#just after last weekend this has to be another slaughter or i will cry | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aliendes · 4 years ago

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Natural Borns - Chapter Ten

Banner by @thebannershop

Series info/genre: Angst, fluff, smut (NSFW)

Pairings: ot7 x fem reader (eventual)

Warnings: crying, shitty medical descriptions (probably), depression, cursing, anxiety, forced medical practices, restraints, alcohol consumption

Description: In the year 2613, over half of the world’s population are what scientists consider ‘designer babies’. YN is a small town girl who is a true natural born, someone born naturally without he help of a lab or gene splicing. Her DNA is greatly sought after, but what is she willing to do to protect it?

Word count: 4k~

A/N: I’m sorry, this is unedited.

“I’ll be back in a few hours for your next round, dear,” Soomin says as she finishes up with your leg and leaves you. You lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling with no emotion in your eyes, but oceans of tears falling from them. You let your eyelids slip shut after a few minutes, but you’re never able to fully fall asleep.

Soomin kept her promise and ended up coming back a few hours later. That visit was no better than the first you experienced, having been connected to those damned straps. After her second attack on your body, which you idly think isn’t technically her fault, she removed your hands from the restraints, telling you someone would be by in the morning to bring you in for ‘testing’. Her words were ominous, and while you really wanted to ask her to elaborate, you decided it would probably be better for your psyche if you didn’t know.

She had allowed you to change into a white sweatshirt and sweatpants, but wouldn’t leave the room for you to do so. Once again, for the nth time since you arrived here, you felt stripped of your basic human rights. This is how things are here, you suppose. You felt like they must be trying to break you. You wanted to be strong, but it was hard. You wanted to hold on to the fact that the boys were safe, presumably. At least they weren’t here, and that was a significant win in your mind.

Soomin left a few hours ago, and now you were curled up in a small ball on the too small bed in the too cramped white room. White. You remember your mom telling you when you were young that white was the color of purity, the color of peace. The doves you would see at the farmer’s market on the weekends were white, and you loved to stare at them while they pecked at the ground. The memory makes an involuntary tear slip out of your eye.

Now, white was all you could see. It definitely wasn’t bringing you any peace, and purity? You internally scoff as another tear falls. You haven’t even been here a full twenty four hours, yet you feel like any purity you did have left in you is about to be torn away without your permission. You feel cold, empty, used. You shudder to think about how much more they were going to take from you in here.

You sniffle, bringing a hand up to swipe at the tears falling across your cheeks. It’s no use, as more just seem to be slipping out. Pursing your lips, you squeeze your eyes shut tightly. What were you supposed to do, other than submit and let them take from you? If you had any hope of getting out of here with your sanity intact, you figure you have no other option than to let whatever is going to happen to you, happen. Your lip trembles as a silent sob wracks your body.

Your entire life has been a lie, at least, that’s the way it’s feeling to you right now. You feel like cattle, raised and cared for, only to be sold and shipped off to the slaughter house where you’d meet your demise. Killed, packaged, and consumed. A sick metaphor, but it felt fitting.

You try to take a deep breath, but it ends up being a shaky inhale, unable to get your breathing under control fully. You have no idea how long you lay like that, sobbing to no one, trapped in a prison of your own thoughts.

The sleep that your body eventually succumbs to is fitful at best, and all you dream about is manic faces, all closing in on you like a caged animal. Hands reaching out to grab you, touch you, take from you.

“Thanks for staying up for us.”

“Of course, Namjoon,” the burly man, known as Wonho replies easily as he holds open the large steel door, “anything for our precious leader.” Namjoon could hear the playful lilt to Wonho’s voice, so he let the comment slide with only a nod in response. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes, and Wonho seemed to get the picture when the purple haired man shouldered past him into the building. The smirk was wiped from Wonho’s face as he watched the six other men walk past him, varying expressions of exhaustion and pain written across their faces.

The seven had traveled from the forest through the bustling city of Seoul. After hearing from Yeonjun that you were indeed being held at the Big Hit facility, Namjoon made a call to Wonho, a natural born who owned an underground casino in the heart of Seoul. It was an illegal operation, but brought in a lot of money to help their shared cause, their shared vision of attaining equality within this fucked society.

Wonho had agreed, of course, to let them stay at the casino. There were extra rooms that his associates rented out, and most of them were vacant at the moment. The young entrepreneur was one of Namjoon’s only friends from middle school and they had reconnected after Namjoon’s escape from the facility when they met at a homeless shelter. Coincidentally, the same homeless shelter Namjoon and Yoongi would meet Seokjin and Jungkook later.

It took the group all day and well into the night to arrive at the rundown building, as it was nearing two in the morning at this point. They were all exhausted, sweaty, and for lack of a better word, broken.

The seven of them shuffled down the dark hallways, mostly shielded from the noises of the casino underneath them. It was housed in an old decrepit building that used to be a cafe once upon a time. Now, Wonho had refurbished the inside well enough to resemble somewhat of a home, with two stories of rooms, a kitchenette, and a small den. The outside was still old and rundown looking, to deter authorities or everyday normal people from investigating.

A side entry door to the building led to a basement, and a series of underground hallways that housed game rooms and offices, which is where Wonho spent most of his time, managing the casino and other dealings. Tonight, though, his associates were taking care of business so he could wait for Namjoon and his crew.

Namjoon reached the door leading to what he knew was the den located on the first floor of the building, waiting for Wonho to catch up to him. The others huddled in the small space, none of them looking at each other, actively trying to avoid any kind of eye contact.

“Three rooms upstairs are empty,” Wonho huffs out as he reaches the others, eyes on their leader, “but I think you and I should have a talk.”

Namjoon gives his friend a curt nod, before turning his attention to the others. None of them look up at him, eyes trained on the floor or the wall in front of them. Another piece of his heart cracks at the sight, “You guys head up, I’ll be there shortly.” Yoongi is the only one who meets his eye, albeit briefly, giving a short nod before turning on his heel, grabbing Hoseok by the sleeve and moving towards the stairs.

Namjoon watches as they all shuffle up the stairs slowly, clutching onto one another in support, in exhaustion or hurt, he wasn’t sure. Once they all disappeared from his sight, he turned his attention back to the platinum haired man in front of him. “After you.”

Wonho surveys Namjoon for a moment. He looks different, older, even though it’s only been a few months since they last saw each other. Wonho isn’t privy to all the inner workings of their group dynamics, but he does know how strongly he cares for his friends. He had also heard about you, how could he have not? You were all Namjoon talked about when he did call, or when they had meetings. The natural born girl, the rare woman who had no idea exactly how precious she was.

Wonho wasn’t one of the ‘special’ ones, no, just a normal natural born. He had to face his own discriminations throughout his life, but nothing like what Namjoon or the others had gone through. He wasn’t about to pretend like he knew how Namjoon felt, he wasn’t going to act like he understood. He did, however, believe in what Namjoon stood for - equality. That’s what everyone in their secret group wanted. That shared belief was what brought them all together in the first place. What formed the Allegiance, a group of natural borns and designer babies who fought for the rights of natural borns.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Joon,” Wonho started as he walked through the door to the den, heading straight for the small bar, “wouldn’t hurt to check-in every now and then, you know?”

Namjoon follows towards the bar, watching as his old friend grabs two small glasses and a bottle of dark liquor. “We speak at least once a week, Seok.”

Wonho raises a brow at the nickname, “You know I don’t go by that anymore.”

Namjoon smirks, “No one’s here, Seok-ie. Besides, I never really liked Wonho.”

The blonde purses his lips but continues to pour the drinks, passing the glass across the bar top when he finishes. “Tell me about her.”

Namjoon perks up at the mention of you, but doesn’t meet Wonho’s eye, instead taking the glass and swirling the liquid around in it. “Not much to tell,” he starts, taking a swig of the alcohol and wincing from the burn, “didn’t really have much time to get to know her.”

Wonho watches as his friend takes another sip of his drink, swirling his own glass in his hand. His knowing eyes never leave Namjoon’s form, surveying the man from top to bottom. He looked tired, and not just physically tired. Wonho could see the exhaustion in his face, in his eyes. Namjoon used to have some of the most expressive eyes, an emotive face, but with age and experience, his features have become sharper, more defined, and more empty.

“You’ll get her back,” Wonho muses, bringing his glass up to his lips finally and taking a quick drink, used to the harsh flavour of the liquor, “Yeonjun-ie is in there with her, yeah?”

The purple haired man nodded solemnly, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “Yeah,” he drawled, thinking of the right words to say. He looks up at Wonho and then takes a quick look around the room, eyeing the door to make sure it’s closed and there are no listening ears. “We don’t have much time, Seok-ie,” Wonho winces at the name, but nods along anyways, “Yeonjun told me what they’re planning, what they- they’re going to do to her.” Namjoon sets his glass down on the bar, elbows resting on the cool wood and rubs a hand down his face. He shakes his head before looking back up at his friend.

Wonho looks conflicted. He knows that Namjoon is an empath by nature, a martyr by choice, and a leader by force. He understands that Namjoon will put anyone before himself, and cares deeply for those, who in his eyes, he wants to save from the horrors of the world. Wonho knows the other man will do whatever it takes to get you back, and so there is no use trying to talk him out of it, no matter how bad of an idea he thinks it is. They barely know you, Wonho knows he wouldn’t risk himself and his closest friends, family even, for a girl who probably doesn’t care about them either way. But he’s not going to push, he knows where that’ll get him.

“Joon,” Wonho starts, setting his glass down and walking around the bar to place a comforting hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, “you guys can stay here however long you need. I’m here for you, man. You know that.”

Namjoon nods to his friend, eyes still trained on the bar top, “Thanks, Seok.”

Upstairs, the others have split up between the three available rooms, Jungkook and Jin in their own room, Hoseok, Jimin, Tae in another, while Yoongi waits in the third for Namjoon. Most of them have showered and replaced their dirty, wet clothes with extras from the wardrobe in Namjoon and Yoongi’s room, a culmination of left-over clothes from Wonho’s employees or ex-lovers, they assume.

Jimin and Tae were the last to shower, letting the others wash the day away first, allowing Jin and Jungkook to get settled so they could have their private conversations, their private moment with each other, the others knew they needed it.

Jimin stepped out of the shower and was immediately handed a towel by a dripping wet Taehyung, to which he gave the younger a sad smile. The two stood in a comfortable silence, towelling off their wet locks.

Taehyung was facing away from Jimin, staring at the wooden door that led out to the hallway, lost in his thoughts, when Jimin finished drying off. He stepped up behind the taller boy, wrapping his short arms around Tae’s middle. Both of them were still only wrapped in towels, not yet having gone to find clothes. Jimin’s firm chest pressed up against Taehyung’s slimmer frame, making the younger shiver.

“What’s on your mind, Taehyung-ie?”

Taehyung sniffles, making Jimin panic and move around him to get a better look at his face. Jimin’s emotive eyes search Taehyung’s brown orbs, looking for any sign of hurt, or pain, that he could help ease.

“I don’t even know her, Jimin-ie,” he clears his throat, a sore attempt and biting back the tears that threaten to fall, “b-but I feel so terrible.” Taehyung brings his hands up to his eyes, pushing the heel of his hands into his eye socket, willing away the onslaught of tears.

“Shh,” Jimin shushes his other half, wrapping both arms around his center and bringing him closer to his chest. Despite the height difference, Taehyung always felt small in Jimin’s arms. He wasn’t sure what to say to the tall boy right now. He was there in the facility with him, knew what he had gone through, watched with his own two eyes what those people are capable of.

The two of them have been best friends since middle school, having grown up in the same neighborhood, and have been inseparable ever since. Their likeness and similar genes had dubbed them ‘the twins’ since a young age, and they sometimes really did feel that way.

Jimin has always been the tougher one, the one to stand up in the face of prejudice, protecting his other half. Taehyung has always been the softer of the two, more trusting, sometimes to a fault. He was always the sweet one, the first one to make friends. They worked well together, and made up for where the other lacked. They made a perfect team, so it only made sense when they first confessed to the other.

That was over six years ago now, before they were found by Big Hit, before they learned the reality that is their DNA. The pair attended university together in their hometown, never suspecting they were any different from their natural born peers, until one day a representative from Big Hit approached them on campus, offering them a life of luxury. They were tricked into believing that if they sold their DNA, they would become rich. They could pay off their school debts, move away and buy a house, have the life they always dreamed of. It was appealing to them at the time, and only being twenty one years old, they fell for it.

They had been promised room and board and compensation for their time, which was initially only supposed to be three months. Once they left school and arrived in Seoul, they realized they were in over their heads. The first couple of months was decent enough. They shared a small, yet comfortable, room at the facility. They had access to a gym, a pool, and a rec room. They just had to make themselves available during the day for testing, and were fed a specific diet and mostly vegetable and protein to keep them healthy. It didn’t seem like such a bad tradeoff.

That was until their three month contract ended, and they were given an ultimatum: comply, and get to stay together, or try to leave and fight back, and they would be separated. Jimin was initially very combative, and did everything in his power to put a stop to it, but soon realized he cared more about Taehyung than he did his own freedom, so he eventually submitted to the doctors and scientists, and was allowed to keep living in his cramped room with his boyfriend.

The testing continued on both of them for about a year, until they realized that Taehyung was different. His DNA was more special, more in demand, than Jimin’s, and so they kicked Jimin out of the facility. He ended up living on the streets, only to be found and pulled back to Big Hit three months later after Taehyung suffered a mental break because of his boyfriend’s absence. And so, Jimin and Taehyung lived at the facility together for the last three years on and off.

While Jimin was absent, Taehyung had met Hoseok, another resident of Big Hit, and Hoseok fell for the young man, doing his best to protect him in his lover’s absence. When Jimin returned, the three of them ended up becoming inseparable, until Hoseok’s eventual release, and subsequent meeting with Namjoon which led to the twins' first breakout.

“Come, baby,” Jimin whispered to his boyfriend, pulling at his hand and leading him out of the bathroom. They made the short trip down the hallway to the room they had settled in with Hoseok. Said man was already waiting for them sitting on the edge of the bed, fresh clothes in a pile behind him.

When the younger two entered the room, Hoseok immediately stood from the bed and made his way towards the sniffling Taehyung. Jimin still had one arm around the boy, both naked save for the white towels wrapped around their waists. Hoseok reached out for both men, one hand on each of their hips as he led both of them towards the bed. Jimin left Tae’s side for a moment, grabbing the clothes and dressing quickly before handing over the soft t-shirt and boxers to Taehyung.

“T-thanks,” Tae muttered, keeping his eyes trained down, not wanting to see the worry etched across either of his lovers’ faces.

“What’s going on, Tae Tae?” Hoseok asked gently, not wanting to push the younger.

Jimin sat on the bed and scooted back so Taehyung could sit in front of him. Hoseok brought one leg up onto the mattress, turning his entire body towards Tae, giving him his full attention. The two on the bed watched as their once blue haired lover dressed and sat down with them.

“I- I don’t know, Hobi,” he squeaked out, rubbing a large hand over his entire face before letting both arms fall beside him, exasperated.

Jimin scooched towards him, wrapping his legs around him and kissing his shoulder, “It’s okay, Tae,” he whispered against his skin, “I know what you mean. We might not know her, but it’s obviously affecting Jin and Kookie, maybe even Yoongi. And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you have more knowledge about what goes on in there than any of us.”

Hoseok nods along with Jimin’s words, knowing Tae has been very private about the things that happened to him behind closed doors at the facility. Even though both Jimin and Hoseok were with him in there, at least for some of the time, he never gave them details about what exactly happened to him and was only vague in his explanations. Jimin wishes that he would talk to him, but understands that he doesn’t want to relieve the things that were done to him. He’s witnessed his nightmares enough times to know it’s not worth it.

Hoseok brings a hand up to rub at Taehyung’s back, his shirt slightly wet and sticking to his broad shoulders. His eyes soften as he watches the youngest in the room bring his knees up to his chest and hug tightly, laying his head on the top of his knees. “This is silly,” he scoffs, “I don’t even know her.”

“Hey, don’t do that,” Hoseok starts, a frown marring his handsome face. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to finish his thought as risk of upsetting Taehyung even more, but decided to voice his thoughts after a look shared with Jimin, “Just because you don’t know her, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t care. Sh-she seems like a sweet girl, genuine. Jungkook and Seokjin really took a liking to her,” he bit his lip when Tae looked up at him through wet lashes, “and anyone who can make Yoongi think twice must be a keeper, right?” He tried to lighten the mood with his joke, but Taehyung’s frown only deepened.

It was Jimin who broke the silence next, “We will get her back, Tae, and then we’ll get to know her alongside the other guys. I know you guys didn’t have much time with her, but it seems like she’s got most of you wrapped around her finger.” Jimin smirks at the older man next to him, bumping his shoulder against his.

Hoseok smiles lightly, but it quickly turns into a lopsided frown at the reminder. He’s really the only one who hasn’t spoken to you in length. The most he ever spoke to you was when he woke you up last night. It felt like a lifetime ago already, even though it’s only been twenty four hours. Would he ever get a chance to know you better? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought, if not for himself, then for the others. He can’t deny the weird feeling he gets in his gut when he thinks about you, and he’s certain the others have a similar feeling if the soft eyes Yoongi gave you was any indication.

“How do you know?” Tae asked in a quiet voice, looking up at his hyung.

“Hmm?” Hoseok snaps his attention back to the younger, reminded of where he was, “How do I know what?”

“You said she’s a keeper.”

“O-oh. Well,” Hoseok started, pursing his lips as he thought carefully about his next words, “to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jungkook-ie so heartbroken. He’s obviously really affected by this, and you know him. He doesn’t warm up to people very quickly, so for him to be this torn up is really telling of his feelings. Jin-hyung, too.”

Taehyung and Jimin nod along with Hoseok’s words, having seen the duo earlier, any attempts at comforting them had been brushed off, the two only seeking out the other. They saw it, they saw the way the others seem to break at the thought of you being at Big Hit. They could tell you were something special, and Jimin was determined to make sure he got to learn first hand what exactly it was that made you so special to the others.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Jimin says to the others, to which Hoseok nods, “and you’re gonna help, right Tae Tae?”

Taehyung perks up, turning around to look at the blonde behind him, “Of course I will.”

Jimin gives him a soft smile, as Hoseok continues rubbing at his back and shoulders. “Let’s get to bed, hm?” Hoseok asks, standing up and gesturing towards the headboard. Both men nod, moving to get up as well.

Once the three of them are safely under the covers, Taehyung sandwiched between the other two, Jimin presses a kiss to the back of Tae’s head. Hoseok leans in and does the same to Tae’s cheek, making the youngest smile softly. “Goodnight, Tae.”

The younger two fall asleep rather quickly, having been spent from hiking all the way into town, but what Hoseok wouldn’t tell them is that he laid in bed until the early hours of the morning, listening to the soft sobs of Jungkook next door.

To be continued...

taglist: @mrsstilinski96 @sammiilynn10192 @minifruity @mrcleanheichou @arantxaglz @chim-possible @kooksremedy @irishhbamb @sugashaye @lovelyseomin @strawberrygatorade @kookiebbyxx @itneverends15713

#bts x reader #poly bts #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut

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nyctolovian · 4 years ago

Link

Summary:

Just as Martin was convinced that whoever was outside was gone, he heard something else.

“What was that?” came a voice from under his bed.

Moth!Jon is a monster under Martin’s bed. What more could you ask for?

Day 1-2: meet-cute

TW: animal abuse

Martin thought he had a pretty neat deal when he bought this house.

From the outside, it looked snug and comfortable, which already ticked off some boxes in Martin’s mental checklist. It had been built with tan brick walls and had a hard cracked cement floor. Short and wide windows brightened up the house and had been added to the house in a rather playful pattern.

The price was surprisingly low for a three-room, especially one that apparently came with some furniture left by the previous family. Sure, it was a bit of a wreck—cobwebs everywhere, carpets of dust, junk left from its previous owner, and the walls seemed to be peeling off. But it only needed some repairs and cleaning up.

Just in case though, Martin had asked the estate agent, “Why’s this house selling so cheap?”

With a pleasant smile, Ms Richardson calmly replied, “This property has been on the market for quite some time and I suppose the family just wants to sell it as soon as they can now.”

Martin hummed as he gave the house another once over. “I see…” he said. “So no major problems? Like a termite infestation or… I don’t know, uh, structural damage?“

Her face grew slightly stiff. “Oh! Nothing of that, I assure you.” There was a brush of overemphasis on her words as her grip on her clipboard tightened a miniscule bit. “Just a slightly old house. That’s all there is to it.” Her sunny smile returned with vengeance.

Martin’s mouth opened to ask another question but, from the corner of his eye, he saw something dark flash across the bedroom. He spun around.

Nothing. Just some cobwebs and the bed. He frowned. “Did you… Was that a rat?” Martin asked. “You saw that, right?”

Ms Richardson looked much tenser than a second ago. Still, she maintained her composed demeanor and said, “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anything.”

