#just. wheel the corpse back into office. give us a little bit longer to keep laying groundwork. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shadowworks · 4 years ago

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Look Inside

Pairing: Overhaul X Reader

Warnings: Dubcon-noncon, medical kink, drugged sex, mention of needles, mentions of blood, bondage, fingering, this is dark!

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: I decided to try some creepy themes and give second person a try. So we’ll see how it goes. This piece is dark so please mind the warnings!

Huge shoutout to @present-mel for making the beautiful banner and reading over my fic you precious gem! Also thank you @thisisthehardestthing and @hisoknen for your feedback it’s so greatly appreciated! 💜

Someone had shut off the lights in the morgue.

You happen to notice this when your eyes toil lazily between security cameras at the right time. You freeze on the spot, and quirk a brow toward the shadow. You expect it’ll brighten any second like it usually does, but after those few seconds tick by without change, a weight of dread sinks in your stomach.

Kai Chisaki put orders in place that if experiments are up and running the basement levels are to remain lit. Chisaki and his men are already down below, and the winding pale halls near the morgue are empty.

You haven’t been called to notify cleaners about another bloody corpse still peeling off the wall, and you can’t find motion on the surveillance camera when you rewind the recordings. It’s in the lower right corner of the camera, and you note the light flicks off without warning. No one enters, no one leaves.

You study the harsh glow of the screen for another moment, still in denial, still waiting for the lights to flicker on, and stand up from the chair in the office. When not a soul appears by the threshold, all you can do is lean forward with your hands pressed on the desk, dropping your head in defeat. “Seriously? Fuck you.”

You don’t know who “you” was exactly, but it felt right to say.

It takes a bit of time after departing the small office, but you find the proper hall in Chisaki’s deeply looping maze...It’s just you don’t want to step out from the elevator. You were ready before, but when the doors split open and the cool air ghosts against your cheeks, you pause. There’s a stillness lingering in the hallway; it’s far too quiet- except for the creaks in the elevator floor from your shifting weight...But, something seems off.

Your steps are tentative when you do slip out, peering down the drab hallway. You clearly see which of the rooms is buried in shadow, and frankly you want to whirl back around before the doors close. But you can’t, well, not yet at least. The tap of your shoes hits off the walls, while you tread along on stiff legs. Eventually you come to a stop having reached the doorway. It’s partly open, a slice of darkness hiding what’s deep inside.

Hold on, this can't be right. The camera— A shudder trails up your spine. It tingles coldly.

You inhale a deep breath. Okay, just do it; just switch the lights back on, it’s fine. It’s fine. Besides, if it were you (which it is) you wouldn’t want to deal with Chisaki’s ill temper over something so minor as a light.

He’s punished his men for incompetence before, and those who didn’t listen have smeared the walls with their blood, drenching vein red across white. Black-looking goops of muscle plopped on the floor...the consequences ranged based on severity of failure or how stressed he is, really. In fact, one man had the skin of his face torn off for talking back—wait, relax. Focus

It won’t happen. Kai Chisaki is somewhere else in the maze. He’s not aware of what happened.

There’s a member with a quirk which lets him melt through walls; the tiny one with a bone white mask. He probably slipped between the rooms and grabbed something then turned the lights off. But that didn’t explain the door...

It doesn’t matter.

You stretch an arm out, gently pushing the door further open, and light spills onto the tile floor.

It’s a cold, vacant room. There’s a pungent scent of bleach still lingering from a cleanup, but it hits your nose almost like it happened recently. You can’t see much nor do you want to. And your hand reaches around the door frame, trailing gentle fingers along the smooth surface for a switch—

Only, there’s nothing on the wall.

“Are you serious? Really?” you huff to yourself, stepping round to search for the light. Sure enough, your fears are realized with one look.

You let out an annoyed groan, and a, ‘stupid switch’ under your breath. Who the hell designs a room and doesn’t put a switch by the door?

Your eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, so you can’t see the precise details on the walls. So this leaves you no choice but to step further in, allowing the brightness from the hall to guide you along.

It’s a moderate room with a vaulted wall filled with metal drawers, all large enough to fit an icy corpse in ‘til the yakuza dispose of them. Then there’s the silver surgical table in the middle of the room. It's empty, but the thing’s embellished. There’s protruding belts attached, and a tray on wheels is parked on the side. On top of the tray is a clean towel and a neat row of surgical tools lay flat across.

Your brows scrunch together, studying the sharp gleam of knives and the sizes of needles. Why are these out? Kai’s an obsessive clean freak, every little thing needs to be put back and organized. All his masked cronies know this rule, so who the hell did this? That is, unless someone’s using them?

Your back is turned to the glow seeping in from the hall, so you don’t see a gloved hand press on the metal door. There’s a push, and the door slams shut.

You let out a startled yelp, cupping your hands to your mouth. What the hell…! Your heart’s pounding wildly in your chest; for some reason the room feels colder, you feel colder.

“I must say this is disappointing.”

Light floods the room from the panels above, flickering with a buzzing noise before they settle. You take a moment. A deep breath, a slow exhale. When the initial shock stops tingling in your muscles, you slowly drop your palms. The voice is male, his tone’s calm, ominous and it carries like chill over your shoulder. You know this voice; you know you have to turn around. But fuck, you can’t stop trembling. When you do, you see a tall figure looming near the wall, a gloved hand still on the switch.

Kai Chisaki.

“I told Setsuno I needed him in the security room. Do you think it’s hard for him to follow directions?”

You stare at him, anxiously. He isn’t wearing his green coat with the violet plumage trimming on the collar. He’s in his iron pressed, black suit and grey tie; the trademark plague mask covering half his face.

“Setsuno asked me to fill in. He said he wasn’t feeling well...I guess,” you manage to say it as steady as you can.

The lanky blond hadn’t given you a clear reason when he staggered towards you near dawn. But if you’re being honest, you didn’t really care.You barely looked his way at breakfast, choosing to stare into your dark coffee cup than at the katana resting on his shoulder. The sword was still wet with blood, and you knew he’d been out all night. Though right now, you sorta wish you pressed him more for details.

Kai mutters something slightly bitter, words that are muffled against the material of his mask. But you hear him sigh, then his tone turns crisper. “No matter. It’s inconvenient, but I can work around these...changes.”

His arm drops to his side, walking from the wall. And unexpectedly- those peculiar eyes you see leering at his enemies, have now fallen on you.

You seize up in mild panic, the pupils in your eyes shrinking; not knowing what to do. You take a scuffling step or two back on reflex—and knock your hip against the table corner.

Oww—ow, fuck. Hold on, what’s he doing? Why—Your voice bubbles in your throat as you watch him draw near. Though it’s strange, for Kai doesn’t pull at the rim of his latex glove like expected, rather, the Shie Hassaikai boss happens to steer past you instead.

...Huh?

Your neck cranes, loose hair spilling over your shoulder. He stops a couple feet away and tilts his head downward in front of the tray, no longer regarding your presence and focusing on his work.

You stand there awkwardly, just listening to the clinks of metal fitting together in Kai’s grip. You’re not fully understanding though, should you leave? It looks like your job’s finished now that your boss is here. Besides, you’re pretty confident Kai doesn't want you here if he’s occupying the room.

In the long pause between you two, your mind’s made up which prompts you to retreat back and aim towards the door. They’re slow, careful moving steps.

“Well, you seem busy...I should probably hurry back and watch the cameras,'' you say dismissing yourself. You’re partial toward the comfort of the smaller office, and any chance you have of leaving the macabre storage space you will eagerly take it.

You don’t make it to the gleaming doorknob—because Kai’s voice holds you still. It isn’t loud, but it grips the room. “No stay. There’s no need for you to leave so soon.”

A mix of fear and confusion read across your features. Kai has never spent a moment alone with you. In fact, you aren’t actually part of the yakuza. The only reason you’re associated with the fallen crime syndicate, is because the former boss offered you odd jobs as a favor. You needed some work to keep from struggling and he had taken a liking to you, sort of how he did with Kai. But then, the leader collapsed.

Now you aren't sure where you stand. Chisaki is in charge.

“I believe there’s something you can do for me. Will you have a seat on the table?”

You aren’t sure if you heard him right, or fully grasp what he means. He says it so casually- but you know better; it’s a demand. You’re just not sure why.

“I’m fine. Really. I should be going-“

“Are you defying my order?” Again, he says it so nonchalantly. This time Kai turns his head over his shoulder; the look he gives is almost impassive, yet there’s a menacing gleam in the yellow of his eyes.

“What? No, I was…! Right.”

You don’t exactly drag your feet, but you do stand hesitant before the edge of the table where countless bodies have been dissected. So much blood, so many organs harvested on this very table.

“I won’t ask you again.”

You turn around robotically, eyes pointed downward as you hoist your hips onto the metal. The table’s surface is icy, it numbs your fingers the longer you lean on it, which only makes you fold them against your thighs.

“Roll up your sleeve.” Kai says by your right, holding up a purple band. Your gaze flicks up immediately, nervously, a silent plea for mercy. As if somehow your glossy and delicate eyes will make a difference. But it does nothing toward Kai’s stoic stance. He simply waits, and his own steely eyes narrow back.

