we’re going.”

“Are you suggesting a singalong?”

“I’m suggesting that Ms. Spears’s soundtrack is preferably to this interrogation,” he says in a tone he usually reserves for new DEO recruits, but Kara sees right through him.

She grins as she hits play and the ship suddenly fills itself with questionable but delightful 90s pop music, Britney-style.

She grins even more broadly when she notices J’onn’s fingers thrumming in time with the beat on the side of the navigation pad, but she says nothing aloud about it, because this moment with her Martian father and the spirit of Britney Spears as they speed past Phobos and Deimos?

Is one she wants to focus on cherishing forever.

[1602279]

Negotiated response

For formatted version, see link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dno3zEOgwQfz9VGMJ2cSqFpvkB5dtkuYDQXrMboNCkA/edit?usp=sharing

Design Contexts

Negotiated Response

Jordan Martin

1602279

Topic: Developers and how they bring about their own culture and preferences into games.

It’s a peculiar topic. How do developers of games affect them in regards to who they are as people? How do their individual tastes affect the products that in theory are designed to entertain a large enough (and thus, broad enough) audience that it can turn a profit?

It’s a difficult concept, to balance how you as a developer view the world versus how fans are likely to view the world. At times it appears to be a success, complementing the product made, other time it risks a negative impact, be it from simply aging badly to impacting review scores instantly upon release.

Firstly, we’ll look at how a developer’s personal influence can be beneficial or positive to a game:

A big early example of positive developer-influence is the DOOM series, specifically DOOM and DOOM: Hell on Earth (Also known as DOOM 2). For those who have lived under a rock without dial-up since 1992, Doom is a first-person shooter in which you battle the hordes of hell to save a human base on mars, its moon Deimos, and then fend them off from Earth and Hell itself.

Created by ID Software, the development team of the time was very small. There are famous images and video footage of the game’s early builds showing how the developers would poke fun at each other (quite literally saying that other devs on the team sucked by putting it onto wall textures). However the one notable thing they put into the game was their fondness of heavy metal music. Robert Prince created the music for the original games, and because of the time they were made, the music had to be very different to normal recorded audio (In this case, using a format we know as MIDI, or Musical Instrument Digital Interface).

It is strongly believed that the vast majority of the original DOOM soundtracks are inspired directly by the team’s love of 80s metal music; Slayer, Metallica, Pandera and AC/DC are just some of the artists that are considered to have directly inspired the soundtracks.

To return to the main point of this piece, one has to ask if this was beneficial to the game itself?

Personally I feel the answer is yes. As a historical and much-loved series, the ability to harness an atmosphere from existing work only helped Doom in solidifying its place in history. The music that is in the game has carved a place as a legend in gaming music. The classic E1M1 theme  is recognizable to many.

Moving on, it’s time to look at an example of how a game might find itself adding flavour that is good in the short term but bad in the long run:

Undertale. A hit sensation of an indie game featuring 8-bit graphics and a focus on being able to beat the whole game without having to actually kill any enemies if you don’t want to. The game received immensely positive reviews from users and is one of the biggest indie games of all time.

A big component of the story’s humour in Undertale is its frequent use of ‘memes’; internet comics or images often used to make parodies of events and poke fun at it. The story brings them up time and time again in order to give a fourth-wall-breaking effect to the narrative for humour.

In many ways this helped the game experience a surge in online popularity in late 2015 / early 2016. It connected with current trends and encouraged people to buy it as a result.

The story now in 2017? Not so good. The extreme fondness for of-the-time online culture has rendered ‘Undertale’ a far more out-of-touch and odd game now that internet culture has moved on (as it always does so, and does so quickly). Although still revered for is accomplishments, it can be argued that the decision to push such a temporary trend into its design has lead to a more estranged outlook on the game online, potentially hurting sales and even the legacy of its reputation in the process.

Building on the example of how mixed effects can stem from a developer’s preferences for what they will implement in their game, we reach the possibility of simply having negative effects. Enter ‘Dungeons 2’.

Dungeons 2 is a PC game where a player controls a dungeon and tries to feed off the life-force of heroes trying to get their gold. The game itself focuses on micro-management and being a game of anticipation for heroes to be at the best time possible to be killed. The game features a lot of voice-acting, much of it trying to be hip like Undertale did. The problem this time? It didn’t work from the start.

The dialogue of Dungeons 2 likes to make very niche throwbacks to the 1980s and 1990s, things that the developers might understand but that left many gamers and critics a little confused, hurting their potential immersion. Time and time again it tries to bring up recent events during the game’s development time, but as the game spent a long time in development and a lot of it was public testing (Known as Steam Early Access on PC), by the time it finished up it had already creeped into irrelevancy with its trends.