A sigh escaped Martin. He really wished the estate agent would just be honest with him. If it was just a rat infestation, he just had to set some rat traps. The worst case scenario he could call pest control. It really wasn’t something the estate agent had to lie about. It was still a fairly good deal.

He had visited several other properties that were either in worse condition or beyond his budget. It had been tiring disappointment after tiring disappointment. Honestly, this was the best one he had found so far. This was about as good as things could get with a budget as tight as his, he figured.

Nodding to himself, he turned to Ms Richardson and said, “I’ll take it. Can I sign the papers now?”

The smile of gratification on her face was one that reached her eyes. Hastily, she pulled out the contract and shoved the pen and papers into Martin’s hands. “Just sign over here, here, and… here. … Alright! Now, this house will be all yours,” she said. Her voice had a tone of relief that one might have while ridding oneself of the responsibility of baby-sitting a relative’s annoying toddler.

Martin honestly should have been more wary of this. However, he was overtaken with the sheer giddiness of owning his first house. At the ripe age of 32, but no matter! A milestone was a milestone regardless. He was excited to finally have a house to his name.

As soon as Martin could move in, he dedicated a full weekend cleaning up the house, rearranging some of the furniture and applying some wallpapers to fix the peeling walls. He hadn’t spotted any pests or rats the entire duration. Nonetheless, he placed some mouse and bug traps around the house just to be safe. Then, he moved all his belongings in and settled down comfortably.

Five days living in his new house passed, and surprisingly, Martin ran into no problems. No rats; the neighbours were, well, not lovely, but at least decent; no leakages; the roof didn’t collapse atop him in the middle of the night.

Nothing. Absolutely uneventful.

Things couldn’t be better.

(But it did feel a tad bit empty, living alone.)

***

Bang!

Martin jolted awake. He turned his head and looked towards his door. What was that? There was a downpour outside, and it could have been thunder but he could have sworn the noise came from within his house.

He held his breath. It was pure blood-curdling silence for what felt like hours. Just as Martin was about to pass the sound off as a figment of his imagination, he heard a soft thump outside his door.

His breath hitched.

Oh god. Who was that? Was it a burglar? Was it a serial killer?

Martin’s mind ran through every scenario like a video on 10 times playback speed, and every single one of them ended with him being brutally murdered. Slowly, making as little noise as possible, he pulled his sheets closer to himself.

The crack of light under his door shifted with movement.

His heart leapt to his throat and he choked on it. Martin lay as still as he could.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Something was there. Right outside his door. It wasn’t locked.

Shadows under the door gap shifted languidly, morphing in and out of the stream of light. Finally, it shifted away.

He stayed in bed, quivering, as the thumps continued within the living room. At last, the noises stopped. But Martin kept his eyes and ears peeled for any movement. But nothing happened for at least fifteen minutes.

Just as Martin was convinced that whoever was outside was gone, he heard something again.

“What was that?” came a voice from under his bed.

Martin strangled a cry of sheer terror. He hurled himself as far as he could from the bed. He was about to open the door but fear of whoever was possibly still outside petrified him.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks at this point as he stared at his bed. Something moved.

Oh, Jesus Christ. Something shifted under his bed.

Then, it crawled out.

And whatever crawled out wasn’t human.

Its shape was all wrong. There were too many appendages and what looked like half-a-metre-long antennas. As the dark figure rose from the floor, Martin recoiled. Something large on the monster’s back shivered erratically for a few seconds before pressing itself to the side of its torso. It bent its body towards him, but Martin could tell that if it stood at its full height, it would be several heads taller than him, and Martin was not a short man. The only thing he could discern in the dark were the monster’s eyes as they made contact with his. They were a pair bright glowing green orbs that pierced through the darkness and into Martin unrelentingly.

His chest was bursting at the seams with pain at how fast his heart was racing. He was going to die. Either from slaughter by this monster, or from a heart attack.

The monster spoke again, “I— This— I…” One of its spindly legs a step towards Martin.

Like cornered prey, he scurried as far as he could without running straight to the serial killer outside his door. “Don’t come any closer!” he hissed, backing to a corner of the room. “I’ve got a… I’ve got a…” His hand hit something that clattered against the wardrobe and he immediately grabbed and brandished it in front of him.

A clothing hanger. It was as good a weapon as any at this point.

“I’ve got a weapon!” Martin threatened, every limb trembling pathetically.

The monster took a step back. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to startle you.” It held its four upper limbs out in a placating manner. “I truly mean no harm,” it whispered.

“You’re going to kill me!” Martin swung his makeshift weapon through the air in front of him.

“No, no! I…” The monster retracted its limbs. “I don't— I’m not going—”

Thump!

The noise from the door sent the both of them scrambling to the other corner of the room. The monster huddled close to Martin and if it weren’t for the second threat outside, he would have screamed bloody murder. Martin could feel a soft fuzz against his cheek as the monster crowded towards Martin.

“They’re not gone!” it whispered panickedly, tugging his shirt sleeve. “What do we do?”

Roughly, Martin brushed the monster’s hand aside. “We?! Since when was there a ‘we’? You were about to kill me a second ago!”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

Another thump interrupted their squabble.

The two froze to the spot, breaths held.

“Y-you’re the one with the weapon,” the monster said, pressing itself closer against the wall. “You should go.”

“No, it’s just a clothing hanger,” he said. “You’re way scarier. You go!”

“But I—”

“You can use my weapon. Here, take it,” Martin said, shoving the clothes hanger into one of the monster’s numerous limbs. When it took ahold of the hanger, he gave the monster a shove towards the door.

It stumbled forward on its too long limbs, body hunched inward. It crept to the door and placed its hand on the knob. Slowly, gently, silently, the monster turned the doorknob and pulled the door open by a tiny fraction. Martin’s fingers pressed apprehensively to his lips without him realising as it stood rigidly still at the door for four seconds.

The thing draped over its back quivered once or twice before it slipped through the thin crack of the door.

There was about five seconds of silence, which were far too long for Martin to handle already. So he quietly moved towards the door and peered out through the tiny gap. He couldn’t see the monster anymore, but neither could he see anyone else.

He was about to head out when he heard a loud bang and the monster shouting in shock. His legs rocketed him back towards his previous corner in a split second. His heart jackrabbit-ing and his tears of fear renewed.

“Oh, good lord,” he heard the monster go.

Which was a strange thing to hear a monster say, first of all. But, also, there was a curl of relief in its voice, delight even. So either Martin was safe, or there were two monsters that could kill him in his house now.

A quick scan across the room revealed nothing Martin could use as a weapon now and his clothing hanger was with the monster.

Great.

Chewing his lip, he bounced between leaping out through his window and charging through the living room. He just paid for the house and he wasn’t keen on giving it up to a couple of monsters! But, rationally, he also knew dying for a house wasn’t quite worth it.

Before he could come to a decision, however, the door creaked open further. In popped the monster from before, cradling something in his arms. Its two other unoccupied arms were excitedly flailing and pointing at the shivering mound it was carrying.

“It was a cat!” it said euphorically, voice trembling ever-so-slightly. Gently, it bent down further and let the cat in its arms hop off.

Martin stared.

The cat was a small thing, probably not fully grown yet. Its fur looked slightly wet and it was quivering from the cold. In the dark, he couldn’t make out the colour of its short fur, but its yellow eyes were adorably round and curious. Lithely, it twisted to look at Martin and then at the monster, before looking back at Martin again. Then, it began to paw at the chair and pushed a bag on the floor, making it fall with a soft fwump.

“I think it’s hungry,” the monster said.

That snapped Martin out of his stupor. “And cold.” He looked up at it expectantly. “Uh, what do cats eat? I don’t have much. Do you think canned tuna would work?”

“I… I think so? Maybe? I-I don’t know.”

“Um… okay. We’ll just have to settle for that then,” he said, heading out.

Martin came back with a plate of scooped-out tuna to a rather strange sight. Squatting and wrapping its two lower arms around his knees, the monster stroked the cat from head to back. The cat let out a content little mewl at the attention, and the monster’s eyes practically glued to the little creature.

Crouching down, Martin placed the plate on the floor and pushed it towards the cat. Loudly, it mewed and bounded towards the food. Without hesitation, it dug right in, tail high in the air with joy. He and the monster watched it as it scoffed down the food. When it was done, it yawned and then shook itself.

“I should get a towel.”

The monster hummed. “Yeah,” it said softly, glowing green eyes never quite leaving the feline that was settling onto the floor now.

Martin stood up. “Can I turn the lights on?” he asked. “To, um, get the towel.”

The monster shifted nervously. “Uh, sure,” it said. “If… If you need to.”

“You’re not going to kill me after I see you in light, right?”

“Heh, no, I won’t. You helped the cat after all.”

“Alright then.” Martin said. He pulled the pull cord to his ceiling lights and the room was bathed in bright yellow light.

He was blinded for a second but judging by the way the monster ducked his head under its black spindly arms for a little longer and shut its eyes, it was more sensitive to the change than him.

Under the light, Martin could see it better now, and the first thing that struck him was that it was much fluffier than he had imagined. The entire body, including the length of its four arms and two legs, were covered in thick short black fuzz. At its neck, however, its fur grew much thicker, and it was practically a scarf of the softest-looking light brown fur. And it wore a thick brown coat over its back. What he didn’t expect was how… vaguely human the monster looked. Aside from the number and the fuzz, its limbs looked human. A mop of grey hair cascaded to its shoulders, with a pair of feelers drooping down to frame his face. The skin on its face was a gentle earthly shade of brown and its eyebrows were thick and bold. Then, its eyelids fluttered open and revealed the ethereally lovely pair of eyes.

Peridots gazed up at Martin and shivered with movement in the light. His breath caught on his throat at the sight.

A shiver passed over the brown coat draped over its back and Martin realised with a start that it wasn’t a coat. They were large brown patterned wings, folded neatly behind it. Moth wings.

“Are you mothman?” Martin blurted.

The way the monster’s eyes lit up was the only indication of its amusement because it didn’t seem to have a mouth. Then, without a mouth, it spoke, “No, not quite.” Its hand moved animatedly. “Yes, I’m, well, a moth, but not a man. And no, not exactly mothman.”

“I-I see,” Martin said, simultaneously unnerved and fascinated by the creature before him. “Well, then, uh… I’ll grab the towel.”

He opened the wardrobe and rummaged through it for his softest clean towel, which he passed to the monster.

With a curt nod, it took the towel and gingerly lifted the cat up by its belly and placed it on top of the towel. Then, it wrapped the cat like a tiny burrito and laid it on the floor as carefully as it could. The little thing yawned and its eyes slowly slid shut.

“It’s sleepy,” the monster offered in commentary. It reached a hand over and began to stroke the cat again.

As the two of them watched the cat doze off, Martin found himself at a loss for words, so he reached for the most familiar set of words. “I’m Martin Blackwood by the way. Um… He/Him pronouns.” Then, for god-knows-what reason, he added, “I’m human.”

The monster’s shoulders shook lightly with a chuckle. “Jon. Uh… Whatever pronouns… I guess, he/him as well. And, well, eldritch moth horror."

"Jon?” Martin repeated. “That’s much more normal than I would have expected.”

“Yeah… My full name is Jonarathimusius Simmsoniumon."

Martin’s jaw dropped. "Piss off! There’s no way that’s a real— You made that one up on the spot.”

“I did not.”

“Alright, but that means you came up with that name at some point in your life and that’s incredibly questionable behaviour.”

Jon folded his arms. “I’ll have you know, I didn’t come up with my name. I was just… born with it?”

“What, so you just—” Martin let his jaw hang as he flailed his arms about to find the words “—popped into existence and just knew your full name?”

“That’s exactly right actually,” Jon replied. If he had a mouth, he’d have the most shit-eating grin on his face.

“How does that even work? How did you even come into being? I just… I have so many questions."

There was a slight frown on Jon’s face. He pressed a finger to his chin. "Honestly, I really don’t know much myself. I just woke up one day and I just… knew things.”

“How did you… become born? I mean, humans, we have to do…”

“Things, yes,” he said, the disgust in his voice signalling he knew what Martin was getting at and didn’t wish to entertain the thought any further.

“Things,” he repeated. “I just want to know is there some sort of… monster-creating god. A witch? Or some monster factory?”

Jon’s eyebrows slid up. “Monster factory?”

“Oh, shut up. How the hell would I know?” Martin pouted.

“Monsters are a manifestation of, well, other being’s emotions and beliefs. If there is enough fear and horror in something, a being will simply just… come into existence, I suppose. There isn’t some sort of order that I’m privy to unfortunately."

"Huh,” Martin said, sitting on his bed. “And where did you come from?”

“Uh…” Jon curled up tighter around himself. “There was a kid who lived here. Jude Perry was her name. She, well, she loved…”

“She loved moths?”

“Burning, burning moths.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. She enjoyed pinching moths by their wings and slowly burning them at a candle. I was a manifestation of… the moths’ fears.”

“That's…” Martin frowned. “That’s awful.”

Jon leaned his head against his knees. “Yeah. I woke up in the living room of this house, where she was burning the moths, and when she saw me… Let’s just say the moths never had their vengeance because the family quickly moved right out.”

Martin winced. “Would you have?”

“Hm?” Jon blinked.

“Would you have taken vengeance? Given the chance?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon said. “I gave her quite a scare already when I emerged in her bedroom. But… vengeance per se, I’m unsure. I came into existence as a result of the moths’ fears… not rage. We’re far too timid to hold enough anger to manifest a monster through it.”

“So you’re the reason why this house was so cheap."

"I, well,” he let out a chuckle, “I suppose I am.”

“Are you bound to this house or something?”

“Hm? Oh, no,” he shook his head, causing his feelers to sway gently in front of him. “I can leave whenever. But I just… I don’t know where I could go. I’ve only ever known this place and wherever I look it’s just lit streets after lit streets. I… don’t think I will do too well out there. Especially if I get spotted.”

“Can’t you fly?”

Jon let out a sigh and leaned back slightly. “My wings are fairly useless to be honest. It can’t hold my weight. I can perhaps hover a metre above the ground but not much else if I’m honest.” else.”

“Right,” Martin murmured. Jon was rather large. It would take a lot to lift him off the ground. “That's… That’s quite sad."

The two of them watched the tiny creature swaddled in towel sleep, its body rising and falling with its warm slumber.

“Hey,” Martin said, breaking the silence. He reached for his phone on his bedside table. "I could— um, I could search for the quickest and safest route to wherever you want. I-If you want.”

The wings on Jon’s back fluttered lightly and iridescent green eyes wide with surprise. “You would?”

“Anywhere you want to go,” Martin said, smiling reassuringly.

Jon’s hands curled into animated fists as he shuffled closer to Martin on his other arms and leaned over his shoulder.

Martin pulled out Google Maps and zoomed out for an overview of the area. “Where do you want to go?”

“I want—” Jon’s fists fell slowly to his side as he stared blankly at the phone screen. “I… I actually don’t know.”

“There’s a forest nearby.”

Jon’s face scrunched up slightly. “That sounds awful. Especially with this downpour.”

“Hm… An abandoned car park maybe?”

Hesitance flickered over Jon’s peridot eyes and his wings pressed a little closer to his body.

“No?”

“I… I don’t think so.” He looked down at his knees. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!” Martin said. “Take your time.”

Just then, the snoozing cat let out a little mewl, and its paws stretched upwards and waved in the air. Jon practically melted into a puddle and he cooed softly and leaned forward to take in the adorable sight.

“Or,” Martin cleared his throat nervously. “I mean… Um… I don’t know. Maybe… I might need some help with cat-sitting. If… If you’re okay with that.” His hands shot up. “Only if you want! No pressure! I… I really don’t mind!”

The moth monster’s eyes lit up and his feelers lifted slightly in what looked like glee. As though suddenly remembering himself, he ducked his head sheepishly and muttered, “I… I would like that. Actually.”

Martin felt heat slowly fill his cheeks and he found himself looking away as well. How ridiculous, he thought to himself. But he couldn’t deny the little flutter in his heart when he imagined what it might feel like, not being so lonely anymore.

#jonmartin #the magnus archives #tma #magpod #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tmasafehousefest #fluff #meet cute #moth!jon #my writing #fanfic #tma fanfic #tw animal death #tw animal cruelty

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llendrinall · 5 years ago

Note

That ask about Ministry Spy Percy, do you think you could write it in the Pov of the British wizarding world please? Im curious how it all goes down.

I’m not sure about British wizarding world but I can tell you it goes down with Bertha Harrendal thinking about murdering Percy Weasley herself.

Not that she is much of a danger. Bertha was never good enough with charms to qualify as an Auror. Instead she entered the Winzegamot Administrative services, one of the many peons needed after the war to put the country back in order, at least the wizarding part. It is gruesome, tiring and necessary work. They can’t afford to make the same mistakes of the past, the people sent to Azkaban without trial, innocent people, while many guilty ones walked free claiming imperius. This time they are doing things right. They owe it to themselves and to the country. They can’t have another war in twenty years. They are going to be better and they are starting now.

Also, bloody Harry Potter, hero extraordinaire, comes every single day to the Wizengamot, every day, even on weekends, to tell them about Sirius Black.

(They are not supposed to work on weekends but they are all coming anyway because the work is immense and it keeps growing, lines and lines of names and heinous acts, people disappeared and murdered and people who did the disappearing and the murdering and it is only them to tell who is who).

Eventually Irene Necker who, legend says, fought a Death Eater with a stapler, snarls at Potter that Sirius Black is dead but the people in her considerable pile of files are not so she will bloody see to them first and isn’t that what Potter wants? To ensure that every file is reviewed, every person given a chance to talk?

It is, and Potter looks adequately taken aback at Irene’s fury and exhaustion. He keeps coming every day because Potter is punishment incarnate, but at least he brings chocolate flapjacks with him. From time to time he has some useful comment like “Malfoy says the Ipswitch attack was Bella Lestrange” or “Malfoy says Gibson is too stupid to be imperiused.” Always Malfoy this and Malfoy that until, finally, he brings with him Malfoy himself, looking insultingly beautiful in his healer’s robe. Malfoy answers all their questions and they even get him to agree to testify under oath and veritaserum once Irene offers him a full tray of flapjacks and Thomas, who hasn’t left the Ministry in three weeks, has a small breakdown that ends with him sobbing on Malfoy’s robe and mumbling incoherently that his hair is very shiny.

There are times when Bertha wants to do like their predecessors, draw a quick line of guilty and not guilty and be done. When she started in the Wizengamot she was horrified by Crouch’s cruel disregard. Now she is horrified by her understanding and almost sympathy. People demand justice and revenge and answers and reparations and none of that can be done quickly. It can’t. Rushing is dangerous.

There are two new newspapers now, in addition to The Prophet and The Quibbler. Even though The Prophet tries to take itself seriously, their reputation is too damaged. The Quibbler was the herald of truth during the war, but it is still The Quibbler. Last week they had an article on wendsing sightings on the Ministry and they all know that was just Rupert leaving the gen’s loo. There is a need for proper reporting, so new media has sprouted. This is good, except for how the journalist are camped by the Winzegamot’s door pestering all of them.

Irene has been wearing the same robes for the last three weeks. They know because someone in The Albion Post pointed it quite rudely. Thomas is working diligently from the nest he has built under his table and refuses to come out. He has a lock of Malfoy’s hair pinned on a drawer. Bertha doesn’t want to know what kind of oddity she has, but she is sure she is not unscathed. She might have chewed half of her wand, she is not sure.

Then on August, 20th, Bertha will remember the day the rest of her life, Potter comes with Granger bringing a clay pot full of silver mist. Dumbledore’s memories, he says. If Malfoy can help them find the guilty, Dumbledore will help them find the innocent.

On Thursday, Anna McAllister notices that most of the innocent (like Black and Snape and Lupin who was under Ministry surveillance for helping Black) are dead. The whole office begins to cry spontaneously and can’t do anything else for the next three hours. The war has ended but not for them. They are living in it every day, going after every atrocious act, every tragedy. At some point Malfoy come around, still in his undeservingly well—fitting healers robe, casting cheering charms and giving them calming potions. Thomas grabs him by the neck of his robes and plants a big sloppy kiss on his mouth. Malfoy’s look of utter, dumbfounded, confusion together with his posh “there, there, man, put yourself together” does wonders for Bertha’s mood.

And then they get to Percy Weasley, loyal collaborator of Thicknesse’s Ministry, suspected Death Eater, BLOODY UNDERCOVER SPY FOR DUMBLEDORE WHAT? Bertha goes all the way to the top floor of the Ministry, goes outside, and screams for a full minute (scaring a couple of pigeons). Then she realizes that she can’t remember when was the last time she was outside, so she goes home walking slowly and blinking at the white sky.

The next day, Anna McAllister tells her that she, Bertha and Thomas have been put in charge of the Weaesley Investigation (it is written like that on the blackboard, with far too many es), and that it is even worse than they thought because apparently Percy Weasley wasn’t just a spy, he was the spy and he was involved in everything. And they are the unfortunate sods that have to make some sense out of it.