You drop your head with a wince; just do as he says.

You comply, pushing up your long sleeve. Though you make a point not to help much more than that, leaving your arm limp at your side.

Kai doesn’t seem to notice or care and proceeds to wrap the rubber around your arm. You grimace, unpleased as his fingers skim your arm, and again when he brushes you with a wet cotton swab.

“You need my blood?” You ask evenly.

His eyes don’t leave your skin, “Not necessarily.”

“A lot of effort for, ‘not necessarily.’” You say, not too dryly.

“You’ve seen my work before, you should know by now I take great care in everything I do.”

Kai rotates between you and the now rolled over stand, dismissing your light jab. He sets up the port for blood to flow; all in a well practiced motion. It certainly makes you wonder how many times he’s done this before.

“I’m curious, when was your last doctor's appointment?” He asks suddenly, hands already prepping the next instrument. The other needle probably, but you don’t want to play as his patient. He isn’t your doctor, for fucks sake.

“A while.” You answer.

“A while,” he repeats with a subtle chuckle under his covered breath,“Has anyone told you before you’re a feisty one?”

You bite your tongue and refuse to meet his side glance. When you don’t reply back, he carries on with a sigh.

“I’ve had quite a long day you see, so I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my tolerance for stubborn little girls.”

Suddenly, his hand is squeezing your shoulder, and all too quickly you find yourself thumping against the cold metal, your horrified eyes staring up at the bright ceiling. The next thing you feel is buckles fastening, pinning you against the table by your waist and elbows.

You're flooded with tingling panic, voice cracking from strain, “Hol—Hold on one second. Please, just one more—”

“—You know they say you should never let the lamb see the knife? Their fear tampers the meat, and ruins the flavor,” Kai gives a sharp tug on the last belt. “But I find yours all the more intoxicating, my dear.”

You stammer, words of protest mingle together as you attempt to be heard, “I don’t understand, why are you…Just stop. You need to let me go!”

Your teeth clench together in a rage that fills your chest. You’re not thinking rationally, your nerves are unhinged. And in your adrenaline high your leg curls up, thrashing a viciously blunt strike toward the point of his beak.

Before it can connect and batter the bridge of his nose and mark his cheekbones, Kai’s arm flexes quickly. Your foot stops mid air as he catches your ankle with constricting force.

“Do I?” He asks with a title of his head, there're subtle creases in the corner of eyes, you can imagine his mouth settles in a cold smile beneath.

In that moment you freeze up. Your lash lines burn, stinging with fresh tears glossing your doe eyes. You don’t breathe, you don’t dare to expand your lungs. Your only thought is begging him not to burst open your calf.

“You shouldn’t be giving commands. You work under me now,” his nails dig in your flesh, and you know those indents will marr your flesh.“Meaning you’ll have to bear with me while I continue.”

Kai doesn’t loosen his hold, briefly watching your pained expression. But he favors dropping his gaze below to study the stretch of your thigh, your exposed and parted groin. It’s then his nimble fingers reach to unclasp the button of your jeans and he gently pulls down the zipper. You cry out, jerking against the belts, but he isn’t fazed.

“One of our new drugs is supposed to relax its victims...recently it’s been ineffective if the heartbeat’s racing too quickly, though we’ve made modifications to counter this. My plan was to stage a fight with Setsuno, until...you graciously took his place.”

Kai lowers your leg, both hands roaming across to the edge of your jeans. He still studies you, and decides to push up your ribbed sweater, letting the cold bite of the morgue chill your hips. His latex fingers trace lightly across your pebbled skin, skimming down the dips to your thighs.

“Yes, this will do just fine. You’re pretty enough,” he muses, softly.

He then tucks his hands into your waistband, yanking them down your legs, before they fall to the floor with a plop. The seamless panties slip off easily, as well. This sends a small prickle through you, and, no, this can’t keep going! The fight in you surges, pushing your knees together to shield your groin. Only Kai doesn’t like that.

There’s something cold and dangerous in his glare, a threat that twists at your stomach. He’s warning you; don’t make this worse for yourself or you’ll make him snap. And you didn’t want that...You watch both his hands clutch your knees, he doesn’t waste time and he yanks your legs apart, taking in your pretty cunt.

Angry tears trickle down your cheeks in response. Your throat burns from holding back a sob, “Chisaki, please. If you would—“

Without a moment of hesitation, Kai knowingly finds where to touch you first. A little too skillfully for a false doctor, the pad of his thumb presses against your soft, sensitive nub, stroking tight circles with focus. Your breath catches, falling heavier while he sinks his pad deeper in the forming slick, building steady pressure.

“Still so stubborn, what good will that bring you?”

A broken moan spills on your shaky breath, all against your better decisions. His other hand settles between your legs, and a finger plunges inside your heat, curling upward and massaging the rougher layer of flesh. A sharp gasp inhales into your lungs. He isn’t stopping, no, Kai’s gloved finger moves with vigor the more your pleasurably laced cries pour out from your lips, how desperate they become.

He pushes in a second finger, and then a third thrusting in, stretching you and soaking your walls with your arousal. This causes you to push your hips further against his latex hand.

“Kai, you fucking bastard!” you sob out, formalities be damned as your back arches. You can feel the building pulses in your cunt tense up, losing yourself to your superior on an icy slab in a fucking morgue.

“You curse my name as though you’re not enjoying this,” Kai mocks.

His fingers pump deeper, tightening your abs and your lips fall open. His matching rhythm on the bundle of nerves surges in a crash, sending a hard orgasm that shivers through your body. For a moment, just a little moment, your cares fade away.

You're left breathing deeply, staring up at the ceiling as your chest rises and falls. The euphoria lasts a moment longer, but only for so long. Reality sets in as you lay there, and much too soon, the warmths gone.

Kai takes advantage of this.

With your chin tipped up toward cabinets lining the ceiling, Kai unfastens his thinner belt. It’s only when you feel him hook under your knees and pull at your thighs that you snap your head up in startlement.

Kai’s venomous eyes stare you down, “I suggest laying back down little girl, we’re not finished yet.”

“Like hell!”

A second flare of rage strickens across your features, a hard glare that doesn’t unyield, especially as he unzips and withdraws himself from formal slacks. You know he’s relishing in your disdain for him, and this makes you thrash on the belts, hoping to force them apart. Of course, Kai did a good job of fastening these fuckers and simply chuckles at your attempt.

“You’re still not understanding the position that you’re in,” He slips a hand in his pocket, and pulls out the wrapping of a condom. Taking his time, tearing it open, rolling the rubber down his thick length with precision.

When Kai’s satisfied, his arms reach for you and grab at your hips, giving them a sharp yank forward. He leans in with a darkly low voice, “You can’t escape me. You’re mine to do with as I please.”

“...You lean any closer and I’ll spit in your face.” There isn’t any bite to it. It’s a calm, empty threat and loses all its appeal as a single tear spills down your cheekbone.

A huffing noise emits from his mask, with his lids narrowing in mild disgust. You catch the words “filthy woman,” rasped low and nasally before he does lean back, wrenching at the skin around your hips.

When he’s all settled Kai lines himself to your heat, in a slow motion he draws himself inside. You almost don't hear it, but from the mask you note a soft hitch in his breath. He gives shallow pushes and pulls on your hips, an experimental dip that splits you in a painful stretch before he pumps fully into you. They’re slow, long strokes, filling you to the brim.

Another strained gasp rips from your wet lips, and your hands impulsively spring out, clenching the black cloth of Kai’s sleeves. His hips snap quicker, and your breath picks up with him. Heart pounding to his thrust; you can feel the beats in your neck.

And all of a sudden you hear the sound of plastic clasping together, the squeeze of an injection clip the shell of your ear. Your eyes snap open in horror. What—?

Kai locks on your facial features, his deep pumps lessen though the slapping of skin doesn’t stop. “You’ve been too tense. Why don’t you relax for awhile?”

When did he..?

He prepped it. The syringe must’ve been tucked away. He did have this all planned. You were just the unlucky one who walked to the table and sealed your fate.

The serum he injected into your bloodstream has fast results it seems. The tension in your muscles slack against his thrusts, allowing him to carry your body closer and take more of his length. You feel the tension in your wide eyes soften, slowly falling half lidded and weak.

“That’s a good girl, you're taking to the drug faster than I thought,” he muses a little breathless. Right after he sets the syringe back down, a gloved hand reaches for the strap fastened around his head and pulls. The mask slips off.

It’s at this point he hikes his knees up onto the table and pounds in deeper, letting your walls suck him in. Your body’s folded, and Kai treats your body in any way he desires.

You manage to pull your head from his sharp eyes, your cheek bouncing slightly against the icy metal to Kai’s rhythm. The drawers for the deceased are taken in.

You stare intently.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“No.” He manages between breathes, his voice is heavy and laced with lusting growls, “This is merely a precaution. In the event...ah, in the event you overdose...well. You’re in the right place.”