Splintering off from the positive possibilities of developer influence is an entire company: Paradox Studios.

Paradox is known for effectively owning the grand-strategy genre of games in the 21st century with multiple series running simultaneously to depict different parts of history (and even the future). Much of their team has been with them for twenty years now, and a paradox family of-sorts has formed and embraces its newer developers overtime too.

Paradox strive to keep in touch with their communities and often their developers are known both by names and nicknames alike, with running jokes in their communities. To this end, they go as far as to include personal homages to their own developers and in-jokes revolving around what the developers have done in the past.

Paradox find themselves in a more unique situation than previous examples. Because of their persistent crafting of the jokes and nods to their developers, a narrative forms across their games and frequent players of their games can latch onto that narrative and see it continue to grow with new installments in the various series that Paradox owns.

In summary, it is tough to work out where a developer should draw the line in terms of implementing their own preferences and quirks. There are cases for it being beneficial, cases for a mixed response, and cases of it simply backfiring. It would seem fair to say that although an interesting concern, it ultimately comes down to a developer being able to approach the possibility of encroaching upon games with caution when they are considering adding anything personal or that might be arguably unrelated to the game internally.

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty - korinthian night

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

POUNDING RAIN AND rough seas delay the Adrestia from arriving before dusk, but when they dock, Barnabas gives the men a night to themselves. Many of the crew are at the porneion for the night and Kassandra returns to the Akrokorinth to have more time with the orphan girl, Phoibe after their awry talk. Lesya spends her last night in Korinth beneath the awning on top of Anthousa’s villa alone, listening to the rain and watching lightning streak against the dark sky. A bright flash illuminates a dark figure pulling itself up onto the roof. “What are you doing here?” Lesya asks. The outline of his physique is unmistakable. 

Deimos nears the lanterns lining the perimeter of the pallet of pillows —he is soaked. Water drips from his matted hair, his dark grey chiton is almost black. His lack of armor is surprising. “I–” he starts, but then shakes his head. “Heard you and my sister were giving the Monger trouble.” They’d sent him across the Gulf of Korinth shortly after the Monger had left Phokis after hearing rumors —insurance Kassandra and their estranged weapon would be dispatched.

“He’s dead,” Leysa informs him, though he likely already knows that. Korinth may be free of the Monger’s terror, but Cult spies still crawl over the streets. Fitting for a city with no morals, to begin with. He’d report back with the news and tell them his sister had already fled. 

“A knife in the dark?” He asks, having seen his sister and Lesya’s handiwork on display in the theater while making his way to the villa. A public execution would not have been as clean, and the streets would likely still be in an uproar. 

Wish I coulda been there to watch Deimos break your neck, he’d told the Eagle Bearer and watch him smite this traitorous whore. Lesya’s expression hardens as she nods. “Kassandra’s choice.” Kass had sided with the Spartan, Brasidas, over Anthousa. “I wanted him strung up in the theatre.” That earns her a dry laugh from Deimos as he shakes the water from his hands. It did not matter if she called herself Leysa now, a streak of cruelty would also lay within.

She and the Monger had never gotten along —not since he threatened to bring her to his andron to teach her a lesson and she’d broken his nose. Deimos almost had the man’s head after he struck her across the face. Lesya shudders, the things he had done to some of the hetaerae still makes her skin crawl. She tosses Deimos a linen blanket and he pats his arms and legs dry ­then tousles it through his ornamented hair. 

He lays the wet linen aside and moves closer to Lesya, eyes blazing with warmth. “I killed Chrysis too,” she says, tone flat, emotionless. The Cult already received word of that too —Deimos had been there when the masked man stormed across the center of the chamber and hurled down a bloody and torn scrap of fabric. Chrysis was found in the woods, the Cultist announced, the wolves ripped most the meat from her bones. They hadn’t been able to say how she died, but Lesya wears a grim smile. “Slit her throat, the bitch deserved it.”

Deimos lips twist into a smile, his eyes tracing the lines of her face —softened by the firelight. “She did, didn’t she?” Chrysis had fed them lies for ages, warped their worldview, and helped forge them both into weapons. There is a scratch on her cheek from the Monger’s warehouse and Deimos cannot stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the slim, bumpy line. His thumb drops down, tracing over her lips. 