Saturday is Percy Weasley came with the idea of Snape assassinating Dumbledore.

Sunday is Percy Weasley side apparating a whole family, including the dog, right when Dolohov was casting a killing curse.

Monday is Percy Weasley contacting the goblin London clan and saving them from being rounded up and killed.

Tuesday is selkie day. Apparently the selkies were very grateful that Percival Weasley had saved two dozens of their kind (when? They can’t find any mention of it) and they offered their services to pass information to the continent.

Wednesday is Percy Weasley telling Dumbledore off for raising Potter for the slaughter. This had nothing to do with any of the open investigations, but they all like to watch it.

Thursday is Percy Weasley finding MacNair, duelling him, disarming him, causing a permanent injury to his right arm, evacuating a family of goblins and then returning to MacNair, blurring his memories and implanting a spying charm on him before sending him back to Voldemort. The spying charm seems to be an adaptation of one of Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes products.

Friday, they have Fred and George Weasley down to ask them about the products, their involvement in the war and their brother Percy. Their presence puts everybody in a good mood. Then they say they don’t know where Percy is, he disappeared right after the Battle of Hogwarts and hadn’t been in touch since then. Thomas grabs George Weasley by the front of his robes and screams “I will eat your face” at the top of his lungs.

Suddenly it’s September and Bertha has not been to her house since the Percy Weasley reveal. She is crying on Rita Skeeter’s lap, saying that if Rita and all her ilk like questions so much they should ask themselves where the bloody hell is bloody Percival Ignatius Weasley, one eighty centimetres, blue eyes, red hair, glasses, no recognizable marks or scars. Please. It is not fair that bloody Rita and Reggy and, sorry, I don’t know your name Magical Times girl, they all keep asking her questions, but Bertha has questions of her own. The Ministry is looking for Percy Weasley in relation to 56 open investigations.

Bertha takes back every unkind thing she had ever said about Harry bloody Potter. Potter comes to them with a tub of ice-cream and the suggestion that perhaps the press could render the Ministry a service by helping them locate war hero Percy Weasley. The world deserves to know Percy’s story, and this is a great chance for people to see how the diligent Wizengamot clerks are working tirelessly in their quest for justice and reparations. He actually says “diligent” and “quest”. He has such a heroic aura that Reggie, from the Albion Post offers to swear an unbreakable vow right there and then to share with Bertha Weasley’s whereabouts and any and all information gathered about him just as soon as it has gone to the press. The others follow suit and Potter says magnanimously that he bears witness and their word is enough for him so they don’t actually swear an Unbreakable Vow.

Thus begins the hunt for Percy Weasley, which is an absolute failure because the power of the press amounts to nothing. They ask and ask and Bertha shares all she knows and every day they print a full page about Percy’s exploits, but they give back nothing.

In early October, George Weasley comes to the Winzengamot and informs them from the door that Percy Weasley is in a Greek island and doesn’t want to be contacted, further inquiries should be directed to Oliver Wood, the one found Percy.

But Oliver Wood is a very successful quidditch player and his coach protects him and the rest of the team like a mother dragon. No one is to bother his delicate players, not even Ministry officials doing official business.

They have to sic Thomas at the coach (“give me answers or I will pluck my own eyes!”) while Anna pretends to ineffectually contain him so Bertha can sneak into the locker room and talk to Oliver Wood.

It is a testament to how tired Bertha is that she doesn’t register that she is in a locker room with four handsome, very handsome, men in different states of undress. She doesn’t care about their chiselled abs. She just wants to find Percy Weasley so he can clarify his involvement in the Eynsham incident.

(Five hundred lives saved that day by their most careful estimations. Five hundred. And neither Thickness nor Voldemort realized a thing).

“I understand you are tired,” Oliver Wood says. Nice man. Seems very supportive. “So is Percy. He needs some rest.”

“I just want to close one file,” Betha begs, sitting on the floor. “We have 78 open investigations and they all involve him.”

She has personally written seventy-eight formal letters requiring Percy’s assistance and testimony. Seventy-eight, like that, 78 looks too short. It’s seventy-eight.

In fact, Bertha has actually written eighty-five letters. There are the seventy-eight formal ones and the seven demented informal letters in which Bertha let out all her frustration and exhaustion in the form of increasingly bizarre threats. It was very therapeutic. It is obvious Weasley is not reading any of them so he doesn’t know about Bertha’s promise to take the Order of Merlin, first class, and personally shove it through one of his orifices. The man has saved over a thousand lives. He shouldn’t have to read that kind of abuse.

“There, there,” says Oliver Wood, patting her on the head. He smells like a summer day.

XXX

On January, Potter drops by the Wizengamot, as always, and Irene screams at him as soon as she sees him, as always, because Potter is awful. As soon as Irene had closed the file on Severus Snape (acquitted of all charges and posthumous Order of Merlin awarded) Potter had coughed and said “So, Regulus Black,” and Irene had come close to achieving what the Dark Lord couldn’t.

Potter comes bearing donuts and some leftovers from Mrs Weasley’s famous fruit cake. He also comes with a present: a piece of one of Mrs Weasley’s tablecloths with a signed account of what happened in the Eynsham incident.

“Ron’s birthday is in March,” Potter says. “I can get you another piece of testimony then. Do share this with the press, will you? There is a dear. I saved this piece of fruit cake just for you.”

It takes Bertha eight years and ten months to close all the files. She hopes the press makes Percy’s life unbearable for just as long.

#asks #percy weasley #verse: percy ministry spy #harry potter #Anonymous

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theprincesslibrary · 3 years ago

Text

#4: Baleful - Close your eyes

Warning: violence, past trauma, mention of abuse, mention of rape, domestic abuse, blood, torture

He’s waking up.

He doesn’t remember much. He was coming home after a night out, drunk and alone, the girls weren’t receptive to his charms. And then nothing. Just darkness and a violent pain at the back of his skull. He’s fully awake now, though his reality looks like a nightmare. His reflection is staring at him from the ceiling, eyes wide from fear. He is strapped to an operating table, naked, unable to move. He doesn't understand why he's here.

I’d feel bad for him if I didn’t know any better. But I do.

I know what he did to his wife, to his previous girlfriends. I know what type of monster he is. But I’m worse. The saw in my hand is itching to cut, but I can’t start yet. Everything must be done to perfection. So I step out of the shadows and move closer, tape his eyelids open, so he can't close his eyes. Putting that mirror on the ceiling was a real pain in the ass, it’d be a shame if all that work went to waste. I wouldn’t want him to miss the show.

*****

When Thancred reaches the scene everything looks like it did for the previous murders: they still don't have the crime scene, just the dumping area. A godforsaken place where nobody cares what you do or say: welcome to Ul'dah's low town, where the jewel city doesn't shine so brightly. Here only the rule of the three wise monkeys applies: see nothing, hear nothing, and above all shut the fuck up. The perfect place to get rid of a body.

These corpses are not your typical murder victim though: no crime of passion, no hit-and-run. Everything is clean. It’s the third case of the type to end up on his desk, and it's a fucking nightmare. Let’s be clear, the modus operandi is dirty as fuck: shallow cuts all over the body, severed limbs, head cut off… all of that ante mortem, a fucking slaughter. But the scene is fucking spotless, perfectly ordered like a freaking Mog Station warehouse. They don't really have a corpse, more of a human puzzle: the organs and the head sit in separate jars, the limbs are all wrapped up mummy style, personal belongings in a cardboard box... And the cherry on top: not a single witness.

That’s when Thacred's expertise comes to play. See, a regular cop would harass the lab, call them every 5 minutes, pressure them day and night… be a pain in the as. But not detective Thancred Waters. Nah. He has his way of doing things. He lets the lab rats alone, especially with a scene like that which is as much of a nightmare for them as it is for him. If puzzle number 3 is like its friends, CSI can’t do much for him right now, they need to unpack all that shit, literally. So he leaves them the fuck alone, they’re happy, and when they have something conclusive they call their favorite detective: how far one can go by not being an asshole is astonishing.

Instead, Thancred likes to interrogate people. Relatives, of course, that’s police work 101, but he pays extra attention to the little monkeys on the streets: the guy no one notices sitting in the corner, the drug dealer in his vintage car, the homeless lady who sleeps here at night. He just knows how to make them talk. It must be his lucky day because he saw his favorite monkey when he arrived at the scene. It would be rude not to check on his old friend, although “friend” might be a bit of a stretch. He met Theodric in Limsa Lominsa, back when he was still a street urchin, stealing purses from unsuspecting passersby. They were in the same band of petty thieves, followed the same path, except one day Thancred targeted Louisoix Leveilleur. Instead of turning him in, the man saw his potential, and took him under his wing. His life changed that day. Theodric wasn’t so lucky. He got involved with the wrong crowd, took the wrong drug, and ended up here, in one of Ul’dah’s worst neighborhoods where not even the refugees dare to come.

Yeah, not really friends, and considering what he's about to do to him, it's better that way.

*****

Thancred’s fists hurt from punching Theodric’s ugly face, he needs a break from all that “friendly catching up”. He reaches for a cig and lights it up. Gods, how he loves the taste of tar… finally some stale air to help him breathe. He spares a look to the little monkey slouched against the tainted wall of a shabby restaurant. His face is covered in blood, but he’s not talking. He hates when they stay quiet, he’ll just have to be more explicit.

“You know Theo, I can call you Theo, right? You know… it’s the weekend for me too. As you can imagine that I have other things to do besides fucking up your hideous face. I'm not asking you to share every tiny detail of your sad existence, I’m not your therapist. I’m not even asking for the name of your dealer. Just tell me who the fuck threw away the mummy. That would make me incredibly happy, I’d be able to go home, have a nice bath, you know, normal people shit.”

Thancred takes another puff from his cigarette and looks down at the man who was once his partner in crime. It’s almost like staring at a twisted version of himself, at the man he would have become without Louisoix. Six months ago, he might have gone easy on Theodric, might have tried to help him out. Six months ago, he would have been the man Louisoix wanted him to be, but that guy died in Lahabrea’s basement. All those months of sequestration and torture did a number on him, fucked him up so bad, his soul died back there. Now he's just this empty shell, pretending to be alive out of spite. Just to say “look at me now, I’m still there”. But he's not, not really.

He draws the last puff from his cigarette and crouches next to Theodric, his face on the same level as the junkie's. The little monkey has one open eye, just one, the other is too fucked up. There’s fear in that one eye, but he’s still not talking. Thancred gets his cig close to Theodric’s good eye, so he can understand what’s going to happen next. He likes to let people understand the rest on their own, it stimulates communication.

“You might think I hate you Theo, but I don’t. I don’t give two flying fucks about you. But you see, my shrink told me I had to externalize my rage. When you don't talk to me, it pisses me off, so I have to externalize. On your face. You’re not a bad guy, a little drug here, a little dealing there, it’s not that bad. I’m a whiskey guy myself so really who am I to judge? Just tell me who threw this corpse, so I can calm the fuck down. I don’t need to externalize as much and we both go on our merry ways.”

Thancred punctuates his question by crushing his cigarette's butt on Theo’s arm. His screams echo in the empty street so loudly dogs start to howl, not that anyone cares. Noone would come to his aid, not in this part of town, not when a cop is the one making him scream like a pig. The wise monkey rule reigns supreme. But now he’s in enough pain for Thancred to believe whatever he’s gonna say next.

“Fuck Waters, I swear I don't know anything. You know me, I'm not that brave, if I knew anything I’d be singing like a fucking canary right now. Please let me go, I promise if I hear something I'll tell you. I swear Waters.”

*****

Theodric looks sincere.

It pisses him off, cause now he’s gonna have to resort to a more classic approach and act like a regular cop: talk to the wife and relatives. He hates to act like a regular cop, hates to talk to the wives. He doesn’t know how to deal with crying people. He used to be good at people skills, he’s not anymore.

He needs a drink.

He ends up at the Quicksand like always. It’s a second house for all sorts of human trash: bikers, dealers, pimps, him...

Thancred likes the atmosphere, and the barmaid, Lya. Lya is good. It sounds dumb, but she is. She smiles all the time and listens to everyone’s bullshit without judging. She’s pretty too, beautiful even. When she smiles it's a bit like a breeze blowing over a field of poppy, it shakes him to the core. It shakes up any guy. They all want to throw themselves in her arms and let her lull them to sleep as a mother would. She could turn the most vicious wolf into an obedient little lamb with just one smile. All the guys here come for her: the alcohol tastes like piss, the food is barely decent when it’s not expired, and the walls grow mold. But she's here. They all want her, but no one touches her. She’s broken, they all know that. They might be a bunch of heartless assholes, but they have principles. And Lya is off-limits. Her last boyfriend used to beat her up to a pulp, she still has a scar running down the side of her face. It doesn't take away from her beauty, but it drives him mad with rage.

One night he was taking a piss behind the bar – mind you the alley’s hygiene is better than the loo inside – he saw the guy slap her, and felt the irrepressible urge to externalize his rage on the asshole’s face, so he did. Repeatedly, until he was the one lying on the ground, pissing himself. They’ve been friends ever since. She listens to his stupid jokes, gives him the best food, stops pouring drinks when she thinks he’s too drunk and smiles at him. She smiles so brightly he feels like a little boy in a candy store, hopeful and fearless.

She looks out of place in this dirty joint full of heartless assholes, like a porcelain doll forgotten in a construction site, but she’s one of them: damaged. They don’t want to break her, they can all see the cracks in her porcelain skin, so no one touches her. They just pretend, pretend they have a chance, pretend they’re good enough for her. They even play this game where the last guy standing can ask her out. They drink until they either pass out or leave, and only one guy is left. The winner never asks her out, but still, they come every night to drink and dream.

*****

I always start with small incisions, quick and superficial. It stings just a little, but not too much. The most important thing is not the pain or the screaming, it’s the fear, the anticipation. It’s a wholesome experience: he gets to feel, see, and smell all of it. People often forget to mention the smell, iron and urea, blood and piss. The mix elicits a primal reaction: run, it says, run. But he can’t.

*****

It’s Monday and Thancred has an appointment with the third victim’s wife. She looks vaguely familiar, must be from the file or the guy’s belongings. The murderer never bothered to hide his victim's identity. Hell, they even leave a special box for passports and other personal stuff. So yeah, she looks familiar, but he’s been in Ul’dah for a while, so it’s not a surprise. What he can’t stand is the way she's fidgeting on her chair.

Thancred doesn’t like when the witness fidgets because a regular cop would think ‘hum, that’s suspicious'. Thancred tried being a regular cop once, wasn’t for him, so he stopped, started being an asshole instead with some instinct sprinkled on top, it was a wholesale price. Still, the fidgeting is annoying. And she still looks familiar, more than she should from just a file picture. Thancred can’t put his finger on it. Maybe he fucked her once. He was kind of a womanizer before his life went to shit, before Lahabrea. It doesn’t explain why she’s so nervous, or why she keeps nervously rubbing her arms. Nor does it explain the five layers of clothes. It’s at least 35° out, and she’s out in the sun with a freaking turtleneck. The outrageous makeup has to be the icing on the cake.

And that’s when it hits him. He knows her, but not from the file, or a one-night stand. She’s from Lya’s support group for battered women. That’s why she’s nervous. Not because he’s her former lover, not even because he’s a cop, but because he’s a man. That’s why number 3’s dead: he was trash like the rest.

"Excuse me for a few minutes."

Thancred gets up and exits the room, leaving the widow alone. He spots Minfilia across the room and strides towards her.

"Hey Min, I'm gonna need you to take this one."

"Why?", she teases, "finally found a widow impervious to your charms?"

"Pretty sure our so-called victim wasn't the loving husband he owed to be."

Understanding flashes on her face, she drops the file she was reading on her desk and follows him to the interrogation room. Relief washes over the widow’s face when she sees Minfilia.

“This is my colleague, Detective Warde. She’s going to take it from here.”

Then he’s out again, leaving the two women alone. He goes to his desk while Min does her thing, and looks for the victim’s name in the database. He doesn’t need to watch Min do her work, he trusts her to get the answers they need. The petite blonde has great people skills, and she’s one of the good ones. She's so good, it's hard not to hate her. He doesn't though, never did, never will.

She’s one of the few friends he has left, one of the few people to put up with his bullshit after Lahabrea's "incident". He loves her like the little sister he never had, and more than anything he respects her. She's a good friend and a good cop, something this city sorely lacks. Rhabdan runs a tight ship as chief of police, but there's always a few bad apples in the bunch, not Min though. She's one of the good ones, not some disillusioned asshole like him. It's hard to be hopeful in a city like Ul'dah where being rich means one can escape any form of responsibility. Like number 3 here. His wife's medical record is a testament to his behavior: bruised face, broken ribs, even lacerations. It's a miracle the woman is still alive. But her in-laws are rich, and influential: Lolorito's people. That's why Thancred is not so sure he wants to catch the killer, not when they're doing what he's not free to do himself.

When Minfilia is done with the interrogation, she motions for him to join her in the break room. She confirms what Thancred already knows: the guy was an asshole.

He needs a fucking drink.

*****

First I remove his dick, not like he’s gonna need it anymore. I do this slowly, very slowly. I want him to suffer. This is also what the mirror on the ceiling is for, and the tape on the eyelids, no escape. He must see everything and especially hear everything, the slightest tear of his flesh, the sound of his blood dripping on the sanitized tiles, the scalpel cutting his flesh, my slow breathing. The shock of emasculation makes him pass out. It’s okay, we have all the time. I cauterize his wound, I don't want him to bleed out and die. Not yet.

*****

Another corpse: emasculated, dismembered, and wrapped up like his buddies.

Thancred lights another cigarette and crouches down in front of the jar containing the head. He knows this face, he broke that nose: Lya's ex. Suddenly the crime scene doesn't seem ugly anymore, it shines with glitter and shit. It makes him happy to see that stupid face in a jar, means he won't be a problem for Lya anymore. He's also the second "victim" who likes to take out his anger on women, there has to be something there. Thancred needs to take another look at the first three victims, they can't be all that clean.

He ponders whether he should tell Lya about this. Would that make her happy? It might make her feel better, safer. "By the way, the asshole who used to beat you up is dead, a serial killer took care of it."

Yeah. Maybe he needed to work on his speech.

It’s just him and the old Bernie now, playing that secret game of theirs. The old man sends him a dirty look before finally getting up. Thancred wins tonight, and he plans on taking her out for real, not just in his head. It's a lucky day after all, maybe she'll say yes.

The bar is empty that time around. ‘Good’ he thinks, 'Her smiles will all be mine.'

She’s smiling more than usual, she looks happy even, so he decides not to say anything. She smiles, but she’s seldom happy, no point in ruining the mood. The asshole will be just as dead tomorrow. So he sits at the bar to be closer to her, and drinks while he tells her stupid nonsense. One drink, then a second, and finally a whole bottle.

*****

He waking up again, and we’re back in business. Killing a man isn’t easy work, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. My mom used to tell me: “When things get hard, just put them in different boxes and deal with them one at a time.” So I do just that: I cut him into small pieces, wrap them up, put them in nice little jars.

First his right arm, the one he used to slap his women. I cut just below the elbow, he screams like a piglet being bled out. Then his left arm, all the way up to the shoulder, his legs, and finally his head.

*****

He wakes up to an empty room. Of course, she’s not here, why would she? She’s in his fantasy, not in his reality. It was such a vivid dream, it left him hard and wanting. He buries his face in the sheets, and he can almost smell her. As if dreams could leave a scent behind. Fucking morning wood. He needs release and a shower, but first, he wants a smoke.

He dreams of Lya that night.

She's riding him like a fierce amazon, her breasts moving to the rhythm of their bodies. Everything about her is erotic, her hungry gaze, her mischievous smile. That smile excites him as much as it soothes him. Fuck, he doesn't want to get out of this dream, but his alarm rings, and the dream is gone.

He walks to the kitchen naked, he lives alone and doesn’t give a fuck about flashing his neighbors. She’s standing in his kitchen, a coffee mug in hand. She’s wearing one of his shirts; it’s a bit too big for her, but too short to be decent. She’s so fucking beautiful wearing his clothes, if he wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now. And then he remembers everything.

She kissed him outside the restaurant, he wouldn’t have dared, but she kissed him. They ended up at his place. They made love on his couch, in the shower, in his bed. He didn’t fuck her, no, he worshiped her: kissed every inch of her skin, licked every freckle. He prayed to her body like a mad man, as much as he could, as much as she let him.

She said yes.

All the alcohol made his brain soft and mushy, but he remembers now. He helped her close the bar, and they went to that new place near his precinct. The one that stays open until 3 am. They talked, he told her he was a cop, she said she knew. It was written in the way he moved, in the way others moved around him. They talked all night long, and she smiled. Gods, that freaking smile got him good. They talked so much, they got kicked out.

He must look like a fucking idiot now, with that surprised look on his face and his hard cock because she bursts out laughing. A laugh that explodes like fireworks and ricochets against the walls of his apartment, leaving notes of bright colors everywhere. It's crazy how beautiful she is when she laughs. He wants her, needs her.