Your head lolls back to Kai meeting his delicate face which is now flushed. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen him behind the mask. He’s beautiful. Soft featues that compliment him so well. If only he wasn’t so cruel...

“In fact, hah, if you survive...I think this will be the start of something new in my work.” He manages the last bit with a shaky chuckle.

You see him smirk wickedly, and all you can do is watch, because it doesn’t stop. The only sound in the room is the liquid squish of sex, your mixed heavy breaths. And you hope, god do you hope in your hazy state, feeling a numbness taking hold of your body, that you leave this room alive.

#overhaul x reader #kai chisaki x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #yandere #kai chisaki #tw noncon #tw dubcon #overhaul #bnha #shadow tales

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solynaceawrites · 4 years ago

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Wires [1] A Fresh Start

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“Everybody has a geography that can be used for change; that is why we travel to far off places. Whether we know it or not, we need to renew ourselves in territories that are fresh and wild. We need to come home through the body of alien lands.” — Joan Halifax

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Holding an aspirin tablet between her teeth, craving a drink, Lir listens to the clacking of the keyboard and blinks against the watery light streaming between the blinds. The office of Red Grave’s chief of police is smaller than the one in Fortuna, but neater: gone are the numerous potted plants, the maps and spreadsheets tacked to every available surface, the bookcases littered with little knick-knacks and family photographs. Those personal touches have been ignored in favor of something that is neat, organized, the little bit of warmth the room has coming from the soft bulb of the desk lamp and the mahogany of the furniture. It’s a bit of a relief, really. Sanctus had been old—too old, in the opinion of many—and took on a fatherly role that often left Lir feeling chafed and angry. At least here, going from first impressions, there will be no blurring of the line between duty and her personal life.

Seated with his back rod-straight is her new superior. A gold nameplate on the desk reads J.D. Morrison, and as he reads whatever file he’s pulled up on his monitor, Lir wonders what the initials stand for. James Dean is her first thought, and she finally crunches the aspirin, using the bitter flavor to smother her budding laughter. Sure, yeah, why not? Red Grave is a big city, and maybe Morrison’s parents had been so attached to the ill-fated actor that they’d saddled their son with his name. Certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing she’s heard of.

“Detective Thorne,” Morrison says. He opens a drawer and pulls out a cigar, which he lights in clear disregard of the signs posted on the doors to the building. “Says here you transferred out for personal reasons.”

“Yessir.” The dull throbbing behind her temples grows at the scent of smoke. “Wanted a change of scenery.”

He coughs, clears his throat. “That so? Well, we’ve had people do it for less. Though your track record . . . You seem to have been on a fast path to promotion. ” Lir says nothing. The expectant silence stretches between them until it turns uncomfortable, but she’s not in any particular mood for niceties. She has an apartment to unpack and a bitch of a headache brewing and she wants to get this introduction over with as quickly as she can. Finally, Morrison sighs, silver plumes curling through the air. “Normally, you’d get a tour and time to sort out your desk, but we got a call this morning and it’s all hands on deck. You up to fieldwork?”

His shrewd gaze rephrases that question nicely. You willing to actually work? “Sure.”

Morrison studies her for a few seconds longer, then nods and stands up, raising his voice to a shout that makes her wince. “Officer Simmons!”

A young man with untidy white hair tucked messily under his cap stumbles in. “Yes, Chief?”

“Take Detective Thorne here to the alley.” Simmons’ face pales, and Morrison barks, “Now!”

“Yes, Chief!” Simmons snaps into a hasty salute before scurrying out of the office.

Lir gives one of her own to Morrison and follows, feeling a sort of bemused pity for the officer. She’d been there once, bright-eyed and eager to please, thinking that the law enforcement they showed on television, with its friendly camaraderie and kind-yet-stern chiefs, was the truth of it. Simmons must still be clinging to that, and she pops another aspirin into her mouth and chews it as they weave through the bullpen to the doors that lead outside.

Simmons doesn’t say much, though he opens her door when they reach the cruiser, flushing under her raised brow, and his uneasy quiet persists well into the ride. Definitely fresh, Lir thinks. Probably still spit shines his shoes in the morning and tells people he’s a cop with pride.The thought is bitter, and angry, and distasteful. Not that it really bothers her anymore; her mind has been particularly not tasty as of late.

They drive through cramped, winding streets that turn unexpectedly into one-ways and cross over themselves into a maze, closed in by the dingy buildings until it all feels more than a little claustrophobic. Red Grave City is coastal, just like Fortuna, but it’s much larger, with more crime, and rumors of rampant corruption and greased pockets give it an unsavory reputation with other law enforcement agencies. Yet in stark contrast, it’s as much of a tourist hotspot as Fortuna, its historic district and scenic parks and ritzy downtown drawing numerous crowds every year, regardless of the season. Lir takes all of it in, the cafès and hotels and convenience stores fighting for space, their colorful signs and banners almost garish against the dull brick, and it’s not until they pass into a more modern area with skyscrapers of steel and glass that she decides to ask where the hell Simmons is taking her to.

“What’s in this alley?”

Simmons jumps, the wheel jerking under his hands and sending them partially over the white lines. A minivan behind them lays on the horn, and Lir watches the driver raise his middle finger as he speeds by once Simmons has corrected. “Sorry, ma’am. Uh, Detective. I thought the Chief filled you in.”

“No.” She straightens. “Just that it’s serious.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he mumbles. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.” The sight of his momentary pout sends irritation flaring hot and thick along her spine. Lir swallows it and rubs her temples. “Just crack the damn window.”

“Sure thing.” He does, and then reaches for a pack on the dash and. Drawing a cigarette from it, he says, “Call came in maybe twenty minutes before you showed up. Jane Doe found in an alley. She, uh . . . Well, it might be better for you to see for yourself, but it’s . . .” His fingers tremble as he tries to flick his lighter. Lir takes pity on him and pulls her own from her coat, and he smiles gratefully as she holds it to his cigarette, though his face is pallid and shiny with sweat. “First body?” At his nod, she sighs. “You’ve probably heard it gets easier.”

“Does it?” Simmons looks at her hopefully.

Lir snorts. “No. Eyes on the road.”

He retreats into a silence that’s not quite sullen, leaving her to her thoughts. Which mostly center around whether or not she’ll have time to find a new bar, one of the nice and private ones where no one wants to get friendly or gives a shit that she’s a cop, only that she pays her tab. When they arrive at the crime scene, Simmons stays in the car, looking ready to puke. Lir raps on the door once it’s closed and jerks her chin, signalling for him to head out, and she waits until he gives a shaky thumbs up and pulls away from the curb to head towards the yellow tape strung between a nightclub on one side and a sports bar on the other. An officer at the corner stops her until she shows her badge, then lifts the tape for her to step beneath. Immediately, she’s assaulted by the wet, mossy stench of death and viscera, and she takes the gloves and shoe covers and slides them on to buy herself time to adjust to it.

Cops swarm outside of the alley, keeping the rabid press contained. Inside, there’s only four others, three men and a woman, but Lir ignores them in favor of taking in all that she can before she’s forced to talk. Four dumpsters are present, two on each wall with the city’s waste disposal logo printed on the side; bits of trash and litter surround them: used condoms, soda cans, scraps of newspaper, all of the usual findings. There’s no spray paint graffiti, and a security camera faces out into the busy street. Maybe they’ll get something useful from it, though she doubts it. In her experience, they’re usually for show, just a weak-hearted attempt to prevent crime or a way to deter violence on the premises of businesses who host rowdy crowds.

The scenery accounted for, Lir turns her attention to the misshapen body in the center. Nude and pale, the woman is covered from chest to knee in red that’s gone black with time, her unseeing eyes staring at the sky with a terror that won’t disappear until the medical examiner closes them on the slab. She walks towards her, offal and iron making her throat constrict against nausea, and the woman kneeling next to the corpse looks up at her approach with a friendly nod. Dressed in a black jumpsuit, she’s no doubt the M.E., or someone affiliated with them, and she stays quiet as Lir kneels to fully take in the mutilation inflicted on the victim.

While the rest of her is untouched, her throat is slashed, and she’s been split open from rib to hip, the skin and muscle peeled away to reveal her organs beneath. As far as Lir can tell, nothing has been removed, but something has certainly been added: a pendant rests on top of her stomach, glistening wetly in the daylight. “I pulled it out,” the maybe-M.E. says. “Dante wanted to see it.”

“Dante?” The woman tilts her head, and Lir turns to see a man speaking quietly but furiously to two uniforms. “Uh-huh.”

“You must be the new detective. My name’s Trish.” Lir looks blankly at the hand she holds out before taking it, and Trish’s handshake is firm and cordial. “I’m the medical examiner, coroner, whatever you’d like to call me. Your stiffs go onto my slab, anyway.”

Her dry humor draws an unwilling smile from Lir. “Okay. Trish. I’m Lir, Detective Thorne, take your pick as long as it’s not Lily. What can you tell me about our Jane Doe?”