Lesya’s eyes slip shut —she leans toward him. Months could pass but it never felt that way when they were back together. “Deimos,” she murmurs. Soft and warm breaths dance over her parted lips, his nose brushing against hers. She wants him, but her heart is so tired. Lesya presses her hand against his chest but does not push him away. “We can’t keep playing this game.” Eventually, they will get caught. Either by the Cult or Kassandra, and Lesya dreads losing the small budding friendship between her and the Eagle Bearer. And yet, this is Deimos, he knows her better than anyone in the Hellas. 

“Why not?” He challenges, eyes darting over her face. Lesya does not have a good enough reason and he knows it. The hand on his chest twists into the linen of his chiton and she hauls him forward, lips crashing against his. Deimos shoves the hand resting on her cheek back into her hair —destroying the few coppery strands clinging to the remnants of a sloppy, damp braid.  

Pillows cushion her head when he shoves Lesya back and shifts, pressing his knee between her thighs —lips never parting from hers until she pushes back on his broad shoulders. He looks feral against the backdrop of a stormy night. Deimos gathers both her hands in one of his, pinning them above her head. “I hate you,” she gasps as his mouth moves across her neck and his free hand slips beneath the peplos. His lips kink into a smile as he busies himself with stroking one of her breasts, bringing her nipple to a taut peak. It’s a lie and they know it. 

“Try again,” Deimos whispers at her ear before biting down on her shoulder. Lesya yelps, but the cry is muffled by a clap of thunder. She wiggles her wrists, trying to break them free from the cage of his hand —his grip tightens, and his other hand drags up the long lilac hem of her dress. 

“You’re cruel and unfair,” she whispers, but her body’s reaction to his touch betrays her as does the longing in her eyes. She wants this more than words can say, needs this.

Cruel, Deimos will not deny that, but he stalls at the rest of her description and frees her hands. “Unfair?” There’s dark amusement in his voice despite his feigned look of hurt. I’ll show you unfair. He moves over her like a wave, taking over all her senses. The hand trailing up her thigh pauses, expecting to find a barrier of fabric between him and the apex of her supple thighs —there isn’t one. He trails a finger along her slit, collecting the wetness gathered there before delving in. He watches her face contort and listens to her sharp breath. 

Deimos loosens the fibulae at her shoulders and pulls the diaphanous lilac material from her body, two fingers still toying with her. He’s seen Enyo bare before many times —dressing wounds and bathing, that night on the beach— but this feels different somehow. Blood is rushing in his ears, his pulse quickens. Her brows furrow and lips part in a silent cry. He devours the soft moans passing through her lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth. In the back of his mind, he hears Elpenor’s voice —I know you care for her— the merchant had been right, but this goes beyond that. 

She reaches for the hem of his soaked chiton and begins tugging the dark fabric up and over his head —tossing it aside. Deimos does not give her the chance to look him over before he’s kissing her again and planting warm, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach and to the inside of her thighs. “Please.” Her voice is broken. Lesya never begs, but by the fates, she has waited so long to feel this again. 

Smiling, she slides one of her legs over his shoulder. Deimos takes it as an invitation and dips his head forward, scraping the stubble of his jaw against her thigh. A sharp breath escapes Lesya’s parted lips when his mouth descends upon her. Her soft moans and ragged gasps sink into him, seared into his memory like an indelible brand. Between his fingers and mouth, it all becomes too much. He smiles against her heat when her hands slip into his hair —heels pressing into his back.  

She’s so close, but then everything fades to emptiness. Lesya glances down to find his tawny-gold eyes staring up at her —his lips glistening in the lantern light. He looks like a starved man who’d been set down at a banquet. “If I leave you wanting, that’s unfair,” Deimos rasps, leaning in to drag his teeth over the inside of her thigh. She jerks, hips bucking, but he draws back and crawls over her until she can feel the bared head of his hard and heavy cock slipping into her. “But I’m merciful,” he says, pressing his lips against hers again. 

Lesya grips onto his shoulders and twists, breaking the kiss. He lands on his back —grunts with eyes burning like pits of molten gold. “So am I,” she hisses, sinking down on his length until her hips are seated against his. Deimos hisses behind clenched teeth and will give her the satisfaction of control for only a moment more. He watches her hips rock —feels her take him in over-and-over again— and the sway of her breasts, it is almost enough to make him surrender. 

Growling, Deimos grips onto her hips and turns sharply, keeping himself sheathed inside her. Lesya is quick to grip onto his shoulders, drawing her legs up against his sides as he begins thrusting —long, smooth, and deep strokes. He presses his face into her neck, lips and teeth finding purchase there. She clings to him, the muscles in his back contracting beneath her palms, knowing this moment cannot last much longer. “Deimos.” His name rolls off her tongue like a hushed and hallowed prayer. 