He strides towards her, lifts her off the floor, and drops her off her gently on the kitchen table. He doesn’t want to break her, doesn’t want to worsen the cracks in her porcelain skin. Then he makes love to her, in the middle of his kitchen, with the blinds open for the world to see. Because he can, because she wants him as much as he wants her.

*****

His instinct about the victims being trash was right.

After some heavy digging in the first two victims’ past, he finds what he needs. Victim number one’s a serial rapist: used to slip roofies in women’s drink, raped them, and filmed the whole thing, threatening to release the tapes if they tried to report him. Not that they would, the guy was filthy rich, another one of Ul’dah’s “cream of the crop”, these women knew they didn’t have a chance to see justice. If it wasn’t for his “barely legal” deep dive in the guy’s personal belongings - he might have stolen his computer after breaking into his parents’ house - Thancred wouldn’t even know about it.

Victim number 2 was no better, he had a long history of domestic violence and child abuse, but no open case, not even a complaint. Now adding number 3 and Lya’s ex to the list… these guys all deserved to die like pigs. He should say it, should even think like that, but he does. He doesn’t even want to catch the culprit, for all he cares they should be free to rid the city of these predators. Should even get paid for doing public service.

Looking at the so-called victim’s file drives him mad with rage. He wants to drink, but more than anything he needs to see Lya; He can even pretend to do police work while he’s at it. She knows at least one of the women, she’s a victim herself, maybe she knows more.

The Quicksand is packed. He has to share her smile and his time, it annoys him, but it's okay. Tonight she will be his, and his alone. He sits at the bar, she smiles at him, and he’s not mad anymore. He orders whiskey, then another, and another. After the third glass, the rush finally dies down, and they can talk. He tells her about his investigation, and tells her about her ex. She's a little shaken up, but it's okay, she is strong.

He shows her pictures of the victims, not the one from the autopsy, he’s not that stupid, pretty pictures with happy smiles and perfect lives. Moments of happiness he knows to be fake. He asks her if she knows the victims or their wives, through her support group, or by word of mouth. She nods. She knows the wives of 2 and 3, she talks to them often. She recognizes the last victim, of course, he was her monster.

Thancred’s curious to know what she thinks about all this, that’s the cop in him, but he’s also worried about how it’ll affect her.

“I don't know… well I do. I know I shouldn't be happy, but I am,” she admits. “I'm a little less afraid.”

He hates that she feels guilty.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” he states, hoping she’ll feel relieved that those words are coming from him. “Now, I know he won’t prowl you around anymore.”

She smiles softly, and he has the urge to make love to her on the bar, in front of everyone. But he won’t, Lya is a goddess, not a girl who gets fucked in a bar. He’s going to buy her flowers, and maybe a nice bottle of wine. He might even light some candles to set the mood, then he’s gonna make love to her, again and again until they both pass out in blissful exhaustion.

*****

I dispose of his body in one of the city’s garbage dumps. It’s the perfect place to get rid of a body. And this open sky trash dump is perfect for me: exactly what this trash deserves. The people who live here all look dead, the only thing that sets them apart from my guy is the steady movement of their hearts. That, and the fact that they’re all in one piece, for the most part.

*****

Reports come back on Lya’s ex.

Toxicology’s clean, no head trauma either, he wasn’t drugged or incapacitated like the others. He might have known his assailant. The rest of the report looks similar at first glance, cuts all over the body, severed limbs, emasculation, beheading. It’s the same MO but somehow it feels messier: the body shows hesitation marks, the cuts are deeper, meant to hurt... it feels more personal, like an act of revenge.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

*****

He opens up his flat’s door and practically runs towards the kitchen. He needs a drink before seeing Lya. It can’t be her, when she smiles the ground shakes, she turns wolves into lambs. She’s so small, with soft porcelain skin, tiny hands… It can’t be her, yet his guts tell him otherwise.

He’s halfway in the kitchen when he spots her. She’s waiting for him, his backup gun in those tiny hands of hers. When he dreamt of coming home to her that’s not what he had in mind.

She’s smiling at him, a sad little smile because she doesn’t want to kill him, not really. He might be an asshole but he doesn’t hurt women. Maybe she likes him too. She’s crying now, tears rolling down her beautiful face. It’s stupid but he still wants to throw himself in her arms. It’s stupid because she’s going to kill him.

She’s gonna try anyway.

*****

Gunshots echo in the room, followed by the loud thud of a lifeless body hitting the ground.

#FFxivWrite2021 #FFxivWrite #ffxiv fanfiction #FFxiv #my writing #Thancred Waters #wolcred #wolnpc

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letitrainathousandflames-archive · 5 years ago

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“It’s a deserted planet. The soil isn’t good for growing food, and the atmosphere is dry enough that even moisture farmers haven’t tried making a living there” Ahsoka explained as she handed Rex the holomap “But some people say that powerful force users would go there to consult with those who had passed and seek their advice.”

Rex eyed the small silver disc with a crease in his eyebrow. Could it be the one thing to finally give him the closure he so desperately needed?

“Have you ever been there?”

“No” Ahsoka shook her head “The jedi aren’t allowed there. Seeking the dead is a form of attachment, and therefore is forbidden.”

“But you’re not a jedi anymore. You don’t have to abide to these rules. After you left the order, you never wondered-”

“I don’t want to speak to them, Rex.” Ahsoka cut him off, folding her arms and rubbing them in discomfort “I fear it would bring me more pain than solace... and you should take this in consideration as well.” she cast her eyes down “I mean... there’s nothing we can do to bring them back. And the connection, even in that place it doesn’t last long - if it happens - according to what I researched. It’s not like you can visit their spirits every weekend to sit down and chat. It’s a one-time thing, and likely a very painful one.”

Rex averted his eyes when Ahsoka looked back up at him, and she insisted:

“Besides, the very few times a connection happened, it was between very powerful force users. Like- Like Master Yoda. I have no idea if it’ll work with someone who isn’t force-sensitive, Rex.”

Rex swallowed down to then run a hand over his face.

“Look. You told me once that the force is in every living being, regardless of whether they’re sensitive or not.”

“Y-Yes, but-”

“That’s gonna have to be enough for me.” Rex turned on his heels walking towards the hangar, squeezing the holomap tight in his hand

“Hey!” Ahsoka called, and he stopped for a moment without turning to face her “Good luck. I hope you find what you’re seeking.”

Rex nodded, looking ahead at the rebel ship he had picked earlier for himself.

“Thanks.”

The trip had been long, and Rex dozed off a couple of times as the autopilot took him through hyperspace, farther and farther from the inner rim, closing in to the outer rim, where he and General Skywalker had faced so many battles in the days of the republic.

He would give anything to have those days back. The tally marks on his helmet and gauntlets almost took over all of the white plastoid, the countless brothers lost in battle mingled with the ones lost to order 66 - he counted them as dead, as they might as well be, having been turned into nothing but meat droids of the Empire.

The whole thing was horrifying. The way Wolffe had to find out via word of mouth that his own troopers had shot their General, sending him plummeting to his death. How Appo was made leader of the 501st and brainwashed into slaughtering every jedi under his aim at the Coruscant temple. The way Palpatine personally sent Fox to hunt down and kill Fives after he uncovered the truth about the brain chips.

Yes, Rex, Gregor and Wolffe survived, and it was all thanks to Fives, but they still lived in a nightmare where almost the entire galaxy was under the Empire’s flag, and their brothers that still survived were being enslaved and stripped of their free will.

Things had been too much to Rex lately, and when things became too much, he could always open up to one of his best ARC troopers: Fives. But now that wasn’t an option anymore. Fives had died in his arms, scared and crying like a cadet, his parting words being about how much he just wanted to be a good soldier and do his duty even as the circular blast still glowed on his chestplate.

He needs Fives. Needs to talk to him one last time, needs to let him know that his theory was right, and that it saved him from death or slavery.

He spends five days in the planet, walking around and seeking... not even he knows what. Will he know how to connect with Fives? Is this whole thing even real? Maybe Ahsoka was right, maybe he would have to be a Jedi to to it.

Still, he keeps walking, the filters in his helmet more or less compensating the stale, dry air. Rex believes the days are longer in this planet; either that or the boredom is making every day feel like two, and when nightfall comes it feels like a bliss.

He sets camp once again, a small tent and what someone could call a sleeping bag if they had very low standards. Rex sits down next to it, removing his helmet and closing his eyes for a moment. It’s difficult to breathe in the atmosphere, but clones had been engineered to withstand harsh environments, so he can probably stand it better than the average human.

He draws a deep breath, thinking about Fives. His sly little grin, the tattoo of a number 5 on his temple, the inflections in his voice.

“Fives...” he breathes out “Brother, please... I need to talk to you. Please.”

He takes another breath, his lungs straining some. He wonders where do troopers march away to when they die. According to mandalorian traditions, a vod is never gone. But where- where is Fives and the others? How can he connect to him?

The next breath he takes makes him dizzy. Rex snaps his eyes open, reaches for his helmet - he needs the filters - he ends up bumping his hand on it, sending it tumbling away. He gets on his knees, reaches for it again as his breath hisses in his throat... his sight grows blurry, going darker by the second. When he brushes his fingers on the plastoid of his helmet, his sight goes dark for good, and he drops down on his chest, slipping into unconsciousness.

He feels a pair of hands on his shoulders, helping him up to his haunches.

“C’mon now, sir, you’re embarrassing yourself like this.”

This voice...

“If Commander Cody saw you falling on your face like that,” one of the hands is tapping his cheek lightly “you’d never hear the end of it, heh.”

This laugh...

Every trooper has the same voice, or so it would seem to any outsider, but they all had their mannerisms. Inflections, accents, laughter. A good commanding officer could tell his soldiers apart with his eyes closed. And even before Rex opens his eyes to see the face before him, he already knows it’s...

“Fives?”

Fives smiled at him, looking exactly the same except for a small blue haze that surrounded him.

“Hey, sir. Glad to see you again.”

The words had barely left the trooper before Rex pulls him into a tight hug. He feels Fives’ arms embracing him back, and Rex realizes he didn’t expect the whole thing to work. He was literally chasing a ghost, and he was aware of it, but now that Fives is here, Rex feels lost. He should say something, anything...

“Fives, I... I missed you so much, I... I just...”

Fives gives him a couple of taps on his back.

“I know, Rex. I missed you too, brother.”

Rex pulls back, holding Fives’s shoulders still as he stares into the ARC trooper’s face.

“You were right.” Rex swallows down “The chips, Palpatine’s betrayal, everything. You were right. And you saved me.”

Fives’ face lights up with a smile, his eyes welling up.

“Then I... I did it. My duty... I did it.”

Rex nods over and over, squeezing Fives’ shoulders.

“You did... And there’s so much more, Echo, he’s alive, we rescued him, he’s on the run now, but still... Oh, and Wolffe. He’s still the same moody bastard, of course. There’s a resistance fighting against Palpatine, and- and Ahsoka, the lil’ commander? She’s a grown woman, fighting along with them, can you believe it?”

Fives is still smiling, but there’s something different about him. His blue presence seems to be losing strenght, parts of him slowly becoming transluscent. The hand Rex has on his shoulder drops, passing right through Fives.

“Fives...?”

“I have to go, Rex.”

Rex’s eyes go wide. No. No, he can’t lose Fives again.

“No…” he tries to hold onto Fives again, but it’s like he’s a hologram – there’s no matter to him, only a projection of blue lights “No, please! I can’t… Please, just a little longer…”

A glowing, perfectly circular hole blooms over Fives’ chestplate just like the blast that took his life, and the ARC trooper looks at Rex with a bittersweet smile.

“Regardless of whether we are leaving or being left behind, we always want a little longer.” And he sighs, his presence fading more and more “It’s okay, Rex. It really is.”

“Fives, please, don’t…!”

Fives vanishes before Rex’s eyes, and the captain buries his face in his hands. No. He needs more time. But something in his mind tells him that this was the last time he would see Fives.

Rex wakes up startled, events of the previous night slowly piecing themselves back in his brain. His hands shoot up for his face and he noticed the helmet is back on his head, breathing stable through his filters. He looks down to realize that he somehow entered his sleeping bag, despite having no memory of it happening.

What had really happened that previous night? Was it all a dream? Would he ever know?

Rex thinks it over as he gathers his things and walks back into the ship, sinking in the pilot’s sit and setting the coordinates to the rebel base, and as he enters hyperdrive and the stars set long trails against the dark backdrop of the sky he comes to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter.

To him, it had been real. And that’s all he needs.

#my fics #to post on ao3

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bloodline-rpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations, Livvy! We have accepted your application for your OC Olympia Hale (FC: Will Holland) Please create a blog for your character and send us the link via ask box as soon as you can. Welcome to Bloodline!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name/Alias: Livvy

Age: 23

Preferred pronouns: She/Her

Timezone: Central

Level of activity: On weekdays, I have classes during the day, but I’d usually be active in the evening and at night. On weekends, I work and tend to have closing shifts, so I’ll be more available during the day (mornings, early afternoon) or later at night.

CHARACTER DETAILS

Character’s Name: Olympia Hale

Desired FC: Willa Holland

Character’s Age: 28

Character’s Species: Born Werewolf, Devereaux Wolf [ Washington Compound ]

Character’s Sexuality: Lesbian

CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY

Olympia was never that fond of her name growing up. Her mother had been a history buff, loving the endless epics from Greek and Roman lore. That resulted in her daughter being named after Mount Olympus, as if she’d grow up to do great, visionary things in her lifetime. A vision like that was hard to clearly be seen while living in a pack like the one they did. It was not a large unit by any means, and somehow it still succeeded in being one of the more brutal ones. It was not overseen by witches either. Their Alpha was very domineering, not to mention relentlessly argumentative and ruthless whenever someone was to question his authority. His Beta reflected a similar moral compass, and their leadership didn’t exactly give a stress-free environment. At least not to Olympia and her mother.

Only a handful of the pack members didn’t completely agree with the leaders’ methods, and there were risks speaking out. Punishments were very harsh, sometimes lasting more than just a ten-minute lashing period. Yes, even without witches, the Alpha resorted to similar tactics of obedience. Instead of living in peace and harmony, the Alpha’s methods reflected lifestyles of the opposite. Some thought he just got off on hurting others of his own kind. Sometimes wolves were dragged into cells that were not the barred kind, mind you. They were similar to enclosed rooms like you’d see in prisons. Solitary confinement. That was practically what it was. Small, five by five rooms in complete darkness. Wolves could be forced to stay for hours or even days.

Various methods like that were used to ensure that the pack remained obedient. It all depended on the severity of the offense or even just the Alpha’s mood that day. Olympia had gotten punished a few times, mostly if she was defending her mother, who was frail and never fought back if someone harassed her. Her daughter was the one who tried to defend her. Other times Oly was the one being bullied and fought back to protect herself. But the Alpha was naturally bias toward certain members of the pack, usually turning a blind eye even if it wasn’t Olympia’s fault. And Olympia had taken the usual lashings but was also placed in the revered solitary confinement cell a few times. Complete darkness and isolation were eventually no strangers to her.

But the worst thing to happen in their pack’s history was because of Olympia’s father. Ansel Hale wasn’t much of the fatherly type, not spending much time with Olympia as she grew up. He was reclusive and unapproachable, but something in his mind seemed to snap when Olympia was in her early twenties. It had been a year after her mother passed away from an illness, and the only living family she had left was that man. The pack didn’t know what came over him, but Ansel completely lost it. Perhaps he had always been wired that way, but it didn’t fully take effect until then. It was like he was seeing red and he descended upon the pack with furious rage. It was that night that her father was practically branded a serial killer.

Five wolves were slaughtered by Ansel before he was finally put down by their Alpha and Beta. It was a bloodbath, and Olympia was in complete shock. And yet, that wasn’t the end. Olympia was taken into custody like she was being arrested and was thoroughly interrogated. Yes, she was being treated as an associate, all because she was blood-related to Ansel. The pack leaders wanted to see if she would snap like her father and continue where he left off. It was insane, Olympia crying out and screaming at them that she had nothing to do with her father, that she wasn’t a psycho like him. But they didn’t listen, either not believing her or maybe they were having too much fun trying to break her. She wouldn’t put the latter past them. The interrogation process was physically and mentally draining, and eventually Olympia was freed.

But by then, uproars had been rising in the pack. More wolves had been beginning to protest against the leaders’ methods. Most seemed to disagree with Olympia’s treatment, but also other things that they had stayed silent about. Broken down the middle, the pack went into complete disarray and fighting broke out. During the mayhem, Olympia did it. She made the decision to bail, to leave such a lifestyle, and was never seen by them again. But it wasn’t that she never wanted another pack; she just didn’t want that one.

That was when she came across the Washington branch of the Devereaux pack, which was six years ago now. Olympia wasn’t used to living under witches, but she never had anything against them either. She was able to slither her way inside, purposefully leaving out certain facts about her past. Bran and his coven knew about the rebellion that broke her pack apart, but they were unaware of her killer father. Olympia never told the witches and only a select few of the wolves know the truth about where she came from, just those she trusted. She was fine with that, too.

Olympia was quite accustomed to the methods that were used. The Devereaux training was easily bearable by her and she never seemed to have any problems. Oly was strong and was a fighter, becoming a good addition to the Washington Compound. Regardless of how strict Bran could be, Olympia had lived under worse leaders. As long as she never had to return to her old pack, she could take what the Devereauxs threw at her.

PERSONALITY/TRAITS

Olympia is a tough wolf who can handle herself, used to harsh situations thanks to her harsh upbringing. She has a high pain tolerance and sometimes it’s a surprise to others since she looks non-threatening judging by appearance. Oly is more on the traditional side of things. She may not have grown up with witches, but she knows that protecting magic is important. Olympia is loyal, protective, and pretty laid back, especially if she has no issues with you. Oly is a good person to confide in and wouldn’t turn someone away if they really needed someone to listen. However, Olympia is fairly hard on herself and is constantly pushing herself to be better. She doesn’t see herself as a saint and is not sure if she’ll ever be one. Maybe she wants to prove that she isn’t like her father and is better than what her ruthless childhood pack tried to beat into her.

PLOTS AND POLITICS

As mentioned previously, Olympia leans more toward the traditional side of the fence. Olympia is fine with being a soldier on the front lines because she was already used to being a fighter. She’s been with Bran and his branch for six years and is used to that lifestyle now. Besides, her current circumstances are better than her previous ones even if Bran’s own methods are harsh too. Olympia isn’t really a political person and her general knowledge of that stuff is low. Her focus is more on being a wolf and becoming a better soldier, not just for the pack but for herself too.

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alienaesthetical · 6 years ago

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Ah, the 90s- a decade of questionable fashion choices, dial-up internet, and shape-shift-enabled teens with depression.

Some of you may remember Animorphs as those wacky adventures with kids who could change into animals. Others might remember it as the series of books featuring kids who watched an alien be cannibalized in front of them, going on to fight a cult, attempt suicide, commit genocide, and attain PTSD.

In all truth, my memories of it were completely vague, with what images I could remember mostly based off of one of the extended universe novels, Andalite Chronicles. Having completed a reread of the series a few months ago, however, I was able to put together my own thoughts.

So, which was it; Tragedy or Comedy? Why do people remember it differently? Let's answer the former question first. Spoiler warning, by the way.

Animorphs was co-written by K.A. Applegate, and her husband, Michael Grant- both of which are still successful writers. The story starts in the spring of 1997, local teens, Jake, Rachel, Cassie, Marco, and Tobias, exist as a clique in a way- each representing the awkwardness of the 90s in different ways. Jockey Jake has an awful haircut, Gymnast Rachel, initially, is the living embodiment of gender roles enforced in the 90s, Horse Girl Cassie experiences discrimination multiple times throughout the series due to her skin color, Marco is the groups token funny guy who has too much flirting energy, and Tobias, the local victim of literally the entire series. Seriously, this kid does NOT get a break. The entire group is just overtly 90s and it's honestly quite awkward and sometimes humorous how enforced these roles are from the start. Anyways.

The group of friends are heading home from the mall, and decide to take the shortcut through a construction zone- (and yes, I realize how many stories begin with taking sketchy shortcuts.)

As they proceed through the construction zone, a ship descends on them, its doors opening to reveal a dying Andalite named Elfangor. What's an Andalite? Breaking it down to the essentials, a four eyes, blue furred deer with a scorpion tale and a nose that should probably be censored.

Elfangor, who speaks telepathically, tells the kids about the battle for earth- an invasive species known as the Yeerks have already integrated themselves into society, and pose a threat to the entire galaxy. Yeerks are basically slugs that slither into your ear and take over your body- while you remain 100% aware, most likely crying in a corner.

While the kids are skeptical, they don't fight him on it, and agree to help. Elfangor gives them a cube called the Escafil Device- a cube that grants those who possess it the ability to shape-shift into any animal they touch. He warns them, though, that staying in morph for more than two hours will result in being trapped in that body forever. After all six are holding the cube together, more ships arrive.