“Not much, other than the obvious.” Trish points to the wound. “This was more than likely done pre-mortem, going by the amount of blood—there wouldn’t be so much of it if she was already dead—and there are a couple of hesitation marks at her throat. But as to which of those killed her, and how long ago, why she didn’t fight back, I won’t know all of that until I take her out of here.”

Lir considers all of that. “Why do you think she didn’t resist?”

“No self-defense wounds on the hands or arms. At least, not that I can see.”

“Mm. Your guys get pictures?”

“Not yet.” Trish smiles wryly. “Chief wanted you to see it first. It’s why Dante’s giving those two a lashing, though he’s just shooting the messengers at this point.”

“Right.” Standing, Lir peels off her gloves and drops them into the bag Trish holds out to her. “Guess I should go save ‘em.”

“Good luck.”

Lir snorts as she turns. On first sight, she’s already unimpressed with the so-called Dante. He’s handsome, sure, model or film star handsome even, with his straight nose and strong jaw dusted with a five o’clock shadow, but he’s dressed like a detective from a noir novel: pinstripe trousers and a matching vest, a red tie, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, brown Oxfords polished to a dull shine. The only things that break the illusion that he’s stepped off the silver screen are the watch at his wrist, the gleaming handcuffs clipped to the back of his belt, the radio at his hip, and the Beretta in its holster next to the radio. She more than half expects him to pull out a flask from somewhere and take a swig mid-tirade, but the only time he pauses is to draw in a breath.

“—how the hell he expects us to carry out an investigation when he’s waiting on some country bumpkin—” “Howdy,” Lir drawls.

He whirls on her so fiercely that she instinctively rests her hand on the butt of her own gun, her pulse roaring into her ears. Dante seems to catch himself, straightening to his full height to scowl down to her, and she’s startled by the pale, frozen blue of his eyes. “You Detective Thorne?”

She shrugs. “Country bumpkin works, too.”

Dante doesn’t have the grace to look embarrassed that she overheard him. “I’m Detective Redgrave. Yes, like the city, no, I don’t give a shit. You done lookin’ at the body?”

“Sure.”

“You hear that, Trish?” Dante hollers. “Take her out.”

Behind her, she hears the telltale metallic clatter of a gurney being placed on the ground, followed by a bit of huffing, the rasp of a zipper, and more heavy breathing and the rustling of fabric. “Are you going to give me the details or am I going to guess?”

He barks a laugh. “Morrison sent you out here blind? Doesn’t surprise me. Sure, I’ll humor you.” With a grin that’s more mocking than genuine, he says, “Call came in at 7:45. Some poor schmuck takin’ out the trash found our body and had the decency to lose his breakfast outside of the crime scene before he called. No witnesses so far, no clothing, no I.D., just—” “What about the camera?” Lir points over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Can’t get to it until the owner shows up, which, according to his staff could be anytime between noon and midnight.”

“Alright. What do you need me to do?”

Dante considers her, that cruel smile still playing at his lips. “You want to help?” She nods. “Go keep those fuckers away.”

“The press?” His expression doesn’t slip, and she shakes her head. “That’s uniform work. Send them to—”

“Either deal with them or go home. I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

Just like that, he turns away in a clear dismissal. Lir stares at his broad back, her head throbbing from the night before and the rage that’s been building since she stepped into Morrison’s office: rage at the incompetence of her former chief, at the glares that had followed her once she entered the precinct, at Simmons’ earnest naivety, at whoever butchered a woman and left her in an alley like she was no better than the trash already there, at Dante himself. It’s familiar, and choking, the same burning that’s festered within her all her life with every snide, “Are you sure you can handle that? Wouldn’t you rather answer phones and let the men handle the rest?”

Instead of giving into her urge to punch him in his smug mouth, she inhales deeply and holds it until spots dance in her vision. Then she exhales and heads towards the bright yellow tape and, beyond it, the reporters and photographers craning their necks to get a look at the violence that’s visited their city. Two steps, and cold fingers curl around her wrist, sending numbness crawling along her skin from where they touch. Lir closes her eyes, counting to ten, and then she pulls free. Only on the other side of the tape does she look back, and the sight of a woman in a red dress with pale hair staring back at her sadly, her lips moving soundlessly, is exactly what she expected. Definitely getting a drink, she muses.

The reporters are no different from the ones Lir dealt with in Fortuna, just more persistent. She repeats the phrase, “No comment,” so many times that it begins to lose meaning to her, until a uniform comes to relieve her and she’s able to hail a taxi. But she doesn’t go back to work straight away. The cabbie drops her at a liquor store, waiting at the curb while she hurries in to buy a mini bottle of vodka and hurries back out, and she cracks it open and takes it like a shot, stowing the empty bottle in her pocket as they reach the precinct. Lir tips him double, then heads inside, and the bustling and noise is so at odds with the sullen silence of only hours ago that she nearly stops in her tracks. It’s only force of will that keeps her moving to the stairs in the back and up them, to where her desk sits just outside of Morrison’s office.

Dante is seated at the desk across from hers, a phone clamped between his face and shoulder while he writes on a notepad. Lir waits until he hangs up to say, “You’re an ass.”

“Been called worse,” he replies distractedly. “Trish’s report get in yet?”

“Not in my inbox. You got a problem with me?”

“No offense, sweetheart, but city crime is different from country crime.”

“I’m from Fortuna. Not the mountains.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you dealt with a lot of purse snatching.”

Lir bristles. “Listen, jackass—”

“Go see Trish. See if she’s got a report yet or not.”

Her mouth hangs open. Then she stands, slamming her chair back into her desk loudly enough that Morrison looks out from his office with a frown, and stalks back the way she’d come, heading for the elevators. On one hand, she understands Dante’s shit attitude; she’s new to Red Grave, new to their force. On the other, she transferred from Homicide to Homicide, and there were enough of them in Fortuna that the sight of another isn’t going to send her running, and he’s a sour bastard with a chip on his shoulder who probably thinks he can do nothing wrong and his word is law. Which she’s only proving, she realizes, running his errands for him, and she jabs irritably at the button that will take her to the basement and the morgue. Next time he demands she do something, she’s going to tell him right where he can shove it. In the back of her mind, however, disappointment is bitter. So much, she thinks, for a fresh start.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante #dante sparda #dmc oc #lirael thorne #lir #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #wires #dmcweek #dmcweek2020 #holy shit i'm so nervous for this lol #i've been working on it for over a month

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daryls-dixon-antoni · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 11.) Slabtown

I wake up in a plain white room; so much like a hospital, the sound of ticking echoing in my head.

I blink a couple of times, looking around in confusion. My wrist is bandaged up, as though by a doctor and I have an IV drip in my other arm.

I stand up and limp around, when I look down I see that my ankle has been wrapped more professionally as well. I'm definitely in a hospital room, there's a part of me that wonders if everythings just been a dream; like one of those fever dreams.

If I open the door; I'll be back in a world that still makes sense. My husband, sons and daughter will all still be alive. Hell; I bet their on the other side!

I rush over to the door, and try to pull it open to find it ... locked.

It was all real, then.

I start pounding as hard as I can against the door, trying to break it open. That's when I hear what sounds like a police scanner; so I immediately look around my room for any weapons. None. Okay, breathe, uh.... IV! I pull out the IV from my arm, and brace myself for a fight.

When the door clicks unlocked and a woman in a police uniform walks in, her light brown hair tied back into a tight ponytale and a strict 'no nonsense' look on her face, and a balding man with glasses and a beard following right behind her dressed in a doctor's uniform complete with a stethoscope.

I have my hands and feet in the proper boxing positions, but I wait to make my move, watching them closely.

The man has his hands up and addresses me as though I were a wounded animal, "Everything's okay. Okay?"

My eyes move to the Police Lady, instinctively knowing she's the bigger threat. She seems to know she is, and orders, "Put it down," she's gesturing to my IV Needle I still have clasped in one hand. "Drop it right now." I shrug, dropping the needle, but not my fighting stance.

"I'm Dr. Steven Edwards," the doctor dude puts his hands into his pockets as the lady puts her thumbs in her belt. They're trying to get me calm. I relax my stance, letting my hands fall to my sides, but keep my muscles ready for a fight.

"This is Officer Dawn Lerner. How are you feeling?"

"Where am I?" I snap.

"Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta," Dr. Edwards reponds.

"Atlanta? No. No! How the hell'd I get to Atlanta?"

"My officers found you on the side of the road surrounded by rotters."

"Run! Get out!" I blink back the vision of Daryl fighting off all those corpses. I'll never know if he made it. Just like I'll never know if Mason did.

"Your wrist and ankle were both fractured and you sustained a superficial head wound," Dr. Edwards says. "Can you remember your name?"

"My name?"

"Yes, do you know it?" Dawn asks, coldly.

"It's Antionette. Can I go?"

"If we hadn't saved you, you'd be one of them right now. So you owe us."

Dr. Edwards and I walk into a room with beeping monitors and a respirator hooked up to an unconscious man.

"Couple of them out there were on a run about a week ago. They found two boxes of Bisquick and a Merle Haggard tape at a truck stop, and then this gentleman under a bridge. Cardiac arrest and extreme dehydration.