His fingertips press harder into her thighs, shifting her hips up as his pace becomes quicker, harder. Deimos pants and groans at her neck as he ruts into her. Lesya threads her fingers into his hair, tugging until he raises his head to look upon her —lips parted, face contorted in bliss. His kiss is rough and sloppy, just like his erratic thrusts. 

With her fingers tangled in his matted hair, Lesya keeps him in place —forehead pressed tightly against her. Deimos moves one of his hands from her lips, slipping it between their connected bodies and rubs the sensitive bud at the apex of her thighs. He swallows the soft moan that escapes her lips, though when her muscles spasm and clench around him, Deimos cannot help but let out a string of curses. A torrent of warmth feels her and after several slow thrusts, Deimos collapses atop her —panting. 

He braces his weight on shaking forearms —sweat beading on his brow. Lesya brushes the matted locks falling before his face aside, the small knot holding up half his hair had been undone. “Deimos,” she breathes and his gaze flits up to her face —flushed and glistening like Aphrodite. “I’ve missed you.” A smile crosses her lips and is reflected in her eyes. 

Deimos rolls to the side, taking her with him. “So have I,” he admits, fingertips grazing over Lesya’s scarred back —following the length of her spine. It feels strange to say it aloud, but he had missed her, more than words could say. She was his equal, his other half, and his strength, and his only weakness. “But we’re together again.” Even if were only for a night —that was all they had ever been guaranteed in this life anyway.

With his face illuminated by the warm glow of dying lanterns, Lesya can see the dark shadows around his eyes and just how tired he is. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” Deimos does not reply, but his silence is as good as any answer. She follows the scar on his cheek with a finger and moves closer —his arms slip around her waist and tighten. “Sleep,” Lesya whispers, softly kissing him, “I’ll protect you.” 

BY MORNING, THE rain has ceased, but dark clouds linger over Korinth. Lesya rolls over and collides with something warm. An arm tightens around her waist. “Stop moving,” comes a rough voice, muffled by pillows. She shifts again, brushing matted locks from his face. Deimos turns onto his side and stares at her —she’s a glorious sight to behold. Copper hair tangled, nipples red and peaked, his seed dried on her thighs. There are two purple marks at the base of her neck she won’t be able to hide. 

He runs the back of his hand over her cheek, sighing. It’d been so long since he woke up next to her, so long since they’d both had a night’s sleep uninterrupted by memories of the past. She scoots closer and Deimos wraps his arms around her, rolling so that she lay atop him. Leaning forward, she kisses him —her hands splayed over the flat planes of his chest marred with scars. This is yet another moment she could live in forever, but the breeze calls her name. “I have to go,” Lesya mumbles. The Adrestia is scheduled to depart at dawn, but her heart will stay with him. 

Sunlight breaks through the dissipating storm clouds. The sea is calm with a gentle breeze filling the sails. They sail for Keos now. Kassandra leans against the helm of the ship, arms crossed —she can tell there’s something wrong with her friend. Truthfully, she had been surprised to see Lesya on deck with Barnabas, straightening out knots in a spare rope. “What is it?” The Eagle Bearer asks, eyeing the deep purple marks at the base of Lesya’s neck.

Lesya looks away and swallows the lump in her throat —there was no sense in lying. “Deimos came to me last night,” she answers in a shaky voice. Her cheeks turn a soft shade a pink. Kass has never seen the disgraced champion flushed or at a loss of words. 

“Did he say anything?” Part of her hopes there will be another clue, another letter to lead them closer to her mother or another Cultist. Judging by Lesya’s odd behavior, she imagines not much was spoken between them. Kass shakes her head, ridding the thoughts from her mind —she does not care about what transpires between her brother and friend in the dark of night, only finding her mother. 

Lesya shakes her head. “Nothing that aids in our search,” she answers. There is something else reflecting in her laurel eyes —melancholy and longing. It is a look Kassandra has seen before when wives send their husbands to war, fearing they will never see their beloved again. 

She did not wish to leave him, Kass realizes. “You love him,” she notes quietly so others would not hear. Lesya turns to the misthios —her expression hollow like she does not know what Kass is talking about. Love is weakness Chrysis said, indoctrinating the belief through pain to all her children. Love will make you weak. 

Tears prick at the corner of her eyes and slip down her cheeks. Lesya steps to the side of the Adrestia and watches Korinthia fade into the horizon. Splinters dig into her palms when she grips onto the railing, hoping the fleeting pain will be enough to distract her from the sinking feeling in her chest that Kassandra is right. “I don’t know that I’m capable of love,” Lesya breathes, but deep down she knows there is no other way to describe her feelings for Deimos. I love him. 

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