The kids go to hide as one of the descending ships opens, revealing another Andalite- this one, however, is being controlled by a yeerk named Visser Three- the only yeerk to have ever possessed an Andalite. He proceeds to morph into a creature from another world, and vores Elfangor.

The kids are heard crying by one of the alien guards, and a chase begins- though the kids manage to escape without being seen. They go on to have nightmares about what they just saw. Jake is woken up by Tobias the next day, who claims he managed to turn into his cat. Jake, hearing this, touches his own dog, acquires his DNA, and morphs into him- much to his own surprise.

Later, the group meets up at Cassie's barn, which also acts as a rehabilitation center for animals, thanks to Cassie's parents being vets for a local wildlife amusement park. They discuss what to do, and while trying to forget everything was an option, decide to fight back against the Yeerks. Now knowing the basis of the plot, you can see how this story could be seen as a lighthearted adventure full of shenanigans- but as the books continued to come out, the story grew darker.

Jake's brother, Tom, is revealed to be a high status controller- a person under control of a yeerk. Jake now has a personal stake in this battle, and begins to take it more seriously. Jake goes on to find out that The Sharing, an after-school program dedicated to helping kids fighting loneliness and depression, is actual a cover for the Yeerks, who use the society as a cult that recruits said kids into their ranks- which is how Tom fell into their hands.

Jake and the others decide to infiltrate a yeerk pool- a place where Yeerks go to feed on Kadrona Rays, which is what the sun on their home planet exerted. They find an entrance within their school, and break a handful of people out, only for all but one to be recaptured, or murdered. In addition to this failure, the kids notice that Tobias is also missing.

Tobias would later escape only to inform the group that he had been in hawk morph for a bit too long, and was now stuck in that form forever. All of this happens in the first book alone. Perhaps you're starting to see how it could be interpreted as a darker story, but you're not quite convinced. So, let's talk about what happens it the other sixty four books.

In book three, Tobias attempts suicide, trying to slam himself hard enough into glass that it would kill him. Marco, however, throws a baseball just in time for him to fly safely through the glass.

In book four, Marco discovers that his mother, previously thought to have drowned years ago, is Visser One, the highest commanding yeerk outside the council.

In book five, Elfangors younger brother, Aximili, is discovered, weak, leagues under the ocean, having crashed there the same night Elfangor died.

Still expecting this story to be happy in the end? Gonna kill that delusion right now.

Thanks to having dead parents, Tobias had been physically and emotionally abused by his aunt and uncle for years, the two trading him off to one another throughout the year. However, Tobias discovers his birth mother to still be alive, living with blindness and amnesia. His birth father, however, was Elfangor, making him Ax's nephew.

Closer to the end of the series, the group recruits disabled kids into their ranks, promising them that their wounds and illnesses would heal after their first morph- which, for some, was true. Others would still have to deal with with their disabilities- but not for long, as all seventeen disabled kids were slaughtered, as part of a distraction plan.

In the climax of the last book, Rachel murders Tom, only for her to be killed herself moments after, while Jake commits genocide by releasing a large majority of the earth populace of Yeerks into space, killing them instantly.

The result? The war ends! Yay! Happy ending! Not quite! Jake suffers from PTSD, going on to experience flashbacks in the last half of the book. Tobias escapes life as much as he can, retreating to a natural reserve to live out the last of his days. Rachel, well, Rachel dead. Cassie and Marco live... surprisingly decent lives, both going off to do things close to what they wanted to do. Cassie works in a newly established division of the government that helps relocate aliens, while Marco is essentially a movie star.

So yeah, Animorphs definitely wasn't as lighthearted and happy-go-lucky as some may remember- of course, the story did have huge moments were it screamed "WE'RE KIDS, WE ARE GOOFY 90s KIDDOS," such as the book about Oatmeal being used as a weapon, or that time they convinced Visser Three that the only way to remove the smell of skunk was by bathing in grape juice instead of tomato juice.

To remember the series as either one or the other, however, completely defeats the purpose of the books.

Animorphs, in the end, was a story about kids who were forced to grow up faster than they should have, due to the mistakes of those older than them. Kids who wanted to go skating or eat at McDonald's, but instead had to take a weekend to recover from being entrapped and physically tortured. Kids who thought they knew what right and wrong were, but ended up doing everything they said they never would do, just to win. It's a story about kids- what they should be, against what conflict makes them become.

It's also about how adults like to control kids, even if they think they're free. Elfangor started this by giving them the responsibility of ending a war. It continued with the Elimist, a godlike being who would come in throughout the story to make sure the kids did exactly what they were supposed to do, instead of doing what they wanted to do. Visser One, the yeerk who discovered Earth, gave the responsibility of invading it to Visser Three, instead of handling herself due to personal engagements that happened.

What begins as another nineties adventure of five kids of varying backgrounds, ends as a reminder of what happens when adults put too much pressure on children, and the consequences of forced growth. The kids, once gathering at malls to hang, or attending school, become so separated from their reality that escaping humanism seemed like the happiest possible path (tobias), that letting yourself die was better than returning to a war-less land (rachel), making regrettable choices at such a young age resulting in PTSD, constant flashbacks to times of immense danger and death, a complete separation from the present. (jake)

Leaving children to suffer the consequences of a war not belonging to them resulted in more tragedy than necessary. Forcing kids to make grown up decisions before they've even entered high school only gives them depression, anxiety, and dissociation from reality.

Thinking younger generations can handle the repercussions of your actions, thus making it not your problem, brings the end of youth and innocence.

Millennial humor is often looked on as "dark and depressed," and those Millennials, now in the work force, are accused of bringing the end of many businesses and morals held previously by older generations.

Gen Z is viewed as completely nihilist, having even darker humor, with many having a complete separation from the reality they live in. They're viewed as lazy and brainwashed by entertainment media, when in truth, more happiness can be found in books, games, and television than in their own lives, and it is a daily experience for many of them to wake up in a world that is dull and dystopian compared to the wonders of fictional universes.

These generations are expected by previous ones to pick up what they left for them- to prepare meals with the scraps of meat so carelessly dripping out of their mouths and onto the floor. To end wars they've started. To fix the economies they themselves ruined. To be able to open the Burger King the day after a customer is murdered before them.

Responsibilities created by previous generations that are viewed too troublesome to deal with themselves are being pushed onto our generations, with the belief that our generations can take these responsibilities without so much as a grimace. However, just because one thinks others can handle issues, doesn't mean that they should have to.

Animorphs has an ending. It is not a happy one. It is not an awful one. It is happy for the ones who did not have to endure the war others left for them. If it awful for the ones forced to handle situations pushed on them by adults who thought the problem best be left with the future.

The problem may have been fixed, but an entire generation of people were left to suffer because those in charge refused to handle it themselves, and chose instead to leave it to someone else.

#animorphs #long post #text #jake #marco #tobias #aximilli #cassie #rachel #yeerk

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a-lil-bitch-named-breakfast · 6 years ago

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Arsitolius: Chapter one

Early Sunday morning brought about the loud humdrum of the copper Church Bell that loomed over the city streets. The mundane sound almost seemed to be like a beat that herded the numbers of crowded people across the streets as if it were some boring dance.

A group of Raven’s scattered themselves upon the roof of a building, pecking strenuously at an unidentifiable object that had been scattered across the shingles. They’d appeared to make a snack of whatever the substance was. Suddenly, they scattered in a flurry as a red boot planted itself between their cluster, sending them flying in all directions as they squawked and screeched in an ear piercing outcry.

Ateri knelt in the spot they’d moved from, white hair falling down over her shoulders as her red eyes scanned the people on the street below. She was a young, short, petite elven woman, with a cantankerous personality almost as blazing red as the bright crimson of her boots. Her hair was crystal white, and any strand that the sunlight could reach glimmered with utmost beauty; like fresh sparkling snow in the morning. Her skin was fair, face soft and slightly rounded with light freckles scattering her cheeks and button nose. She wore a hood silver in color and rimmed with red fabric that shined like silk. She seemed to be armored underneath the silver fabric, dressed far less femininely than most women her age.. But what had to be the strangest yet most alluring thing about her was her eyes. Each one of her glossy orbs were a deep, crimson red, round and almost curious about the world around her. As far as her appearance, she was strangely stunning.

Tucking a strand of hair behind the distinct point of her elven ear she pressed herself closer to the roof below her so as to not be seen by the masses below. No, being seen certainly would not be in her best interest. You see, three officials of the highest capital estate had been been murdered on trips to the third estate within the past four months; slaughtered where they stood amongst the city streets. They’d been dead before they’d even flashed a glance at their killer, and the crowded people had gone into a furious flurry at the shock of the bloodied body suddenly hitting the ground.

Ateri had been responsible for all three murders, but she took no guilt in what she had done. The first official she’d murdered was a thief, taking money and lives just like her, yet he’d gotten away with it. He’d planned to come down from the all mighty golden palace for a brief three day trip to work on getting an order for higher taxes in the third estate only to find he’d be staying for a lot longer than that. Ateri dealt with him discreetly in an alleyway late one evening. To say the least the tax rates of the third estate were so far left unchanged.

The other two had come to do despicable things not much different if not worse from the first. Ateri had dealt with them in the same manner, getting more and more daring with each attack. However, her impulsive temper and ego had gotten the better of her, to say the least. Her most recent assassination had not gone as well as the others. The senator from The west of the first estate had come down for a weekend to get some things in order with the people, as well as to collect those who hadn’t paid their dues in taxes. But the last two murders had made the capital weary. They had begun to send more guards with each visit. Senator Riley Malyon’s Plethora of armored body guards could quite possibly be described as a whole fleet, and Ateri knew full well that attempting to pull him away from the crowds would only end in failure and quite possibly her untimely demise. She wasn’t risking it. At first she thought it would be best to just back off; to let the fear she’d already caused die down a bit and lay low till an opportunity was open. However, like i’d stated before, she was an impulsive young woman. Many of her decisions were based on nothing but pure emotion. Not many of those said decisions were good. This happened to be one of those cases. Upon seeing a young housewife getting pulled away from her children by a guard she’d made a dumb decision, and in the brief second that Maylon was vulnerable she’d lept from the roof of the building above and struck as hard and as fast as she could. The brief overwhelming shock of his strangled cry and splattering blood had been enough of a distraction to give her an escape, but it was narrow. She was lucky to be alive. However she hadn’t gotten out completely scotch free. Her brief appearance in the pale moonlight had been just enough for her appearance to finally be seen by weary eyes. And even though her hood had covered her eyes and most of her nose. The public now had her approximate age, height, stature, hair color and build. A watchful guard had given her full description to officials following the morning after Maylon’s death. Everyone knew who to look out for on the streets now. They’d even given her a name, which shockingly Ateri quite enjoyed. The public seemed to take a liking to calling her the silver hood, since they had no other name to call her by. Ateri thought it had a wonderful ring to it, feeling it gave her a mysterious vibe. However she knew she couldn’t just go around claiming it on the streets. She hadn’t even been caught yet and the sentence hanging above her head was death. The bounty on her head to anyone that could bring her in was a copious amount. It would be near enough to move a man and his family from the third estate to the first. Ateri couldn’t help but wonder if that wealth would be given to her if she were to turn herself in. it was a joke that she’d made with herself quite some time before, and a joke that she still found funny even in her current state. She laughed slightly at the thought of iit as she leapt down from the roof and rounded the corner, catching a brief glimpse of a poster hanging upon the wall, the words ‘WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE.’ written in large red letters across the top of the page. She smirked slightly, pausing to step back and pick up the page.

‘The silver hood, wanted for four counts of capital murder. If seen do not approach. Run to get a guard immediately. DO NOT go after her yourself. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.’ She couldn’t help but raise a brow slightly, irked by the statement. She wasn’t going to just start killing random civilians! She stepped back throwing the paper to the ground and giving a good stomp just for safe measure before turning and walking off. The less drawings of her just hanging around the city the better. One less for people to see. She grumbled slightly before carefully peaking around a corner to assure that the path was clear. She hummed as in the distance as the bell rung for the third time. It was noon, perfect. You see, today wasn’t going to be another day where she could let herself lay low. No, today was the day she planned to start preparing her next move. She was going to rip the capital apart bit by bit until shed made her way to Serphentez herself. She didn’t care how long it took. However, she knew if she was going to keep up like this she couldn’t just keep using a dagger for every attack. She was going to need something bigger, sharper, stronger. She’d recently made a deal in the shadows with blackmarket salesman of sorts. And he’d offered her an incredibly sharp sword in exchange for a gracious price. Ateri had agreed to the deal, offering him the money she’d taken off Maylon in exchange for the blade. And so it was a set deal. He’d get the sword for her, without any questions as to who she was and what she needed it for, and in exchange she would pay him for his trouble. It seemed fair enough. All she knew was this was the set date she was to pick up the sword, at exactly noon in the red sales tent by the clock tower. She’d been watching the tent for an hour or so from a rooftop already to secure her safety, watching for anyone else that could have possibly entered or left that strange tent, but nobody did. It appeared to be forgotten in the sea of other colorful tents with shopkeepers screaming about sales and good prices. She figured this would be an easy pickup, in and out with no suspicion. So as the clock struck noon she pulled the brown fabric of a beggars cloak from her bag, wrapping it around herself and pulling the hood over head head to cover the telling greys and reds of her signature garments. She stepped into the crowd of people, head down and eyes to the floor as she made her way through the stampede.

“Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My apologies.”

“Hey- watch it chick these boots weren’t cheap!”

“Hey!”

Through the crowds it seemed everyone seemed to be shouting, though none seemed to be directing said shouts at her. She grumbled slightly, squeezing through a crowd of a mother with her six children.

“Sir, please... there has to be something you can do i have a family to feed!”

“Listen here wench. No money, no bread.” She paused in her tracks.

“Excuse me....?” Her voice rang out quiet, yet enough for the man to hear. He looked up.

“Yeah- Ya heardz’ me. So beat it kid.” She turned slowly and let one hand slip out from under her cloak, tossing a singular coin onto the counter. The man eyed her in shock, not seeming to understand why she’d done such a thing. She huffed slightly.

“God are ya so dang stupid ya can’t figure it out? Get the stick out of your rear and give that woman the bread before i make ya regret it got me?” The man seemed to hear from the tone of her voice that she wasn’t playing around and nodded, slowly sliding the loaf of bread across the table towards the young woman. She couldn’t have been older than twenty five, with stress lines creasing around her lovely blue eyes and hair already going gray. A spot of dirt was smudged against her cheek, which Ateri noticed as the woman turned to start hysterically thanking her for her generosity. Ateri cut her off with a shake of her head and reached up to wipe the smudge from her cheek.

“Don’t thank me. Just take it.” She mumbled. The woman watched for a second in shock as she disappeared around the corner without a word.

Slipping into the tent she dusted herself off. It took her eyes a moment to adjust from the light outside to the sudden darkness within the closed tent. But a voice rang out, catching her attention.

“You’re quite the patron.... for a thief.”

She paused, read eyed glancing up from under her hood.

“You’ve been watching me?” She mumbled, shocked that he’d picked her from the crowd.

“For as long as you’ve been watching me from that rooftop.” He hummed back in reply. Ateri froze. He’d seen her watching him....? That must have meant he saw her without her-.... she narrowed her eyes, preparing herself for a fight if there was one to be had. Surely if he knew who she actually was things couldn’t end pretty. The man seemed to sense exactly what was on her mind.

“Oh don’t tense up like that. I know what you’re capable of I’d have to be an idiot to take you on myself.”

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light she could clearly see him standing there next to a table, a chair pulled out for her. He was young, but definitely older than her. She assumed him to be in his early thirties, with muscular arms and dark smooth skin. His eyes were narrow and refined, like a sly fox in the dim light. However, taking his words to mind she cautiously stepped forwards and ushered him out of her way, muttering a soft

“Thank you.” As she seated herself and he pushed her chair back in. This was an under the radar black market sale she wasn’t so sure why he was going to the trouble of being so polite. It unnerved her to say the least.

The man gave a humble nod in reply as he leisurely sauntered his way around to his side of the wooden table, kicking up dust as he did so. Pulling his chair out with a loud screech he plopped himself down, placing his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers. Ateri attempted to mimic his actions, hoping it would make her seem like she knew what she was doing. It didn’t work as planned however and the mysterious man seemed to get more of a kick out of it than she’d wanted him to.

“Drink?” He offered graciously, pouring himself a glass of whisky before looking up at her as he held the bottle over the second glass as he waited for her reply.

“Yes that’d be nice.” She mumbled out, graciously accepting the glass as he slid it to her. She nursed it in both hands, taking a sip before cringing slightly at the strong taste. He cackled slightly.

“I take it you’re not a drinker?” He hummed softly, raising a brow curiously as he gave a sly smile. She didn’t look up but quite rudely retorted.

“No i live in the third estate and I’d like to not starve. I do suppose that when i get Zygerot I’d like to spend it on food, not booze.” She sneered slightly. The man put his hands up defensively.

“Okay okay. Don’t get yourself all in a twist sweetie i was just asking. The name’s Vynos. Your’s?”

“I’d prefer to remain anonymous, and don’t call me sweetie.”

The man frowned.

“Well then what am i to call a fair maiden such as yourself by?” He smiled slightly, leaning down slightly to try and get a peek under her hood. She literally placed the entire palm of her hand over his face, pushing him back with a dangerous growl.

“Anything but sweetie.” She spat. The man sighed.

“Okay, fine honey.”

Ateri growled angrily which seemed to bring a sleazy smile to Vynos’s face as he leaned back in his seat. Ateri decided not to protest any further. She just wanted to take her sword and get out of there.

“Look-“ she growled.

“I didn’t come here to stick around and chat.” She laid the bag of coins on the table.

“So give me the sword and let me go.”

“Awe.” Vynos pouted slightly, giving her a look that she wanted to punch straight off his face.

“You’d aren’t gonna stay around to chat?”

“Sorry.” She grunted insincerely.

“I’m not a chatter.”

The man sighed but shrugged.

“Fine.” He reached for the sword before pausing. Ateri stiffened slightly, the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly standing up. Something didn’t feel right. He smirked slightly.

“But i do want one more thing.....”

Ateri raised a brow.

“That wasn’t the deal.” She spat.

“Well my deals change.” He sat back up with a grin. Ateri’s hands balled into fists. She wasn’t leaving this tent without that sword.

“Don’t worry don’t worry!” Vynos waved her off.

“It’s nothing you can’t handle! I don’t want anymore money from you my sweet... sweet flower.” Ateri narrowed her eyes as he reached one hand out and gently brushed his fingers under her chin.

“I just want the truth.” He breathed. She growled slightly, about to stand up and flip the table on him when he grabbed her with such a sudden force that she couldn’t breath, and she was yanked back with her back against his chest..... and a dagger to her throat.

“You’re the silver hood aren’t you?”

Ateri swallowed harshly, closing her eyes and cringing.

“And if i tell you what will you do?” She breathed out shakily. She knew she’d been pulled into a position where she couldn’t fight back. She could practically feel his smirk.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve already given yourself away.”

Ateri’s eyes widened and she gulped before growling.

“What the hell do you want...?” She hissed through bared teeth.

“Well, my dear Silver sinner....” he breathed.

“The bounty on your head is 20’000 Zygerots. Do you know how much that is....?” A wicked smile spread across his lips.

“I’m well aware.” Ateri spat.

“So what.. ya gonna take me to the guards?”

“No.” He said.

“I’m going to take you out to the woods far outside the walls of Serphica. I have somebody waiting there for me who seems to want you... very badly my dear. So much so that they’re willing to pay me for your delivery.” He smirked

“And while we’re on the subject of money.” He cooed softly, voice laced with underlying venom. Ateri suddenly felt his hand in her pocket, and gasped, squirming as he used two fingers to pluck her dagger away from her. She snarled as he laughed.

“After i turn this into the capital... they too will pay me for finally getting rid of their greatest nuisance...You”

Ateri spat, struggling pointlessly against his grasp as her chest rose and fell rapidly and her nostrils flared with rage.

“Oh please.... you really think they’ll believe you over a damn dagger!”

“Oh i do...” Vynos chuckled.

“But it doesn’t matter to you anyways now does it? By the time I’m turning that dagger in. You’ll most likely be dead....”