"And I tried to do what I could," he steps forward and after pushing a few buttons, all the machines turn off.

We stab the guy in the head and move the body to a metal gourney.

"Somebody ran out of dolls to dress up."

I close my eyes deeply and then we wheel the dead guy out of the room. Dawn is talking to another police guy with short black hair.

"Hold up," the Dr. says, and he starts speaking with Dawn. I don't pay much attention, just trying to keep my head down so I can get out; find my son, find Daryl, find Sev.

Breaking out seems like one of my best bets, I recognize the type of people these guys are. They keep you in debted to them so you can never leave.

When we start moving again, I ask the Dr. "How many people do you people have?"

"Just enough to keep us going," is his answer. When he realizes I won't be responding he continues, "Some of us started here, some came as patients. Everyone has a job." Some came as patients... meaning they never left.

We toss the man down an elevator shoot.

When I'm retreiving food for the Doctor, a police guy with salt and pepper hair and eyes that bother me for some strange reason says, "You're looking better and better," I stare him down. "We had a lead on some guns, so me and my partner were pretty far out. That's when we saw you, wriggling in the road." I blink, but don't turn away. "You don't remember me, huh?" Silence. "Yeah, one of them rotters was eyeing your thighs when we showed up. But I got there first. Jacked that rotter up. I'm Gorman." I continue to stare. "When someone does you a favor, it's a courtesy to show some appreciation. Unless you want me to write down everything you're taking. Everything costs something, right?" I ignore him and take the tray, and walk away.

As I'm walking down the hall towards the Doctor's room, I hear Dawn barking orders. "We'll find Joan. Until then, you've got laundry duty and I want my uniform."

A boys voice joins in as they both say, "washed separately and pressed." Dawn stops talking, but the boys' voice says, "I know."

"Smart-ass," is Dawn's response.

I walk into the Doctor's room to the sound of real music, and he's sitting with his feet on a desk, flipping throuth a book, he sighs, "I used to feel like I was drowning in research. Now the oceans are dry," he slams the book closed, "and I'm suffocating in boredom. He throws the book across the room.

I stare at him and he points at a painting displayed next to his desk, "That's Junior Kimbrough. Do you like it?"

I glance at it, the imagry is nice. "I guess," I say, shrugging.

I then place his tray on his desk, and he looks at me, "Where's your food?"

"I am not eating anything from here. I can't owe you people anymore than I already do. I need to leave as soon as I can."

"Have you ever tried guinea pig?"

"No, I haven't." I respond.

"I didn't think so." He smiles, and gestures to the place in front of him, "Sit down." I hesitate, looking at him closely. "Dawn doesn't have to know. Come on." He reasures me, so I take a seat and he clears some of his books off his cluttered desk before cutting a peice of the guinea pig and offering me to take a bit off the fork. I grab the fork and try it. It's not half bad.

"Well?"

I shrug, not wanting to speak too much to anyone here. He laughs, "It's good enough for Peru."

He also takes a bite, and I look around his very cluttered room. Honestly, the place is a mess, but it's somehow also homey. The doctor gestures back to the painting, "It's a Caravaggio. I found it on the street outside the High. Like trash." He stands up, "It doesn't have a place anymore. Art isn't about survival. It's about transcendence. Being more than animals. Rising above." I listen to him talk about his art a while longer.

"We got a new one," A new police woman says.

They are pushing in a gourney with a man on top of it. A new male police officer adds, "Found his wallet. His name is Gavin Trevitt."

The woman continues, "Fell from a first floor apartment trying to get away from some."

The man walks past me to whisper in Dawn's ear as Dr. Edwards starts checking the man out, "He's lost a lot of blood and his vitals are dropping. I don't think he's gonna make it."

The male officer addresses Dawn out loud, "We've already given him gas-"

Dawn cuts him off, "I got this. You said you wanted to save people, so save him."

"I don't even know the extent of his injuries," Dr. edwards states, "Look, this one's a loser. You said you didn't want me wasting resources."

"Well, today I want you to try."

Dr. Edwards considers this for a moment before turning to me, "Okay, plug the EKG and the ultrasound into that battery pack, go."

I move and do as he says, and he says, "Good. Good, good, good. Now attach it to the patient."

I do so, and the moniter begins beeping, and as Dr. Edwards starts doing an Ultrasound on the guys chest, the beeping becomes loud and rapid.

"Tension pneumothorax. Punctured lung. Antionette, I need a large hollow needle in that cabinet." He goes to give me a set of keys, but Dawn intercepts them and opens the cabinet, grabbing the hollow needle and handing it to Dr. Edwards who stabs it into the mans chest, clearing his airway, I think? Whatever he's doing, it causes blood to squirt out throuth the needle.

The beeping on the machine slows and Dawn asks, "Is he gonna make it?"

"He fell from a building, Dawn."

"Is he going to make it?"

Dr. Edwards pulls open the mans lower shirt, "You see these bruises? He has internal bleeding, but I need a CAT scan to know how bad. And even if I could determine that, I don't have the tools to save him. I told you, this was a waste of resources."

Dawn turns around and slaps me, breaking open my stitches, and it takes every single ounce of self control not to punch her right back.

I tightly clench my jaw as Dawn says, "Steve, try to grasp the stakes here," she then walks out, slamming the door behind her.

We go to 'my room' to stitch my cheek back up despite my arguments to leave me alone.

When he finishes he says, "Noah left you a new shirt."

"I don't want a new shirt," I mumble, looking at the clean scrub top that matches the one I already have on.

"She likes things neat," Dr. Edwards states, pointing to the blood stain on my shirt.

"Shouldn't have slapped me. There wouldn't be any blood on my shirt if she hadn't."

He sighs, "I'll wait for you outside."

I change shirts, finding a lollipop inside of my new one. I stash it under my pillow before leaving the room to see two police people struggling with a woman who most definitely does not want to be here. She's wearing the same blue scrubs I'm in.

"Dawn needs you, now," the male officer states, so we rush in after them all.

"She's lucky we found her. Whatever you were thinking, it wasn't worth it. Okay, you have two choices. Either we cut off your arm or you do."

"Screw you and your little bitch!-"

"Smart-ass whore," Gorman states, moving towards the woman, but Dawn pushes him back, "Gorman, get out of here!"

Dr. Edwards approaches the woman, only to get kicked by her, Dawn holds her down as Dr. Edwards says, "It's anesthetic. You need it."

"Go to hell," is the woman's response.

"She made her choice," Dawn states. "Do it. Do it."

Dr. Edwards takes something out of his pocket, obviously he is going to use it as a tourniquet.

"No, no, no! I said leave me alone!"

"We're not going to let you die! We are not going to let you turn!"

I start to walk out the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Dawn seethes.

"I don't want any part of this."

"Do you want her to die?"

"She wants to die, that's obvious."

"Help us save her."

"Antionette," Dr. Edwards states, "I need you to hold her down. Do it now," He sounds much calmer and kinder.

"Now."

I move forward and help hold down the poor sobbing woman.

"Keep your hands off me! I'm not going back to him!"

"You don't have to," Dawn reassures her.

"You can't control them!"

"I will."

"Antionette, you ready?" The doctor asks me, and I nod, helping hold down the woman who begins to struggle even harder, trying to thrash as she screams. Dr. Edwards saws off her entire lower arm. No remorse, I guess.

I go into the laundry room to get rid of my new set of bloodied uniform per Dawn's request.

"You okay?" A darker skinned boy asks, his hair is cut short and a kind smile is on his face, "I'm Noah. Of the Lollipop Guild."

"Antionette," I greet, shaking his hand. "Thanks for the sucker."

"Figured you could use a pick-me-up after this morning." I hand him my dirty uniform, and he says, "Guess I should have brought the whole jar." He hands me a new uniform saying, "Here, this should fit."

"Do you know why that curly haired woman left?" I ask. "I mean, how long did she really have left before she payed what was due here and got to leave without them dragging her back?"

Noah shakes his head, "I haven't seen it work like that yet."

"What do you mean, how long you been here?"

"I guess about a year. Dad and I were both pretty messed up when they found us. They said that they could only save one. For the longest time, I actually believed them. Now I get it. Dad was bigger, stronger. Would have fought back. Would have been a threat."

I frown, "They let your dad die?"

"And Dawn just looked the other way. See, she's in charge, but just barely. And it's getting worse. It's why I'm out of here when the time is right. I came looking for my uncle. Gotta get back to my mom."

"Where is she at?" I ask, kindly.

"Richmond. Virginia. We had walls. See, they think I'm scrawny. They think I'm weak. But they don't know shit about me. About what I am. About what you are."

"You don't know me. But I need to go find my son, so I understand what you mean."

"You have a son?" I nod. "How old?"

"Just over ten now."

I'm doing some work for Dr. Edwards, currently pouring bleach into a tin bucket, when Dawn walks in behind me.

"Shepherd, you've already pulled a double. I got it from here."

I tense my muscles as she orders away her officer, leaving us alone and without witnesses.

"Yes, ma'am. Thanks."

I hear Dawn approach me and turn to see her holding a tray of food as she says, "I know you didn't have breakfast. Peace treaty?"

"I'll eat when I get out."

Dawn sits on a red container and pats the one next to her. I stay standing and just look at her, "You know, you shouldn't see this as a sentence. I'm giving you food, clothes, protection. When have those things ever been free?"

I look at her, "I know how to hunt for food, I have no problem with messy clothes, and hand me my pocket knife back, and I wouldn't need your protection, either."

"But you did need it." I glare at her, unamused. "Try to look at the good we're doing. Hard as it was, we saved Joan's life. Trevitt's life. We saved your life. I'm keeping all of us going here. That is not a small thing. It's taken a lot to get us here, Antionette. And I believe that what we had before all of this isn't over. And when we're finally rescued, when this nightmare ends, we're gonna need to rebuild."

"You seriously think someone's coming? After all this time, seriously?"

"There's still people like us, Antionette." She snaps, "People trying to keep the world alive, to fix it. Until then, we all have to contribute. To compromise. If we take, we give back. It's only fair. So keep working off what you owe and you'll be out of here in no time. If that's what you want."

"I think I made it clear that's what I'll be doing."

"Well, then you have to eat. Otherwise, you'll get weak. You won't heal, you'll require more treatment, and you won't be able to do your job."

"You could let me go out and hunt. I'll catch and eat my own food."

"We don't leave if it's not a necessity. I know you didn't ask for this. I didn't either." I stare her down, and she gives a hefty sigh, before getting up and walking out.

I was asked to clean the blood from the floor of the now one handed woman's room, I mop the floors whilst quietly singing,

"I'm only human and I bleed when I fall down, I'm only human and I crash and I break down. You're words in my head, knifes in my heart, you build me up then I fall apart, I'm only human..."

"Hmm. That's really nice"

I look at Joann, who is now awake and looking at me, "Do you want me to go get Dr. Edwards?"

"No, please. Not yet."

"I'm sorry I helped them..." I tell her.

"She can control them. But she doesn't because it's easier. Because she's a coward."

"How bad did Gorman hurt you?" I ask, softly.

She shakes her head, "It doesn't matter. I guess it's easy to make a deal with the devil when you're not the one paying the price."

Back in my room I look underneath my pillow to try to find that lollipop Noah had given me.

"Lose something?" Gorman's voice asks from my doorway. He pulls the sucker from his pocket and unwraps it, "This is yours, ain't it?" He puts it in his mouth. "Mmm." He pops it back out of his mouth, "Sour apple. Like the kind Dawn acquired from pediatrics." He steps closer to me, but I hold my ground. "Suppose you could have a taste. See if it rings any bells."

"I don't want it," I say, as calmly as I can.

"Oh, come on, now." He puts the sucker on my lips, "I just want to be sure I'm returning this to its rightful owner." He tries forcing it into my mouth, so I slap him, hard across the face with my casted arm.

He steps back a hand holding his cheek as he looks at me with blood boiling anger behind his devilish eyes.

He takes a threatening step towards me when we both hear Dr. Edwards voice from the door, "Leave her alone."

"The girl should have been mine."

"Nobody's yours, Gorman. Nobody. And if you think you're getting Joan back-"

"Oh, I'm gonna get her back." He turns to face Dr. Edward, and asks, "You think Dawn's gonna stop me?"

"I will."

"You stepping up, Doc?" Gorman takes a step towards Dr. Edwards.

"What happens when you get sick, Gorman? When you get an infection? When you get bit?"

"Hmm. I think there's gonna be somebody. Somebody who ain't you."

Dawn approaches the scene with another police dude, Dawn says, "Gorman." With a warning tone to her voice.

"And maybe somebody in charge who ain't her." He says, putting the sucker back in his mouth as he backs back out of the room, Dawn leaving with him.

I look at Dr. Edwards, "What the hell is his problem?"

"Come on, let me tell you a story."

We go onto the roof, looking out into a broken down Atlanta.

"When everything started, Dawn reported to a guy named Hanson. They had orders to clear the hospital and move everyone to Butler Park. It was close to midnight when we heard the jets, the bombs. The screams. I was on the third floor. Dawn and Hanson's teams were doing a final sweep. And we knew it was bad. Just didn't know how bad till we came up here. The city had fallen. And everyone we evacuated they were just gone. We kept mostly to ourselves at first. Till the food ran out. We started going out on runs, a few of us at a time. We'd see people who needed help. Barely holding on. But we were barely holding on ourselves. Came a time I couldn't look away anymore. I found this kid. Napalm burns on his clothes, his skin. Dawn said we couldn't spare the resources. So we struck a deal. I'd use what I could to heal him and he'd compensate us for those resources through service. Now-"

"You're not at fault for what she's turned this into."

"We lost some people, that's what's at fault. Hanson cracked. He made some calls that got people killed. Dawn took care of things. She took care of him. She saw us past it. Kept us together. Kept us alive."

"How is this living?" I ask, watching him pace.

He chuckles darkly, "We're still breathing. Patients we brought here, they're still breathing. Outside these walls, alone, unprotected, they'd be dead. We'd be dead. We're not the ones who make it. As bad as it gets, it's still better than down there."

"You're wrong. I am one of the one's who will make it. I need to get back to work."

"How about you look in on Mr. Trevitt and call it a day?"

"Alright, I guess."

"He's stable, due for another 75mg of Clozapine. And tomorrow we'll start fresh."

I walk away, and go prepare the Clozapine, crush it to dust, liquify it and then insert it into the man's arm.

"Still at it, huh?" Noah asks, startling me.

"Yeah," I agree, giving a heavy sigh before all the machines start beeping rapidly, and Mr. Trevitt starts seizing, my heart stops, "Fuck!"

Dawn stabs the now dead Mr. Trevitt in the head then rounds on me, "What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything," I reply, coldly.

"He was fine until the two of you were alone with him. Something happened. I want you to tell me."

"It was an accident," Noah starts and I look at him, "Antionette left to get some gauze. I was mopping. I must have unplugged the ventilator somehow. It only stopped for a minute."

"That isn-"

Noah cuts me off, "I got it working again."

"Take him to my office," Dawn orders.

Gorman pulls Noah's arm and drags him out of the room.

Dr. Edwards steps forward, "Dawn, it was an accident." Dawn storms out of the room. "It was an accident," Dr. Edwards repeats.

"Noah lied, Mr. Trivett started seizing. It killed him."

"Seizing? Well, you gave him Clonazepam, right?"

"Clonazepam? You didn't say Conazepam. You'd said Clozapine."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

I hear Noah yell, "Please!" from down the hall and go to rush to his side, to tell Dawn the truth; but Dr. Edwards stops me, "Antionette, we need to deal with Mr. Trevitt while he's still warm."

"You deal with Mr. Trevitt, but I have to stop her!" I snap, as I hear Noah continuing to plead, "Please, stop Please!"

"We can't- you can't stop it."

I pull my bedding up on my bed, wondering how in the hell I ended up here? I'd give almost anything to be back out in the world of the dead then to have to deal with this places weird ass politics. This places crooked people.

Dawn comes in, closing my door behind her. "You really think I didn't know?" I stare at her. "Noah's smart. Probably my best worker. But that story he told about the ventilator? Boy's not much of a liar."

"So you, what? Beat him for the hell of it?"

"I didn't want to. I had to. A good man's mistakes almost ended everything for us, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let that happen again. Every sacrifice we make needs to be for the greater good. The second it isn't, the second we lose sight of that, it's all over. The thing is, you're not the greater good. You're not strong enough."

"I'm plenty strong."

"How many people had to risk their lives to save you? In here, you are part of a system. The wards keep my officers happy. The happier my officers are, the harder they work to keep us going. And this hasn't been easy. There have been compromises, but it's working. And after they rescue us, we're gonna help put the world back together. Because we're the ones holding on. That's the good we're doing here. That's the good you're doing here. That's what makes you worth something. But out there you are nothing. Except dead or somebody's burden."

"You're wrong." I say, glaring at her.

"Oh, yeah? Some people just aren't meant for this life, and that's okay."

"I was literally raised for this life. My siblings and I called our childhood home the Zombie Bootcamp. When the world fell to shit, I single handedly kept not only myself alive, but my husband and two boys as well."

"And where are they now?"

I take a step back.

"Like I said, some people aren't meant for this, and as long as they don't take advantage of the ones who are, it's okay." She leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

I find Noah and see his eye already blackened and swollen.

"Oh my god," I whisper.

"It's not as bad as it looks. I'm okay. Watch," he flicks his bruise, "Painkillers. It barely even hurts. Dawn needed Trevitt for something. I know that's what that was about. Screwed-up thing is, she's trapped, too."

"We aren't trapped. I'm getting us out of here."

"Basement's the fastest way out. Any noise and we got rotters."

"Easy fix, we stay quiet."

"I can keep an eye on Dawn. She keeps a spare key to the elevator banks somewhere in her office. Think you can find it?"

"Hell yeah, I can."

I wait and watch for Noah's signal, and as soon as I get it I quickly and quietly make my way to Dawn's office.