Ateri gulped And She couldn’t help but think

‘Dear god... what have i gotten myself into’

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greenergrassinsafermeadows · 7 years ago

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Chapter 9

Whether or not three days spent a few hours away from home counted as a vacation was up for debate. After saving a rainy day fund for about two months, Clara could afford two nights in the cheapest motel Westerly Rhode Island had to offer. Which, considering the town, was still pretty pricey. It wasn’t the motel that mattered though, it was the ocean . She’d missed the beach more than anything else. There were other beaches, but not other Watch Hills or Misquamicuts. Clara’s friend Adara, bless her soul, had agreed to babysit Sticks for the weekend, Sticks wasn’t a big fan of most people, but he had a definite soft spot for her son Aero. She’d been lucky enough to pick a weekend with good weather, Clara hadn’t been to the beach with anybody since Abby died, but that wasn’t what she wanted to focus on. Instead she focused on enjoying her overpriced fires and ice-cream and reapplying sunscreen every fifteen minutes. She would NOT fry to death this day, she REFUSED. Craig was having a field day considering it was the first time in however long he’d been to the ocean, Clara didn’t ask but it was rather obvious. His one moment of disappointment was when he said they should play chicken and Clara pointed out that you need four people for that game, and there were only two of them. She suspected though, that the suggestion was in part because he wanted an excuse to sit on her shoulders while she ran around in water deep enough he wouldn’t have to worry about falling on his face if she fell, and so she picked him up anyway.

All that lead to their current position, Clara sitting in the shade of a beach tent reading a dollar store murder mystery novel, and Craig attempting to perfect the fine architectural detail of a sandcastle. It looked pretty good until a six year old chasing a frisbee ran through the west wing. “HEY! FUCK YOU KID! I POURED MY BLOOD SWEAT AND TEARS INTO THAT!! Now nothing’s going to protect the royals from the rebellion and they’ll all be slaughtered!! That’s blood on YOUR hands ya’ little brat!” The child looked horrified, and she promptly began to scream, clutching the frisbee and running back to her understandably distraught mother. Clara arched a brow at him over the top of her book, “Cut the kid a break honey, we all wanna fuck over the bourgeois, she was the only rebel brave enough to do it so directly.” “That’s not funny Clara this was my life's work!” “And you were mad with power, it was only a matter of time before your inevitable downfall.” “This is starting to sound like the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard. I’m going back in the ocean.” He didn’t move, he only stared at her as she went back to reading, “Clara are you not coming with me?” “I’m gonna in a minute this part’s really good.” “Ok but? I’m better.” “Payton I’ll be there in a minute, I’m just gonna finish this chapter.” “If I drown it’s on you.” “It’s on the lifeguard but it will crush me for the rest of my life. Please let me finish this chapter.” “Fine.” Pouting, he turned and headed into the water.

It took her longer than a minute. Maybe even five minutes. That wasn’t fair, did she start another chapter? What the hell? She was supposed to be spending time with him wasn’t she?

Clara jolted up in her spot when she heard the whistle blow, oh shit. She was on her feet instantly, bolting for the water as a lifeguard swam out towards Craig, who was currently flailing around out way too deep in the water. Shit shit shit. Her heart beat against her ribs like a jackhammer, he was going to die, he was going to die and be DEAD. She stood frozen on the spot, unable to breathe until the lifeguard pulled Craig to shore and dropped him, rather unceremoniously on the beach. “He’s fine.” the lifeguard did not sound impressed, “Just swam out too far and got a leg cramp.” “I could’ve DIED!” Craig interjected, his voice cracking. He’d counted on swimming out too far, but not on getting an actual leg cramp. Saltwater was painful; his eyes burned, his nose and throat felt like they’d been swarmed with fire ants, and apparently the ocean was not supposed to be swallowed in large quantities. This last bit he learned when he moved to stand. His stomach rebelled and he doubled over, coughing up a good deal of seawater. Clara’s world finally blinked back into focus, he wasn’t dying, he was just an idiot. She made a mental note to yell at him at a later point in time, because at the moment karma seemed to be doing its job. “See?!” Craig paused, coughing a few more times, though the second one sounded forced. “Dying.” “You’re fine kid,” The lifeguard rolled his eyes, “Just get some water in you, you guys need any?” “We have some.” Clara sighed, she still wasn’t sure where she fell on the scale of relieved to pissed. “Thanks though, I’ve got him from here.”

The ride back to the motel was understandably tense. Every attempt Craig made to speak was met with “Shut up and keep drinking your water.” Finally they arrived, and Clara, still glaring at him, gently helped him out of the car and more or less carried him inside. She set him down carefully before taking a few deep breaths trying to calm down. It didn’t work. “Do not. EVER. Do that again.” “Do… what again?” He tried, she was unconvinced. “THAT! That thing you just did where you said ‘if I drown it’s on you’ and then swam out 50 feet in the fucking ocean and almost drowned! That is the thing that you need to never do again!!” “I didn’t think that-” “No! No I didn’t thinks! No backtracking or excuses Payton!” She looked pissed. And Stressed. And… Scared. Really scared. Why was she so scared? “But it wasn’t-” “Payton!” Her voice shook. Oh god was she gonna do that thing where she cried to make him listen and do what she wanted? This Clara did that too? No- wait this Clara didn’t usually do that. She was actually, really crying. “Do you have any idea how fucking TERRIFYING that was?” She went on, “Do you know how scared I am every fucking day of my life of losing you!? It’s not FUN Payton! Been there- done that, NOT. FUN.” Oh. This was a PTSD thing wasn’t it. He really, genuinely fucked up this time. “I’m- Clara I- uh- sorry. I’m. sorry. For that. I didn’t think- I mean it wasn’t supposed to- I’m sorry. It wasn’t that fun for me either. I puked up half the ocean.” She let out a long, tired sigh, flopping down on the bed next to him. “Promise me-” her voice caught and she cleared her throat, “Promise me right now that you will never. EVER. pull that shit again.” “I won’t. I never want to taste salt for the rest of my life honestly.” She smacked his arm, “You suck. ...Are your lungs ok?” “No I’m still dying.” He scooted closer to her, mostly experimenting to make sure she wouldn’t punch him, “These are my last moments alive Clara, don’t spend them being mad at me.” She groaned in annoyance but wrapped an arm around him all the same. “Ok you need to shut the fuck up for like an hour. Take a nap.”

The next day was much more civil, Clara packed a lunch and off they went to the old fort on Napatree Point. Despite complaining about the walk, and about being bored, and hot, and BORED, Craig seemed excited enough to yell down a deteriorating staircase “IF THERE’S ANY MURDERERS OR MUGGERS DOWN THERE FUCK OFF, MY GIRLFRIEND HAS A GUN!” There were none of either though, so that didn’t accomplish much. He was also all too happy to pull out a sharpie and draw a crudely rendered dick on the first blank portion of wall he came across, Clara was not as amused by this as he was. He took the sharpie out again, this time when she didn’t seem to be looking, and wrote ‘Payton Esther’ in small letters on another empty part of the stone. She was looking, but he didn’t need to know that.

#Chapter 9 #GGISM

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immoralrpg-blog · 7 years ago

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Congratulations, NALA, you have been accepted for the role of MARLENE MCKINNON, with the faceclaim of CAMI MORRONE. This was a particularly tough choice to make, but in the end your attention to detail was what made Marlene so stunning. I love the idea of Marlene’s subtle penchant for romance despite the situation she’s found herself in, and I adored the little nods to the pureblood supremacy she experiences through her family. Well done! Please head along to the CHECKLIST for your next steps.

CHARACTER NAME: the absolute gem that is marlene mckinnon !! GENDER & PRONOUNS: cisfemale, she/her/hers. FACECLAIM: cami morrone, neelam gill, ana de armas. BIOGRAPHY:

you are four years old & your mother is scolding you for breaking the china glass during supper. you didn’t mean for it to happen, but it was the fifth time mrs. rosier pinched your cheeks and it just hurt so much that you forgot about your uncontrollable magic. later, when the guests are gone, your mother will tell her house elf to repair the broken glass, and that if you ever embarrass her like that again, she will hex the magic out of you with a flick of her wand – all in one sentence. you are going to cry, but not because of her threat; no, you’ll cry because it’ll be the first ( but not the last ) time you’ll think, ‘mummy doesn’t love me.’

you are eight years old & you and your father are having ice cream with a girl named evie and her mum in the park. evie is different from your other friends because she can’t do magic, but your father says that doesn’t matter. unnerved by this, you enjoy playing with her and promise her that she can come over for a tour of your house soon. later, when your parents think you are sleeping, your mother will scream at your father for taking you to the disgusting muggle-infested world behind her back, and that her reputation is done if marley tells anybody. she will suddenly barge into your room to check your arms and legs, making sure you aren’t infected by anything. she’ll hug you so tight that you’re going to struggle to breathe, and your father will have to pry her fingers off your bruising skin. you won’t realize it for another four years, but that will be the last time your family is alone in a room together.

you are eleven years old & you hug your mother goodbye in front of the hogwarts express train. you notice your father slightly flinch at the affection, so you give him a hug and a kiss. you sit with james and frank in a compartment, waving goodbye to your parents as the train lurches forward and they disappear from your view, but a hole in your heart starts to grow bigger and bigger – because you feel like you’re saying goodbye to a happy family you’ll never come back to ( you are right ). later, when you’re sitting in the common room with your new friends, you are going to be curious to learn more about your muggle-born housemates. you’ll be confused when you realize that they aren’t barbaric animals with diseases – that they’re just like you. in the letters for your mother, you won’t talk about your new friends; instead, you’ll talk about your studies, and how much your love your history of magic class. but in the letters for your father, you’ll pour your heart out about how you think mummy was wrong all along.

you are fifteen years old & you zip your skirt as you shoot a mischievous grin at the boy in front of you. when he says, ‘we should do this again, mckinnon,’ you blush, yet offhandedly reply with a sly ‘we’ll see.’ despite your intentions, you think it’s romantic to lose your virginity in the dead of the night, with the stars gazing down at you from the top of the astronomy tower. you don’t tell him this, of course – gryffindor captains don’t have time to care about romance. later, when you receive an owl from mcgonagall congratulating you on becoming gryffindor’s newest chaser, you’ll know that your plan was successful. you’ll celebrate with your friends, accept the gifts your parents send you because they’re just so bloody proud, and you’ll have far too much fun flying your broom around the quidditch pitch with your team. after the first practice, the captain will slip his hands into your knickers while he kisses you, and guilt will resonate with you for stealing the last spot on the team just by taking off your shirt. you are going to hate feeling like an object for sex, but you’ll love the feeling of power when you can get whatever you want with a simple, doe-eyed longing look.

you are seventeen years old & you beam at the recommendation letter your defense against the dark arts professor has written for you. if dumbledore was worried you had nothing going for yourself, this will surely change his mind – you can easily land a job at the ministry with this flimsy piece of parchment. nevermind if your mother frowns at the glowing letters about your work ethic and your father keeps questioning you for your latest report card ( ‘how on earth did you get an outstanding in alchemy? i remember mcgonagall telling me that you would skip that class every week to mess with peeves…’ )you brush it off, and pretend you’re offended they don’t think you’re a star student. later, when you tell your parents that you’re going to be joining the order of the phoenix after graduation, your mother will be livid that you’re choosing to mark the mckinnon’s as blood traitors and she’ll beg you to change your mind( ‘you’re going to get us all killed, marley! why do you have to pick a side?’ ). you are going to turn to your father for support, but the way he’ll avoid your gaze will tell you everything that you need to know – that it’s okay to like muggle-borns and half-bloods, but it’s not okay to fight for them. betrayed and hurt, you will fill your trunk with everything you own and stay with a friend for the time being; unbeknownst to them, the day you decide to come back will be the day your entire lineage is slaughtered.

QUESTIONAIRE

your family life. how’s it like?

“ At the moment, not too great. When I told my mum that I wanted to join the Order, she nearly fainted. I could’ve sworn her head was ‘bout to blow off. My dad, on the other hand, didn’t have much of a reaction, but that’s not good – it’s like when you do something bad in front of other people, and your parent pulls you aside and says something like, ‘just wait until we get home,’ in a calm but low voice. It feels all scary, doesn’t it? That’s what it was like when my dad found out. Except he didn’t say anything at all, so that made it even worse.

Needless to say, we had a huge row. The biggest one I’ve ever had with them, actually. Usually, they don’t talk about the things they don’t like about me to avoid the confrontation. I reckon it’s because they don’t want to lose me… it’s like I’m the only thing holding them together. Mum and Dad have always had a rocky relationship – when I was younger, Mum would go a little ballistic if she was worried about me. Dad hated it, and they used to fight about it all the time.

At least they’ve never let their relationship get in the way of raising me. Sure, my mum’s a little too obsessed with Pureblood traditions, and what my dad thinks is best for me is usually one-sided. But at the end of the day, I can safely say they provided me with a fulfilling childhood. That’s all different now, though. I’m not too sure when I’ll go back to them… ”

what can you see yourself doing in the future?

“ I love Potions. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not that studious. I just don’t have the patience for writing essays and practicing spells every weekend. Ironically enough, I do have the patience for brewing potions. The few times I’ve messed up, I just felt really motivated to keep doing it until I got it right. And practice makes perfect, so now I can brew quite a few potions with my eyes closed – I don’t mean to brag, but it feels good to know that I’m not bloody useless at everything.

I’d like to be a potioneer one day. Maybe own my shop, make a living out of it. I genuinely enjoy it, and it’s a safe route… but I don’t know if it’s what I want. Because I like to be ‘out there’, taking risks. That’s what gets my adrenaline rushing. Sometimes I think I’d be better off as an Auror, but the idea of failure just wrecks me. I think I’d be really hard on myself.

And if we’re not talking about careers, I can see myself married. Not to sound like a hopeless romantic, but I’d love to have a person – my person – who I can spend my life with, maybe have a kid or two. I know I’m young right now, and I haven’t been in too many relationships, but the idea of love is so nice. Makes my heart feel warm. Okay, this is getting a little sappy for me, and I’ve had my emotional limit for the day. Next question? ”

what do you smell in amortentia?

“ Mmm, I want to try brewing this love potion but Slughorn’s too scared to let me get my hands on it. He’s probably heard the rumors ‘bout me, and thinks I’ll use it for a quick shag…he’s not wrong. Anyway, back to your question. I’ll just list everything I can, alright? I have amazing senses, so this’ll take a few minutes.

I smell sweat after sex. Leather jackets. Trees. Firewhisky. The Quidditch pitch. Vanilla lotion. Swimming pools. Watermelons. Caramel apples. Nail polish. Red velvet. Fresh laundry. Perfume and cologne – I can’t tell which scent is stronger. Ocean air. A potion brewing. Burning wood. Tea. Musky deodorant. Old parchment. Muggle London. Peachy shampoo. The aftermath of a thunderstorm. Cheese pizza. Broomsticks. My favorite cafe in Diagon Alley. And… the Gryffindor Girls Dormitory? I blame Mary Macdonald for this one. ”

#accepted #marlene mckinnon

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vigilante7657 · 8 years ago

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Happy Shay Patrick’s Day!

Alright people! It’s Shay Patrick’s day!

My tribute to the devoted templar, is an expanded universe. Another present for Shay will come this weekend: A Shay x reader that was actually commissioned to me.

However, he is a quick story, inspired by Undertale’s Undyne the Undying.

Here is an Assassin’s Creed Alternate Universe, re imagining a possible duel between Achilles and Shay Cormac.

If anyone could describe the situation as hell freezing over, they’d be accurate. However, the situation was even worse than hell, for the ground shook and shuddered. The Arctic winds, bearing down on the two combatants, each part of their own Order and Brotherhood. One had already fell, head face deep in the slush and snow, his bloodied hat next to his fallen blade. Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway of the Colonial Brotherhood had fallen, at the mercy of his soon to be executioner: his best nightmare and rival. Achilles Davenport, Master Assassin and mentor of the Colonial Assassins, prepared to finish the job. His ebony hand held the seismic piece of eden, his sword in the other, his eyes glowing a bright gold. The man smirked under his hood, he was victorious. Nothing was left to challenge him here, his Brotherhood and ideals would live on. After he was turn executing and exterminating the Templars here in America, the entire world would be next, there would no longer be such things as the Templar Order. The ground rocked and shook with fury, yet Achilles kept his composure, he now had the ultimate power. There was no one left to challenge him here, he would rebuild his brotherhood. Yet, there seemed to be, one last bit of rebellion. The World refused to die.

Haytham stirred, he refused to die in such an undignified manner. Achilles lips curled, no one had any near brought down the legendary grand master. The tricorn hatted Templar had slayed many Assassin extremists in his lifetime, it was now Haytham’s turn to join them. Achilles raised his blade, preparing to end it all. “It was fun, Master Templar, but your reign ends here and just as short as it began.” Haytham reached for his own sword, his hand quivering in the frigid temperature, frost biting at his wrinkled hands. Haytham pushed himself halfway, only to get Achilles blade pointing dead at his face. Achilles prepared to make the thrust-

Crack! The sound of a tree splitting in half filled the air. Achilles cutlass was sent spinning into the air, it took a dip in the near frozen ocean, never to be seen again. Achilles quickly turned to meet his attacker. Who dared challenged true and ultimate power? Well, the man standing in front of him, he had his own power: Determination. The man standing in front of him, clad in a black and red templar long jacket, he knew there more at stake than the survival of the Order. Two clans, both at war, for their survival and as well as the continuation of their philosophies. Achilles eyes narrowed on his former apprentice, Haytham could wait, he wanted his traitorous pupil to fall first. “Shay,” Achilles’s tone was as steel cool as the wind that teared at their skin. “Mentor,” the Templar Enforcer replied. Their eyes remained in a deadlock, they sized each other up, like wolves stalking a dear. These two men, they were killers. Each with their own reasons for doing so.

“I see why you needed the artifacts now, Mentor,” Shay spoke, “You knew the power was unstable once released, but that didn’t matter to you did it. You thought I would be able to deliver the artifact intact.” Achilles, frowned, how dare he be lectured by his student. The teacher was the true master. “However,” Shay continued, “You didn’t expect the artifact to crumble, which is why you can here, to seize it for yourself, cause only you yourself had the means to keep it stable. You wasted thousands of lives, only for a trinket and power.” Achilles stared down his student, “Our creed, it requires direct loyalty. To ensure our survival. Something you could never comprehend, could you, Shay?” Shay closed his eyes, then opened them. Fire gleamed in Shay’s brown pupils. “And was it part of the Assassin’s Creed to murder men, women, and children, for a power? Or was this just your creed? Your creed, to silence everyone’s hopes, everyone’s dreams, just for your own to live on?” Achilles growled, he removed his hood, to stare down his former student, “I made a promise, to my mentor, to rebuilt the Brotherhood. It was on his deathbed, I won’t be joining hell anytime soon.”

Shay began stripping himself, of all the weight holding him down, he set his rifle down. He dropped his long sword. He threw his knife to the slush. “No toys, just skill.” Shay said, his deep Irish voice cutting the cold atmosphere. Achilles raised an eyebrow. “You always where naive, Shay.” Shay didn’t appear phased, “I devoted my oath to following a Creed, a Creed where we monitor and guide the people, not slaughter them like animals. But now, with my new oath to the Order, I’ve pledged to avenge those dead souls. And to never forget their values, or their desires, or what made them driven to wake up every day, to make sure their memories lived on. And that must start, with your downfall. There is more at stake, Achilles, than the survival of our kind. But rather, the survival of who were destined to fight for.” Shay bent to pick up his sword, thrust into the ice, “And I, Shay Cormac, will fulfill that promise!” Shay raised his blade to a defensive position, his hips curved, ready for whatever would be thrown his way. He had already seen the power of the artifact, when Lisbon fell, when the earthquake hit. “Let us finish what we started, Shay Cormac.” Achilles hissed, his robes glowed gold with raw heat and power.

Shay charged, ready to take on his former mentor. Achilles raised his hands, golden beams of light shot out, aiming for Shay’s head. Shay rolled out of the way, before he could be struck, the head of the beams melting the ice. A golden sword sprang into Achilles hand, the artifact giving Achilles his power, it had just become his offense. Achilles fired another bolt, his hands curling into a fist, as he floated off the ground. Shay sheathed his blade, and sprung out his hidden blades. He leaped into the air, gliding, his blade aimed for Achilles’s face. But the ebony master assassin sprang out of the way, and punched Shay dead in the face, sending him flying backward. Shay landed in the slush and snow with a crank and thud. But, that didn’t stop the driven antihero. Shay quickly sprang to his feet. Achilles smirked with overconfidence, surly his former student would die. Shay retrieved his dagger, it would be his next tactic. He rushed at the ebony master assassin. Swing, slice! Shay struck at Achilles, but he dodged every hit. Shay returned to his defensive position, waiting for Achilles to strike, the assassin swung his blade, but missed. The blade became stuck in the ice. Shay took his chance, he cute Achilles near the eye, blood rushed out of the cut. Achilles brought his hand to his face, wiping it, he then clenched his hand into a fist and charged at the Templar. He swung at the Enforcer, he cut through the air instead as shay dodged. But then, Achilles hit Shay with the assassin’s own hidden blade. The force of the hit sent Shay flying back, blood flowing through a tear in his coat, he collided and landed in front of the Grandmaster. His knife landed far from him, he couldn’t reach it. Shay lay at his side, out from his eyes, he could see Achilles approach. This was the end.