I first search her filing cabinet; but only find the wallet to Mr. Trivett, my curiousity get's the best of me, and when I look inside, I see that he was a doctor. Things start falling into place in my head.

I move to the desk to see Joann, dead on the floor. Suicide.

I start rummaging through the desk, break open her bottom drawer and take the key right as Gorman opens the door, "Hey there. I hope I'm not interrupting," he closes the office door behind him.

"Dawn asked me to fetch her key for her," I say, holding it up for him to see.

"Did she, now? See, I was just with Dawn and I don't seem to remember that." He steps in front of me, enclosing me between him and the desk, "It's okay. Maybe she doesn't have to know. Maybe there's another solution. You know? A little win-win for both of us." He sniffs my hair and I try to pull away from him, noticing Joann's hand move. She's becoming reanimated. "So how about it, Annie? We gonna work something out here?" I close my eyes and nod; ready for Joann to get up and eat this son of a bitch. "Good girl. Now, Joan, she's not such a team player. Lucky for me you're not being a fighter." His hand goes up my shirt and I immediately bash his head with the jar of suckers, he falls right onto Joann, who in turn immediately attacks Gorman. Good, one less douchebag to deal with. I grab his gun off him and stuff it into my pants before walking towards Noah.

Dawn stops me by saying my name, "Everything okay?"

I nod then say, "Hey, I think Gorman was trying to speak to you, said he'd be in your office."

"Thank you, Antionette." I nod.

Noah and I start rushing towards the elevators, I tie some bedsheets to the edge and Noah asks, "Ready?"

I nod, beginning to tie him in the sheets. "I'll come down after you, alright?"

"Okay."

I gently lower him down and then toss the rest of the towels and bedsheets over, ready to lover myself down. But one of the dead jump out at me from one of the floors and I fall, my landing cushioned by the stinky unanimated dead people that have been thrown down here.

Noah holds the flashlight and I hold my new gun. When Noah is grabbed by one of the reanimated dead, I start shooting them all, every one of them in the head as I continue to push both Noah and myself towards freedom. Once we're out in the daylight, I take off, the dead blocking off our exit; so I go to the side; a hole on the fence allowing us an escape route. I try to keep my pace slow enough that I can help Noah get out, but that's when I get surrounded by the dead. I keep fighting my way to freedom, when someone jumps on me and pins me to the ground, I struggle until I see that Noah has made it to safety and that its one of the living now currently handcuffing me. I completely relax, letting the man pull me painfully up and then back inside.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Does it matter?" We are in Dawn's office with the two dead bodies. "Why do you let this shit happen?" I ask, gesturing to the dead bodies. "Why did it take her comitting suicide for her to be free from him? You knew it was happening, and you didn't do jack shit to stop it."

"So that we make it."

"Why? So your imaginary rescue team can save you? No one is coming! There isn't any magical helicopters coming to rebuild the new world. This is it!"

She doesn't answer me, just takes the broken picture frame to hit me over my head.

I sit in a chair in Dr. Edwards room as he checks my healing process to my forehead. "You're healing quickly. Should be ready to jump back into it in a couple more days." He stands up and says, "Well, that should about do it."

"You told me the wrong medicine to give Dr. Trevitt. Was it because he was also a doctor?"

"Trevitt was an oncologist at St. Ignatius. I knew him. They would have kicked me out. Maybe Gorman, maybe he would have killed me. I didn't have a choice." I shake my head, disappointed in the man who could have been good.

Dr. Edwards continues, "When they arrested Christ, Peter denied being one of his disciples. He didn't have a choice. They would have crucified him, too."

Later that same day, the new person they bring in is Carol! Daryl's best friend. She's alive; which means others did survive the Prison.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #season 5 #chapter 11

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neuxue · 7 years ago

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 22

So...I read the chapter. That was...

Chapter 22: The Last That Could Be Done

Oh.

Okay.

Well that…uh... that… sure is a chapter title. Yeah. Um.

It certainly evokes the idea of a threshold. Which… I am starting to see why you were all so eager for me to get here.

(For those who are curious: my guess at this point, reinforced by that title, is that this is when Rand reaches his low point and crosses that last line somehow. The somehow seems likely to involve Semirhage and the a’dam that is being kept in a SMALL. WOODEN. BOX.)

The Last That Could Be Done. Just…damn.

That just leaves the question…done by, or done to?

I should probably stop staring at the chapter title and actually read the chapter, shouldn’t I?

OH EXCELLENT IT STARTS WITH SEMIRHAGE. HEEEEERRRRRREEE WE GOOOOOOOO.

During her days, prisoners hadn’t been denied light.

Um, Semirhage? ‘Alone, in the dark, with the pain’ ringing any bells?

Oh okay fair she admits it in the next sentence.

There’s a part of me that’s a little bit…annoyed?...at how Semirhage was broken so easily. I absolutely get the point that was being made, and on one hand okay sure I can work with that but on the other hand…the rapidity with which it worked and the fact that she’s now huddling in a corner trying not to cry seems to almost cheapen her character somehow.

Of course, this is coming from me, and I have a whole Thing with competent characters (usually villains) being robbed of that competence at plot-critical moments. But that’s very much a personal preference thing and a Lia Has A Type thing, so. YMMV.

Torture made sense. You truly saw what a person was made of, in more ways than one, when you began to slice into them.

That’s a terrible pun Semirhage and you should be ashamed.

Why couldn’t they have given her pain?

This is such an excellent line. It’s so wonderfully…ambiguous? And the way it’s phrased, along with the actual meaning and implication, is just off enough to make it stand out.

She had steeled her mind to each of these things, preparing for them. A small, eager part of herself had looked forward to them.

Of course she had. And Semirhage is in such an interesting position in terms of the whole ‘figs and mice’ thing. She knows pain and torture so intimately, knows probably more ways to hurt someone than her gaolers could begin to think of, has spent a disturbing amount of time studying pain and the nature of pain. So what she is capable of imagining is so much worse than what would probably have been done to her, which was Juilin’s whole point with the figs and mice explanation. But Semirhage also has such a clinical and precise understanding of all of this that it would almost certainly not have the same psychological effect…it would have been interesting to see this play out.

Oh hey Shaidar Haran. This will no doubt end well.

“You have been given one last chance,” the maggotlike lips whispered. “Do. Not. Fail.”

Yep, I’m sure this will all turn out wonderfully.

Three corpses, everything’s fine.

“I live to serve, Great Mistress,” the woman whispered. “I am instructed to tell you that there is Compulsion in my mind you are to remove.”

Is this Verin’s Compulsion? Shall we start keeping a tally of How Many Things Can Go Wrong In One Chapter? I feel like setting Semirhage free is one of those things that’s just going to set off an avalanche of OH SHIT.

“Also,” the woman said, handing something forward, wrapped in cloth.

Oh shit.

“I am to give you this.” She removed the cloth, revealing a dull-coloured metallic collar, and two bracelets. The Domination Band.

Well.

Here we go, then.

I mean, I was kind of expecting it to come to this, but still…well played on getting that Domination Band into the hands of, out of the cast of the entire series, the person capable of doing the absolute maximum damage with it. The one who best knows how to torment, how to break, how to find the cracks and pry them open. Giving Semirhage, the Lady of Pain, a way to have absolute control over someone…that’s the stuff of nightmares. Especially because she’s not motivated by anger; she’s clinical and precise and she delights in this. “He must know pain of heart. He must know frustration, and he must know anguish.” Putting this tool in Semirhage’s hands and setting her loose?

A smile finally broke through Semrihage’s fear.

This is going to be spectacular.

And now we’re in Rand’s POV. I’m ready. Let’s do this.

Lews Therin’s memories. Not his own.

What is Lews Therin’s is yours, Rand. You are the Dragon Reborn. That is the entire point. Lews Therin is your past, but that does not define the fate of your present. Accept it, use it, learn from it. Claim it and make it a part of you because right now you’re almost literally tearing yourself apart.

I do feel like we’re close to a turning point with this though, one way or another, purely because of how prominent it has become in Rand’s thoughts. It’s reached the point where it doesn’t feel sustainable any longer; it’s always been headed there but now it’s not just a slip of memory here and there, something that can be ignored or brushed aside to be dealt with later. He’s holding on to an idea or a barrier or a specific sense of identity and there’s too much pressure on those walls, and any moment now it’s going to shatter. And I’m really, really interested to see how that plays out.

“Has it occurred to you,” Ituralde said, riding on Rand’s left, “that what we are doing here could constitute an invasion?”

NO SHIT. Rand’s just like ‘there are some Saldaeans it’s fine’ and Bashere and Ituralde are probably wondering what they’ve done to deserve this.

“I am the Dragon Reborn. It is not an invasion to march against the forces of the Dark One.”

Well, that’s…a fair point. How much do borders matter, at the end of the world? How much should they matter?