As Achilles drew near. Shay saw all those he slayed, indirectly while serving Achilles. Even the assassins he killed to avenge the dead innocents. He first saw the children burned alive and crushed. He saw the women screaming for their husbands, the ground shaking underneath them. He saw the couple holding hands, before being crushed alive. Shay closed his eyes, Achilles was getting closer. Shay then saw his dead former assassin friends. Le Chasseur nodded his head, his brown and bald head shinning like an angel. “It’s just good business, you’ve always been good at your business, Shay. Let it show.” Kesegowasse appeared, “When we take life, it must not be wasted, or in vain. I doubted you would have bested me, I guess I was wrong. Don’t let my life be wasted, let it make you the better person.” The Native American faded away. Shay’s dearest friend, Colonel Monroe appeared, he looked wrinkled and worn. “Shay… Stay determined…fulfill your promise. Whatever sins you feel you’ve made, let them go.” Adewale appeared, his worn African skin was blood stained. “The Creed has changed since Achilles time, we were sworn to be protectors, no we are just killers. Wasn’t the creed meant to be more? Was my life wasted defend my African brothers? Surely there must be more to Creed? Go my old friend. Only pirates choose a short and marry life. Although, my life was nothing Short and marry.” Adewale faded, his body turned into flower pedals as they drifted into the wind. Hope Jensen appeared, her dress flapping into the wind. “I trained you for this, my death was expected, when we eventually fought. Don’t let my teachings be in vain, Shay.” She smiled, before falling and disintegrating. Finally, Liam, his best friend, and biggest sin appeared. “You betrayed, all of us assassins. And why?” Shay hung his head in shame. But, Liam held his face up and smiled. “It’s like you said, to save the world.” Liam frowned, and even started to cry, a sight the Templar had never seen before. His mouth gaped open. “Make your own luck, brother.” Liam disintegrated into dust.

Achilles drew near, as well as the ends of the earth. But, Shay, he knew what he had to do. “Shay?” Haytham croaked. Shay rose quickly, his brown eyes twinkling in the cold breeze. The wind howled loudly, snow blowing into Achilles face. “What?” the Mentor was taken back. How was this possible. Shay drew his sword, getting into position, he stood in front of the injured Grandmaster Kenway, shielding him. “This all ends now,” Shay spoke. His voice smooth and deep, it cut deeper than the frostbite, and far more deep than the Templar’s longsword. Achilles gritted his teeth, “So it does.” He released a huge barrage of bolts. But, Shay was determined. He blocked every shot. Light’s exploded into flame, as the cold steel hit the plasma bolts of energy. Shay dropped his sword, it was burnt and tarnished as black coated the sword. Achilles rushed at Shay, he flew and floated of the ground preparing to make the killing blow. But, the inevitable happened, at least for the Master Assassin. Just as he raised his slash at his pupil, Shay sprang his hidden wrist blades, and thrust them straight into the hooded master’s neck.

“Ahk!” Achilles struggled for air, he fell over, and stopped glowing. The wind howling, cutting into the skin of the mentor, as his blood painted the snow crimson. “Mentor,” Shay called out to him, “Forgive me, Mentor” Shay started crying, he dropped to his knees. “I have a promise to keep, to the people. Their hopes and dreams, they must come first. Freedom from want is the greatest freedom of all. And you, you just can’t seem to break from the want of the Creed’s survival, and power. The Colonel was right.” Shay held Achilles hand, it shook from the pain and the cold, and then it was still and silent.

@shay-makes-my-luck @waterbird-loves-pasteis @imakemyownblog @freedomaboveallelse @bunnyyumyum@afterglowingassassin @liamobrienswife @thefangirl-that-waited @rooks-and-blighters @writingsofawaywardnerd @callingalltrash @ladysokolov @katey76762

Happy Shay Patrick’s Day!

#shay patrick cormac #shay cormac #assassin's creed au #assassin's creed fanfiction #assassin's creed rogue #I'm so pathetic #I cried from my own story #what's wrong with me #Undertale #undyne the determined #undyne undertale #liam o'brien #Hope Jensen #kesegowasse #achilles davenport #le chasseur et la reine des glaces #shay patrick's day

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alphas-and-angels · 8 years ago

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PLEASE WRITE OR DRAW THIS

NOTES - AS ALWAYS THESE ARE MY IDEAS (based off Mako Mermaids) SO PLEASE GIVE ME CREDIT BUT I WOULD LOVE TO SEE A FANFICTION OR FANART OF THIS. IF ANYONE IS INTERESTED IN WRITING OR DRAWING SOMETHING PLEASE MESSAGE ME. PS DERE IS A VIRGIN BEFORE STILES Teen Wolf AU (Stiles is a Merman) Mako Mermaids Stiles has always been different, a little too clumsy and awkward, but it's a different story underwater. While swimming Stiles has a natural grace that settles over him like a familiar blanket...it's a beautiful sight not many have seen, that might be because of the tail he grows whenever he touches water. Stiles was born at sea, a connection forged to the deep blue, the waves and smell of salt on an ocean breeze tug at him endlessly. But it all changed when his pod was attacked by hunters when he was nine years old. Mermaids are a rare commodity on the supernatural black market, their scales and hair are powerful spell ingredients to witches and Druids while others prefer keeping the tail as a trophy, nothing being more beautiful than the tail of a creature of the deep. After the utter decimation of his entire pod John Stilinski does the only thing he can to keep his child safe and hidden - he brings him onto land, breaking every rule in the merman guide book. So over the years Stiles grows older fighting hard to keep his watery nature hidden from his friends but people are starting to get suspicious, namely Deaton the local Druid who may or may not be hungering for some of Stiles magic mermaid bits for his creepy unhelpful spells. Honestly he's surprised his pack hasn't found out sooner, honestly what human could keep a fully grown werewolf aloft in a pool for over two hours, he's just lucky Derek couldn't twist his head to look at him or he would've seen a lot more of Stiles than anyone else had. And despite his promise to his dad he's been helping the pack out with his powers, creating a thick patch of frost underneath the omegas feet making him slip, boiling the blood of the rogue Kanima, hell he even blasted a jet of water at the latest Witch who was staring at him a little more intensely than he liked, but still no one caught on. The packs totally caught on, they know something strange is going on with Stiles and have for a while but they just assume it's his spark and don't wanna push him if he's not ready to tell. Besides he's not the only one keeping secrets, Derek has known for at least a year now that Stiles is his mate and hasn't said anything in fear of being rejected, but he's not going to last much longer if he catches Stiles in yet another club grinding against a stranger Finally the other shoe seems to drop when the same group of hunters who killed his pod arrive to finish off the last two mermen in the area. The pack have no idea who it is, but Stiles is freaking out and crying and his dad wants to leave town so they eventually trust the pack with their secret. Derek feels awful Stiles had to go through what he did and they vow to keep the men safe from the hunters, although Stiles definitely swears revenge and intends to use his supercharged abilities to hurt them. Turns out he's got some high class merman powers, he's able to cast spells that haven't been cast in a long time Before the group of hunters turns on the pod and slaughters them all they act as friends and protectors of the merfolk, gaining their trust. There is one boy in particular who always hangs near Stiles and is always eager to play and talk. After the decimation of the pod, When Stiles and John have no choice but to gain legs and move to land that same hunter boy finds Stiles again. He pretends he's innocent and didn't know and Stiles believes him. Stiles is thirteen when the sixteen year old boy rapes him. He goes on about how beautiful he is for a monster and how the slut wants it (all Stiles is wearing is a button up shirt because he doesn't understand human clothes) afterwards the boy tells Stiles that he belongs to him and he'll be back to collect. Stiles refuses to tell anyone cause he's embarrassed and feels he deserves it. Three years later However the whole pack can scent the anger, embarrassment, and intense fear that Stiles gives off when a new boy is introduced to their class. The boy didn't kill Stiles before because he has a crazy obsession with him, which eventually leads to stalking. The pack becomes wary One day a group of hunters arrive at the pack house where they act civil and insist that they follow the code, they tell the pack they are looking for a pair of blood thirsty mermaids who have been drowning innocent bystanders. Before they leave they toss a photo on the counter and the pack can only stare in shock as they see a young Stiles, maybe nine or ten years old, clutching a woman who could only be his mother while laughing wildly...and oh yeah they have tails. Derek may or may not photo copy the picture before giving it to Stiles and it has nothing to do with how cute Stiles looks as a baby merman Stiles was forced to get a buzz cut after a crazy witch chopped off half his hair trying to gain the magic ingredient of a lock of mermaid hair. For this reason he's wary of anyone with magic despite the fact he's grown his hair out again John Stilinski used to be a powerful merman elder to the pod, after their demise he gave up all of his powers, even his tail, to keep the son of his late wife safe. Gaining legs is a forbidden spell to merfolk, it's so taboo that's it's casting takes the very essence of the sea from a merman's soul rendering them completely human. Stiles has some lingering guilt about it but John has never regretted it and would do it again without a second thought Merfolk have beautiful singing voices, inhuman sounds that no human could reproduce. Stiles has always loved singing and ever since they moved to land they've been tight for money, to help with the bills Stiles sings every weekend and most weeknights at a local restaurant, he's gotten pretty famous in Beacon Hills although the pack hasn't learned yet Derek finally realizes all that Stiles has been through, he lost dozens of family members at once and became the only one of his kind, not even having his father to swim with anymore. He feels closer to him than ever. Derek is also a virgin, he only ever made out with Kate and after she murdered his pack he felt wary of anybody who wanted to get close to him, he especially hated when others only like him for his looks. After he gets to know Stiles he discovers that Stiles is his mate and he wants to give the pale boy standing beside him everything including his love and his virginity Mermaid Powers: Hydrokinesis: the elemental ability to create, control and manipulate liquid water at will. Hydrokinesis has been used to float water in the air or spray it in the form of a jet blast. One can also control water and mold it into any shape and for he or she desires. It's also used to mold water into a multitude of shapes, ranging from simple water orbs to a miniature mermaid figurine and three-headed snakes. Hydrokinesis also allows the user to multiply the water molecules, making the shape of the water to grow more and expand in size, despite the small amount in a glass to begin with Hydro-Cryokinesis: the elemental ability to freeze water. This power could apply with anything containing liquid, ranging from human body to even the water molecules in the air. This ability can cause things to become brittle enough to break, such as an electronic lock. It can be used to freeze an entire person, since large portion of human body is made out of water. It can also be used to render people immobile by freezing only their wet clothing Hydro-Thermokinesis: the elemental ability to heat and boil the water. This power could apply with anything containing liquid, ranging from human body to even the water molecules in the air. Often used to dry tails out to transform back Aerokinesis: The power to create, manipulate and control the air and wind. Merpeople with this elemental ability can create whirlwinds, tornadoes, or even funnels of air Atmokinesis: the ability to summon a storm. The user can summon clouds, rain, thunder, and lightning, forming a small personal thunder storm in order to hide or protect themselves Telekinesis: the power to move objects and people with the mind, often in ways not visible to the naked eye. With this power, the user can levitate objects, hold an object in place, pull objects towards the user, push objects away from the user, and alter an object's directional course Invisibility: this ability allows a merman to hide themselves from the sights of others. With a special hand motion he is able to disappear from view, he can only hold the invisibility for a short amount of time Siren Singing: an ability that allows the mermaid to put a person (usually a man) into an irresistible, hypnotic trance in which he will follow her around or obey the mermaid's whim and desires without question

#teen wolf #dylan o'brien #derek hale #stiles stilinski #tyler hoechlin #sterek #stiles x derek #merman #mermaid #merfolk #mako mermaids #h2o just add water #fanart #fanfiction #fanfic #magic #magical Stiles #merman Stiles

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jenmedsbookreviews · 6 years ago

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Thought long and hard about whether to write a post this week as I have done pretty much nothing of note. Then I thought to myself, I have had a lifetime of doing nothing of note and it has never stopped me posting before so here we are. How are you? Did you manage to get a clear sky and see the ‘Blood Moon’? No? Me neither but hey. Not the first and probably won’t be the last and a red moon is a red moon right?

So. My week went pretty quickly. After the busy weekend and fun of Harrogate it was somewhat of an anticlimax (understatement), but it did show me what a fabulous bunch of folk I know and I appreciate your friendship and support so much. Those who know me, know why. Those who don’t yet know why will find out soon enough. Cryptic you say? Hell yeah.

Happy to report I think the internet is fixed. Made my week. Yep. It’s one of those weeks where the little things matter. A lot. Also been doing a lot of reading which after the paltry two books (good as they were) I managed to finish last week, is not a bad thing. I’m now ahead of my reading schedule. Whoop whoop. Might even make a dent in my Netgalley mountain if I’m lucky.

Book wise, it’s been a pretty slow week for me. Two bits of book post and one e-book post and one book on Netgalley. No new Amazon orders either. I know. I should be ashamed right? My book post was most excellent. First I got a copy of Trap by Lilja Sigurdardottir from the lovely Orenda books, who were also responsible for my e-book post, After He Died by Michael J Malone. My second bit of book post was The Syndicate by Guy Bolton from the lovely folk at One World. Netgalley wise it was Karin Slaughter’s Pieces of Her which I’m reading for a blog tour.

Books I Have Read

The Language of Secrets – Ausma Zehanat Khan

AN UNDERCOVER INFORMANT HAS BEEN MURDERED… BUT WHOSE SIDE WAS HE ON?

The sequel to The Unquiet Dead by Ausma Zehanat Khan, featured on BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour

‘Powerful’ – Bookpage * ‘Exceptionally fine’ – Library Journal * ‘Compelling’ – Leigh Russell

A terrorist cell is planning an attack on New Year’s Day. For months, Mohsin Dar has been undercover, feeding information back to the national security team. Now he’s dead.

Detective Esa Khattak, compromised by his friendship with the murdered agent, sends his partner Rachel Getty into the unsuspecting cell. As Rachel delves deeper into the unfamiliar world of Islam and the group’s circle of trust, she discovers Mohsin’s murder may not be politically motivated after all. Now she’s the only one who can stop the most devastating attack the country has ever faced.

The Unquiet Dead author Ausma Zehanat Khan once again dazzles with a brilliant mystery woven into a profound and intimate story of humanity.

Ah. This book. What a read. I knew when I started it that it was one I needed to take time over, and take time I did. Set in a world of hatred, intolerance, suspicion and violence and against a backdrop of terrorism, Khattak and Getty are back in a case which could see them both in a perilous position. Family and loyalty are key themes in this marvelous follow up to The Unquiet Dead. You can catch up with my review in the highlights below and order a copy of the book here.

…

Death Rope – Leigh Russell

The new novel in the million-copy selling Detective Geraldine Steel series

‘UNMISSABLE’ – LEE CHILD * ‘A RARE TALENT’ – DAILY MAIL * ‘BRILLIANT’ – JEFFERY DEAVER

Mark Abbott is dead. His sister refuses to believe it was suicide, but only Detective Sergeant Geraldine Steel will listen.

When other members of Mark’s family disappear, Geraldine’s suspicions are confirmed.

Taking a risk, Geraldine finds herself confronted by an adversary deadlier than any she has faced before… Her boss Ian is close, but will he arrive in time to save her, or is this the end for Geraldine Steel?

Good lord this book. Murder, lies, secrets and double crossing in this book which sees Geraldine Steel pitted against a most savage killer. This had me guessing until the end and on the edge of my seat. Top read and another stunning entry in a brilliant series. I’ll be sharing my thoughts tomorrow as part of the blog tour but you can order a copy of the book here to get ahead of the game.

…

Do No Harm – LV Hay

Till death do us part…

After leaving her marriage to jealous, possessive oncologist Maxwell, Lily and her six-year-old son have a second chance at happiness with headteacher Sebastian. Kind but vulnerable, Sebastian is the polar opposite of Maxwell, and the perfect match for Lily. After a whirlwind romance, they marry, and that’s when things start to go wrong…

Maxwell returns to the scene, determined to win back his family, and events soon spiral out of control. Lily and Sebastian find themselves not only fighting for their relationship, but also their lives…

Chilling, dark and terrifying, Do No Harm is a taut psychological thriller and a study of obsession, from one of the most exciting new voices in crime fiction.

Twisted. That’s the only way I can think to describe this book. Twisted relationships, twisted minds and a truly twisted storyline which had me guessing and second guessing myself from start to finish. Fired through it in an afternoon and evening and the ending left me astounded. In a good way. Fabulous read and if you’d like to find out why you can order a copy here.

…

Kiss of Death – Paul Finch

Could this be the end for Heck?

The Sunday Times bestseller returns with an unforgettable crime thriller. Fans of MJ Arlidge and Stuart MacBride won’t be able to put this down.

Don’t let them catch you…

A Deadly Hunt DS ‘Heck’ Heckenburg has been tasked with retrieving one of the UK’s most wanted men. But the trail runs cold when Heck discovers a video tape showing the fugitive in a fight for his life. A fight he has no chance of winning.

A Dangerous Game Heck realises that there’s another player in this game of cat and mouse, and this time, they’ve not just caught the prize: they’ve made sure no one else ever does.

A Man Who Plays With Fire How far will Heck and his team go to protect some of the UK’s most brutal killers? And what price is he willing to pay?

Dang. This book. That ending. What a story. High stakes from the off this sees our favourite hero Heck tracking down a fugitive and not remotely prepared for what he is about to find. This book takes you on a real adventure where everything is at stake and my god, the ending will have you on the edge of your seat and then stuck in slack jawed shock. Top stuff and fans of the series are in for an absolute treat. You can order a copy of the book here.

…

The Affiar – Sheryl Browne

The moment she opened her eyes, she knew everything had changed. The stale taste of alcohol; her uneasy stomach. She looked at her husband sleeping peacefully, and knew she would never tell anyone what happened last night.

You will think you know what happened to Alicia that night.

You will see a desperate wife, lying to her husband.

You will watch a charming lover, trying to win her back.

You will judge her, just like everyone else.

You will assume you know what happens next. But everything you think you know about the past, the relationships, what drives Alicia and her husband to lie… is wrong.

If you loved The Girl on the Train, The Wife Between Us and The Sister, you’ll love this compelling and gripping psychological thriller from Sheryl Browne. The Affair will have you hooked from the very first page!

If I were to be honest, it is hard to know quite where to classify this book. it’s not quite domestic noir, more domestic drama or suspense, but if nothing else, it’s addictive. Raced through this in a day and while it’s not a story that will leave you guessing, it is powerful stuff. Those opening scenes nearly had me in tears. And the tension towards the end … A fab read. You can order a copy of the book here.

…

Not bad huh? Five books. Not sure I’ll do as well in the week to come as I have the beauty of Bute Noir to amuse me at the weekend but that does me a couple of long train journeys so who knows? Anything is possible. Blog was pretty busy too this week – recap below.

A Cold Flame by Aidan Conway

The Emperor of Shoes by Spencer Wise

Mini Review: No Time To Cry by James Oswald

Press Release: Bloody Scotland – Ashley Jensen appearing at this year’s Festival

Guest Post: Abby’s Promise by Rebekah Dodson

The Language of Secrets by Ausma Zehanat Khan

The Daughter of River Valley by Victoria Cornwall

This week sees me and Mandie buried under blog tours – happy days. Starting today with One Little Lie by Sam Carrington, we also have Death Rope by Leigh Russell, Her Name Was Rose by Claire Allan, My Very Italian Holiday by Sue Roberts, Murder By The Broads by Anthony Tamiozzo, Her Last Breath by Charlie Gallagher, Telegrams and Teacakes by Amy Miller and Murder on the Marshes by Clare Chase.

Not too bad, but it’s mostly Mandie’s hard work this week. Making her earn her keep so to speak. Or her books. Either or.

Have a fabulous week all. I am hoping for a nice sunny one up in Bute. If all else fails there will be cake and books. What more can a girl want?

See you on the other side.

Jen

Rewind, recap: Weekly update w/e 29/07/18 Thought long and hard about whether to write a post this week as I have done pretty much nothing of note.

#Rewind Recap #Weekly Round UP

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nvmlindseyallan · 7 years ago

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@chachigonzales #GodBigDay’s on, see you on weekend, RT now. Thanks. Love, #GodsTinyDancer

Belated happy Constitution Jubilee, guys. We know, most beloved fellow yokebearers, that Empire man Washington had been sworn in as President on an April 30th, and issued his stepping-down statement on a September 19th. That precious, divinely-inspired document, had since then till now sparks and fuels to no fail our passion for check and balance here, as also are the words of all our other faithful men. Inasmuch as we had once related to you our very own experiences about April 30 this year, and moreover that we are now entering the pinnacle of #GodBigDay on September 20, Godhead's #vrday, we decided to issue this Trerise to further enjoin you with our all-consuming desire to meet each and every one of you at the Places of Safety that Godhead has prepared for all of you since the world began. First, we would like to imply here again what we are telling you days ago, that Empire really knows that they're over and done as C. S. Lewis said, by September 20-24, so as their own assuring measures, they had made some new polices laid in place these most recent days. 1. They had earlier issued the uniform mass setting to be used in all Empire locales on December 16-17, 2017 by the first days of September unlike their previous norms on this matter that they would only issue it by November, thinking now that they could at least have their one final shot against Godhead (Revelation 22) before Godhead finally strikes them #forgoodbefore December could even come. 2. They had mandated some 'if this could be our last service alive' (Ezekiel 33, Isaiah 28) contingencies in place on their September 20-21 and 23-24 services worldwide. 3. They had been implying their (1 Corinthians 15) sure destruction (2 Samuel 15,17) this forthcoming week (Luke 11, Judges 16) through their sublimal messages in their sermons since last week- they had been reading Passion accounts last week to herald the forthcoming final onslaught of persecutions against us that they would be unleashing this week, as well as the pabebe apotheosis that they would be further driving onto themselves to launch their persecutions against you (Matthew 4, Ecclesiastes 9). Now we would like to remind you guys of the present truth that we are now bringing in your midst. I would like to give you signs that Godhead has given us these past days leading up to this very momentous hour. Last September 14 I was planning to write a special Trerise addressed specifically to some of our fellow comrades pertaining to their emotional problems which I had desired to give directly to them through our pages, yet Empire spirits (Galatians 4) would deny us doing so in time for our twice a week full online paperwork. That day I was so angry and disappointed failing our folks. I rather settled with giving them another Trerise I have made before, which is not directly addressing their specific pastoral needs yet I hoped that it would be enough to be at least of help to our comrades. Rather, they had began blocking me off their online contacts. Surely this is the very bleak future awaiting us this forthcoming final stage of the Great Tribulation. When at last I was able though late to finish my specific work addressed to these particular men I could no longer give it to them because they had refused (Acts 15) to talk to me anymore. I mention this to you because prophetic things happened in line with these. On the day that I wasn't able to write my specific post to our comrades, I had this anger and disappointment all over the day within me. And why not al over that day, because my co-boarders had the laptop virtually the whole darn day hence I could (John 9) not work as much as I could. They rather had ordered me to do chores for them while they were effortlessly over the laptop all the time. I of course never confronted them on this, because I know I would in return be hampered in this work in the longer term due to the sanctions that they would be giving me should I confront them over this. Rather instead, I decided to do the chores still, but I could not get myself off the discomfort I felt (1 Peter 4, Ezekiel 11, 1 Samuel 4) on that whole instance that my thoughts had unintentionally got lost on those feelings that I had broke off a glass bottle in the process while I was doing chores (Isaiah 38-39, Psalm 110, Romans 15). I say this because after I was able to finish the specific Trerise (Acts 2-4,24-26) that I was to do on the previous instance, I of course, as you already know here, I dance all by myself (Matthew 6) for your sake before the Godhead. I really want to share those moments with you with a camera, but the sad news is that we lost it to Empire spies last year. I dance contemporary ballet fused with cabaret and burlesque, and I'm doing it as my personal sacrifice (1 Samuel 3,19) for your salvation (Isaiah 8,26,45) as my fellow yokebearers. Now as I was dancing this September 17 that followed after I was able to do lately by September 15 instead the specific address, I accidentally broke off a part of the nearby wooden table inasmuch as we don't have much room space here in our house to dance with. The link there is the broken glass bottle (Judges 7) and the postponed article (Revelation 10-11,22). I said to myself afterwards, what need further that we bother about the table, after all God's Big Day is fast approaching. (Colossians 2, Philippians 3, 1 Corinthians 6,9-11) Now we would like to imply the following to you concerning the signs that we have given. First remember that when Jewish wedding ceremonies are held, they always include a ceremony of glass-breaking. This, they say, imply that Jews should not forget why they are in diaspora (Genesis 12,15,22,27-28, Revelation 11, Psalm 144,128), which is the destruction (James 1, Hebrews 12, 1 Corinthians 15) of Jerusalem in 70 cead (Revelation 15, Jeremiah 6,12-13,22, Isaiah 21-22). One of our fellows here had just written that said destruction is set to commence again on these forthcoming days after September 20-24, and that 'on a worldwide scale', and that it would be dangerous for people to stay hence with the Empire, he further wrote, saying that because Empire would be hit by Godhead's punishments just as Jerusalem was (Romans 10,1-3, Revelation 2-3), it could not be avoided that (2 Corinthians 11) those who choose to stay with the Empire and not with the Commondominion would be (Revelation 7-9) also injured by these forthcoming catastrophes. We know that many of you yokebearers choose rather to heed the Empire instead of me. Knowing this, (2 Corinthians 5, Isaiah) we have already set in motion the Yokebearers Inclusion Policy last August built on the sure word of prophecy to plead for you and spare your souls and sires from the Empire's imminent dangers (Psalm 18, Ezekiel 18). Guys, we fittingly remember hence with gratitude to Godhead the ensuing anniversary of the matrimony of our fellow yokebearers Curt and Mallauri Esquibel-Hansen (1-3 John), knowing that you yokebearers really have to dare to be even more better than those Empire infiltrates (Psalm 137) who gave Jerusalem its spiritual and literal suicide. We dare here not to be self-contradictive nor self-persecutive, rather we dare instead to come out of this Empire (Luke 10,21, 2 Corinthians 6, Revelation 18, Isaiah 52,28, Mark 5-6,16,2) upon unmistakably seeing (Mark 16) their works against us (Matthew 23-24, 2 Thessalonians, Isaiah 44, Jeremiah 10,23, Zechariah 11, Micah 1-3). We dare hence (Hebrews 12, 1 Corinthians 15, Ephesians 5, John 15, Revelation 14,2,22, Ezekiel 16-17,19,37) to come here to the Commondominion Wright now, bringing all people here and staying here for the #restofourlives in the truest sense of the Word. We here, your most wretched slaves, dare to die for you just for you to fully appreciate and hence live out this ultimate prophetic destiny that you could ever have in life (Genesis 1-10, Eter 1, Luke 17,19). Guys, we want you to live with ensurance beyond any tomorrow. Please, come to the aid of our helpless souls, and incline your ears to our cry for mercy. Let not the tragedy of Jerusalem recur to you, and that ultimately to the point of no return and too-late regrets. Let us not fail all those who went before us in the hope that their trailblazing will clear the way pretty much for you to be able to reach us (Revelation 16, Isaiah 11,27, Zechariah 9-10). Your destiny here with us is as pressing as your duty and passion, because you are our Passion guys. See you wright now (John 4) at the places of safety. We love you very, very much.

Daniel 9 is talking about our martyrs being slain at the beginning of the last 7-year cycle (Revelation 6-8,10-11). Empire discourse denote that in the middle of that week, the 'cancellation of sacrifices' would be marked by another slain Commondominion martyr (1 Timothy 2, Ephesians 1-3, Colossians 1). This cancellation of sacrifices, inasmuch as Empire says that they would be spearheading it inasmuch as they're the ones slaughtering us (Psalm 44,100), would also include hence the Empire faking their deaths in order to gather sympathy for them against us (Revelation 12-13,17-18,1, Zechariah 12-13,1-3, Isaiah 32-38). We mention these things because as you already know and as we continually pay for till now, Empire on July 18, 2015 hacked my first online account and in turn spiritually slaughtered over 2287 yokebearer friends I had gathered (Jeremiah 16, Luke 17) for the past 5 years before that. I'm talking about this in the light of Daniel 9, because I had started my first online account 7 years ago, on April 16, 2010 (Genesis 15, 1 Samuel 11,14,31). As we said earlier, Commondominion martyrs were slain on the beginning and the middle of the 7-year cycle (Revelation 7,12,14). We would take 2015 as both the beginning and middle of this 7-year cycle (Isaiah 46), inasmuch as our Executive Minister himself was as foretold, spiritually martyred too when he was taken out of the Empire (Matthew 21, Hebrews 13) that month, leading to our creation here (2 Corinthians 5, Exodus 12, 1 Corinthians 5, Revelation 7). In fact 2015 was the end of a 7-year cycle (Leviticus 25) called Shemitah, where Godhead judgements against the Empire comes at the end of each 7 years. Remember that Ka Angel was brought out of the Empire as Edward the 9th had been nearing his 7 years as Church Administrator (Revelation 2-3). Now if we are to count 3 and a half years to 2015, we would be landing at 2011, when as per Daniel 9, 490 years had passed since Empire first set foot in the Philippines, and in turn Empire had began erecting their Constantinian Baal Arena. Time and again we refer to it in the prophetic clause of sanctuary as per Empire usage, especially to imply martyrdom (Amos 9, Obadiah 1, Ezekiel 37, 1 Peter 2, Revelation 11,22, Daniel 8). Now if we count 7 years from 2011 we would be in 2018, after we have all been either to the places of safety, in heaven, or martyred, Empire would be winding up their Special 50-Week Pentecost which they got from Daniel 9's 70 Weeks. Now counting 7 years from 2014 (it was on 2014 when the 3 and a half years to September 23, 2017 began, and this 7 year count began by 2015) this will bring us to 2021, 500 years since Empire first set foot in the Philippines, and it is noteworthy to mention that this year we are commemorating 500 years since we launched the Medieval Reformation. Hence we could be sure that Empire had its final ultimatum from Godhead as written (Matthew 4) in Daniel 9 to join us by 490 years or nothing (490 years since Reformation was at 2007, 10 years to today [Revelation 2,10,17]. #thenextstep after that, end of a 7-year cycle before the cycle that ended in 2015 [the current 7-year cycle ends one year after 2021, centennial of the Messenger beginning to expound in Revelation 7 about us, something he already fulfilled by 1918 {Genesis 7}, 100 years to 2018], Godhead plunged the Empire to a recession in 2008, and by 2009 Edward the 9th began counting 7 years in office), yet they evidently still squander it (Hebrews 12). Now you may wonder why we were allowed to experience such a lost as that. (Isaiah 53, Genesis 3, Job 1,42, Revelation 12, Isaiah 63-66,49,26,42) We must admit, and yea we admit with shame, that our priorities were not wright yet then when we joined Ka Angel in the new spiritual exodus. We were like Israel, hasty and impatient. We never saw these things coming, that Diocletianites would be eventually formed and we would be in fact finding our way back to the necessity of ministering to Edward the 9th instead. (Mark 10, Acts 16,21, 1 Samuel 30) We must notice that July 18, according to the New Living Translation, was the day when some Israelites, unmindful of our very own Jeremiah's exhortation (Acts 1) that they should rather stay at Jerusalem and surrender to Nebuchadnezzar (because later on in his life Nebuchadnezzar will repent and convert to the Commondominion- The same holds true for Edward the 9th, as well as for all our other leaders here), had tried to escape from Jerusalem upon (Isaiah 7) the attack of Nebuchadnezzar's forces but was later on routed and was ultimately massacred. Evidently I never heeded that warning- I was blatantly vocal against Edward the 9th on my first social media account- so I got all my friends then lost forever from my stewardship to the Empire. (1 Corinthians 3-4, Luke 16-17,19) So does it mean that Ka Angel led us for nothing out of Egypt? No. In fact Godhead has to filter Israel across the 40 years in the wilderness from Moises to Joshua, and later on it would be Christ, Whose Name sounds like Joshua, and Whose father is Joseph, Who would go back (Exodus 14, Genesis 50) to Egypt and be martyred, just like the rest of us (Revelation 11, Acts 12,21). That is also true for me and Ka Angel, as we related to you in past posts. We must also recall that not all who escaped from Jerusalem that July 18th were killed. Some even found their way to the United Saints of Israel of the Godhead, as our Book of Mormon attests. In like manner some who were our (Hebrews 11) friends in the first online account are now our #friendsagain here in this second account. Moreover, we have sure faith (2 Corinthians 4-7,12) that everybody else who was slaughtered virtually on my first account, as well as everybody else in Yokebearing who lived and died without benefit of my ministry, will be raised up in the forthcoming days (1 Thessalonians 4, Revelation 14,20, 1 Corinthians 15) to be able to contact me and join us for eternity here in the Commondominion (1 Peter 3-4, Revelation 11) to enjoy the salvation they need.

It must be noticed that the quake in Mexico comes days just after its Revolution Anniversary. Although of course we could say this is a punishment to a stubborn-to-us host of yokebearers, (notice that this comes also days after Bergoglio was in nearby Colombia, lest Empire blames this unjustly to our Edward the 9th although in fact he was in Mexico only by January this year yet Empire of course would sow curses indeed on his very itineraries itself, yet we say this lest Empire again advances Bergoglio) we personally feel that the quake due to its nearness to the Revolution Anniversary of Mexico could be also yet another self-persecution Godhead had imposed (2 Chronicles 20) to the Roman Empire in Mexico, part of their calamity engineering made as occult offering (Matthew 2, Job 1). We could recall that Mexico's land is not that strong (Matthew 7). We do not question Godhead why They did this because we could understand that September 16's had came and went and yet they haven't repented yet- as Empire itself recorded, Neronians had overtaken Mexico now- so we could say that Justice is yet again served, Godhead's Way (Daniel 8, 2 Samuel 16, Isaiah 55, Psalm 103,145). Hence in account of Neronians, we would like to warn you- the Beast Law includes not only sodomy and gun control but also a uniform observance of worship, which we would like to clarify here, would not be on a Sunday, but even it could be on a Sunday, it could not be enforced if it would not also contain other worship days. What we mean is that Empire, you see, could not impose this on a Friday, because they had already surrendered all Muslims to us by the way. Hence this could be not only Sunday, but more so not really on a Sunday. What Neronians tell you about the Sunday Law is a smokescreen. It would rather be instead on a Saturday (Matthew 24), because that's what Neronians, being part of the Empire, are imposing at (Deuteronomy 7,13,23,18). We reiterate again here- the new worship day is Monday (Isaiah 56,66) and not as what Empire would make us think about. In fact Empire Radio had been already test-running this for months, doing special broadcasts on Saturdays, not to mention Empire television running pabebe telecasts (James 2, 2 Thessalonians 2, Luke 13,14,9) on whole weekends, including yea, Sundays, as per Empire usage, and altogether they do it both for occult rituals. Now as for Empire's claim on our very own Edward the 9th (Exodus 5-6), we would like to refer again to the sermon he delivered once on my city that August 14, 2015, where he was made to read Acts 13, talking about the governor whom Apostle Paul met. Empire claims that Edward the 9th is their Apostle Paul in the instance quoted. We already accept their referral then of Elimas, because we have came to know and prove that Diocletianites are no better than Constantinians, but we must mention here Acts 13 in the Old King James 1611, where the governor was referred to as a 'Deputy.' (Micah 4-5, Isaiah 44,59, 1 Peter 2, Titus 3) So it would rather be that the governor, or Deputy in this definition, would be Edward the 9th (May 6-7, 1994 [Isaiah 19]) and that the Apostle Paul in the instance is us, we repeat in Godhead, us, and not definitely the Empire, which in turn is the Elimas in the account hence. Now also in Old King James 1611, we would like to ask pardon to all our fellows whom strings we are not indeed worthy to pluck, because they haven't knew us yet, but we saw this by Godhead in Revelation 7- Nephtali, as you all know, is one of the tribes sealed for salvation in the passage, yet the rendering did Nephtali as near Nephilim, or as you had been already taught, fallen angels, which the apostles said to be (John 17, Ephesians 2) without hope for salvation (Jude Thaddeus 1, 2 Peter 2). As per the Empire's usage, this could not refer to the Diocletianites as we could see. First, recall that Nephtali sounds like Ka Angel's name- we say this because many of Ka Sykes' supporters would often refer to this phrase to describe themselves inasmuch as Ka Sykes of course shares the divine election of Ka Angel; after all we're the better versions of the Empire. Inasmuch as we refer here to Empire names, we would yet again invoke their personalities, which in turn refer to people who even more define who we are and what we do here (John 3)- yokebearers. Nephtali sounds like Natalie (Deuteronomy 6), and this refers to the wife of a yokebearer, Benjamin Millipied, and we would see Genesis 49 later where of course, Benjamin could be found (Acts 20, Matthew 10,15). Not to mention that there is a yokebearer already named Natalie Gilmore. A Yellowtard named Nephtali has the surname of Gonzales, and this redirects us to Lady Chachi Gonzales. We have told you way back then how Genesis 49 and Deuteronomy 32 refers to us. As we said then, the blessings for Nephtali are reserved for Sir Joey Arrigo (1 Kings 17, Matthew 12, Proverbs 3, Joel, Habakkuk). To further drive why positive prophecy as with Genesis 49 could only be fulfilled with us here, let's first shatter Empire claims. They say that they are the 'eternal hills' referred to at the clause for Joseph. Let's leave them until last for it. Some versions render his clause to be rather like this: 'Jacob's blessings would be much more better than the blessings of the eternal hills (Psalm 140-141,26,1,17,5), even of your other ancestors.' This only means that our blessings would be far greater (Hebrews 3,7, Psalm 46) than Empire's claims, in fact, we are told to get off with the 'worthless lifestyle you inherited from your ancestors (Matthew 3,23)', which is (Isaiah 64,51), the Empire (Hebrews 9, 1 Peter 1, Ezekiel 20, Deuteronomy 24, Philippians 2). In fact, Jacob refers not only to Ka Sykes' middle name and to Ka Angel's Executive Ministry, but also to yokebearers (Isaiah 7-8,46) such as Sir Rilley Polley and Lady Drew Pronk (1 Timothy 2). Others put it this way, 'Jacob's blessings had even more expanded and elongated the blessings of the eternal hills.' 'So you see? Jacob had in fact uphold, sustain, support and advance us,' Empire would tell us. But notice, as we told you (Micah 7, 2 Samuel 5-7, Psalm 89), we're the better version of the Empire- Genesis 49 also tells us in Judah's clause that we would be taking over authority from the Empire- 'He to Whom It truly belongs.' Recall that Samson talked about lions, that Ka Sykes country has the emblem of a lion, and that I have the prophetic office of Samson (Psalm 34,104, Amos 3, Zechariah 1, Micah 1-6). Remember also that I have the office of Aser, yet I would often remind you that this means (2 Peter 1) that i have to be named after Assyria of old (Isaiah 42-43), yet let me tell you by Godhead that not only did we have Syria now, but also the homeland of Assyria in Iraq as foretold in Isaiah 19. (Obadiah 1, Isaiah 11) Jacob said that his blessings would be better than the Empire's (Isaiah 51), hence we could say that the prophetic clause of our fathers here (Revelation 10-11,22,14) are proven to be more binding and effectual (James 5). We are expanding where Empire is stiff-necked (Psalm 73,37,49,119), we are picking up where they fail to get the point (John 8, James 2, Romans 14, 1 Corinthians 8,15). Genesis 49 also tells us that we shall have the blessings of the deeps, (Psalm 130, Revelation 2-3, Matthew 11), which is precisely where the Nephilim is (Isaiah 24, 1 Peter 3-4, Hosea 13-14), and we could say that we have fulfilled this not only through the Yokebearers Inclusion Policy, but that also you would usually tell us here that some of our leaders are not yet over with the Empire. We would like to reiterate again to Lindsey and to all our fellow yokebearers held in hostage by this Empire that we by Godhead fulfilled Joseph's clause in the manner that we were born before the 110th birthday of the Messenger in 1996 (Isaiah 23,59-63,52, Micah 4-5) as prescribed on Genesis 50. Lindsey herself was born on the Messenger's 100th in 1986, in fact days before she was born Empire had been exercising an Abomination of Desolation across the United Saints of Israel with the field week there and then by the Empire's Philippine quarters. This Empire did knowing that on these exact days too in 1957 we had our field week in the United Saints. Noah's Ark was constructed for 100 years, and was completed on Noah's 600th year. On September 23-24, the centerpiece of #GodBigDay, we would be marking respectively our 1386th and 1387th days writing the Devotional Commentary. 1386 and 1387 is 600 years to 2016-2017 (Joshua 12), and should we hence expect for anything close to Noah's Flood, which is the convergence of all elements loose on the face of earth (2 Peter 3), then we should really be here honestly in this, your Commondominion of Christ, by September 23-24 (3 Nephi 8-10). I don't tell you that it could indeed happen on these days, but remember that after these days it is only sure that life would get much, much harder as Empire would get much hell-angry against all yokebearers and the ministry that we here do for them (2 Corinthians 6-7, 1 Samuel 18, Psalm 38-39,69). In fact guys, Empire is really angry against our leaders for having declared Lindsey's Birthday this year as a special non-working holiday in the Philippines. Let's not be bothered with what Empire is doing guys against you. Let's make sure that we spend well this great, gracious, glorious day in the history of our salvation. This Lindsey's Birthday let's be wright now with Godhead if we haven't yet, and let's tell this to anyone who evidently needs help and relief. We count so much on you guys to break this out to all who don't know where to run to for help and needs a break-out chance in life. Let's not waste these precious last hours of civilization as we know it, and let's make sure by Godhead (Hebrews 10) that we're not yokebearers for nothing. Let's join Lindsey here, in your Commondominion, and be ensured, most beloved guys, that as you do this, we here will always be within you, wright up far beyond the ages of ages.

Your #GodsTinyDancer for all time, JOSEPH STIRLING STEINFELD SYKES Blogger in Chief and Dance Captain, Commondominion of Christ

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