And it’s that difference between ‘do’ and ‘should’ that can be so frustrating and discouraging, but at the same time it’s human; the apocalypse is huge and all-encompassing and too much to actually take in and deal with and accept, much less begin to systematically address, but sovereignty and invasion and homeland are much more manageable concepts. And much closer, more personal concepts for most than some nebulous and not always well defined impending doom. So instead we continue to contribute to our own destruction, perhaps because putting some of those grievances aside would mean accepting that there really is something larger, something infinitely more terrifying, something we don’t know how to address, something we could no longer hide from once we acknowledge it. Easier to defend your home and your people against a definable them than stand beside them and defend an entire world against forces of nature or fate or our own selves.

Sorry, that verged on political there for a second.

It was an act of war, but the Borderlanders’ forces were away doing Light only knew what, and he would not leave these lands undefended.

This, on the other hand, still makes me want to hit my head repeatedly with a brick. Luckily, I recently purchased a hardcover copy of Oathbringer.

Ow.

But seriously, Borderlanders, WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT. It’s still just so absurd, like ‘oh this guy is ignoring us while we mind our own business guarding the Blight, guess we’d better leave the Blight to go find him and tell him to…pay attention to the Blight’. Why. Why.

Maps sometimes couldn’t convey the truth eyes could see.

Sanderson, I think you and I need to sit down and have a chat about maps.

Also reading this is just an exercise in anticipation because you KNOW WHAT’S COMING.

Well, you know what’s coming. I just know that SEMIRHAGE AND THE DOMINATION BAND AND THIS IS GOING TO GO SO VERY WRONG ANY MOMENT NOW but my point stands.

“I will leave some of Bashere’s officers with you as advisors,” Rand said.

“That would help,” Ituralde said, “but I wonder if it wouldln’t be better to just leave him here.”

I do love Ituralde. And Bashere. I want more of the two of them together.

But Ituralde has a point, and not even from a ‘this is an invasion and not like that time Switzerland accidentally invaded Leichtenstein but an actual invasion’ perspective, but from the simple fact that he doesn’t know the Blight. Bashere does. Friends don’t let friends fight Russia in winter, and friends don’t let friends run blindly into the Blight.

“No offense, my Lord, but don’t you think it’s odd to have us working in each other’s kingdoms?”

Ah but here, see, we come back to my earlier question. Should those borders matter? Can they afford to care about whose kingdom is whose, when they’re all fighting for the future of the entire world now? Are the borders not part of the problem, dividing them when they need to be united in facing the Shadow? At least for now, they need to be able to work across borders. They’re all on the same side in this – or at least, they need to be – and perhaps forcing them to work in a nation that isn’t theirs is a way to enforce that, in a strange way. To say that it doesn’t matter what country you’re in right now; it matters that you’re standing against that.

It wasn’t odd, it was bitter sense. He trusted Bashere, and the Saldaeans had served Rand well, but it would be dangerous to leave them in their own homelands. […] His reasoning with Ituralde was equally brutal. The man had sworn to him, but allegiances could change. Out here, near the Blight, Ituralde and his troops would have very little opportunity to turn against Rand. They were in hostile territory, and Rand’s Asha’man would be their only quick means of getting back to Arad Doman. If left in his homeland, however, Ituralde could marshal troops and perhaps decide he didn’t need the Dragon Reborn’s protection.

It was much safer to keep the armies in hostile territory.

And that’s all true and pragmatic and probably effective, but I feel like this is a perfect example of the whole concept of “if he goes to Tarmon Gai’don as he is, even his victory may be as dark as his defeat.”

It’s a case of ‘right thing for the wrong reasons’ – all of this is true, but it’s not the reason Rand perhaps should be thinking of. Instead of seeing this as a chance to encourage unity and common cause, he thinks about how to make use of enmity in order to hold things together just a little longer before they inevitably fall apart. He’s dividing rather than uniting, even though his actions would be more or less the same either way. It’s an issue of mindset and perspective and purpose; he does not trust, he does not seem to believe any longer that there is a way to truly unite everyone. Instead it’s a question of force, of holding everything together and pushing through just enough to get to that end goal, but that’s not enough. And it draws closer and closer to the Shadow’s goals. Play on distrust, sow chaos, play towards but never beyond the ending.

Rand hated thinking that way, but that was one of the main differences between the man he had been and the man he had become. Only one of those men could do what needed to be done, no matter that he hated it.

And he doesn’t see it. It’s not just about what must be done; it’s remembering why.

[Narishma] had been a Borderlander, too, before he had become Asha’man. Too many clouded loyalties. Which would come first for Narishma? His homeland? Rand? The Aes Sedai to whom he was a Warder?

Except it shouldn’t matter because all of those should be aimed at the same thing right now. But ‘should’ is not always ‘is’. Also, Rand, Narishma nearly died bringing Callandor to you. And then there’s Dumai’s Wells and the Cleansing. Maaaaaaaaaybe trust the kid?

I want more of Narishma. He’s intriguing and he’s had some really cool moments but it feels like he hasn’t yet had his turn in the spotlight and I’d like to see him have that. I’d actually really love to see him interact with Logain. I feel like that would be A Lot.

But the most dangerous enemies were those you assumed you could trust.

Ah, Rand. It’s…he has been so hurt before, and he has so little ability to trust, and it’s not even remotely difficult to see why. And he needs to be able to trust some people, because it’s all part of the same spiral, but it’s hard to even criticise him for this because while it’s obvious from the outside how damaging it is…how can he still trust?

It’s true of so much of his path at the moment; there are so many things he’s doing that he really should not be doing, and he’s tearing away pieces of himself and trying to harden himself and it’s all so very damaging but how can he not? But he needs to find a different way, and that’s the most difficult part. That’s the heroic effort, however it ends up playing out. But he has to go through all of this first, has to make those mistakes because they’re the only way he can see to remain even remotely functional, but also because given what he’s been through and what he sees ahead it’s nigh on unfathomable that he would just pass gracefully through and never stumble.

The night where he had dreamed of Moridin, and there had been no Lews Therin in his mind. It twisted Rand’s belly to know that his dreams were no longer safe. He had come to rely on them as a refuge. Nightmares could take him, true, but they were his own nightmares.

And how awful is that? That he seeks refuge even in nightmares because there is so little refuge left to him now. His own mind is a minefield, the world is duty and pain, and now even those dreams have been taken from him, along with everything else. He has nowhere to escape, almost no one he trusts, and no longer much hope for the future. Alone, in the dark, with the pain.

But okay. That dream with Moridin. And Rand had come to rely on his dreams as a refuge, but that was…almost what it was, even then, with his enemy at his side. Because that dream was when he felt stable, felt more himself, and he just…sat, quietly, looking at the fire. Talking with Moridin but neither of them fighting.

And then we come to the fact that dreams are clearly a refuge for Moridin as well. He didn’t expect Rand, didn’t bring Rand into that dream. He was just…there. Sitting in front of the fire. Tired and without hope.

Rand is the Chosen One, the one who must fight again and again at each turn of the Wheel, fighting a battle that may never be truly won because victory only buys another chance, another cycle.

But Moridin or Ishamael or Elan Morin Tedronai is chosen as well, a Chosen Antagonist. If his interpretation is correct, he, like Rand, will be spun out again and again to fight in the ultimate battle of good against evil, of Light and Shadow, time and again. And to lose. As Moridin put it, “When you are victorious, it only leads to another battle. When he is victorious, all things will end. Can you not see that there is no hope for you? […] there will be no eternities. Only the now, the last days.” And he was ostensibly talking to Rand, but I think he was also speaking of himself.

This is their story, a simple story that they will play out – like Birgitte and Gaidal Cain – in a thousand variations. They will face each other with the world at stake – a world that has cause to hate and fear them both, but refuses to let them go.

And when you realise that your fated recurring role is the Eternal Antagonist, you either seek an ending or you convince yourself that this is what you wanted all along. As Ishamael, he tried the latter. As Moridin…the former seems the only option left to him.

Is it any wonder, then, that when we first meet him he all but thinks himself the Dark One? He has immense power but for all that he is watching the Wheel turn and the Pattern play itself out, knowing that for him it will always mean a loss. And so he takes on the persona of the only one – he thinks – with the power to break this Pattern that weaves him to betrayal after betrayal, to fall after fall, to fight after fight that he cannot avoid but cannot win. He takes on the guise and the identity of one who has power he never will, and lies to himself, because if he is powerful then this is his choice, and he has a chance at true victory, of re-writing his role, even if not for the better.

And he does have a choice – they both do, in how they step into those roles and where they let that path take them, and how they face it. It comes back to the why, to the question of what are you fighting for, to the nature of hope and the choice to hold to it or abandon it. But it’s also a question of perception. Rand perceives himself as constrained because duty will not allow him to step aside; he will see the world saved because he cannot stand by and watch it burn. It is a choice, but to him it doesn’t always feel like one. And Moridin… “your logic destroyed you, didn’t it?” He is constrained by what he sees as inevitability – which is almost ironic, in that by capitulating to inevitability he makes of it a self-fulfilling prophecy. So both absolutely do have choices (I promise the purpose of this is not ‘Moridin did nothing wrong’), but both are also subject, especially in terms of their own perception, to the weaving of the Pattern.

So here you have the two Chosen Ones, one fated to have a slim chance of saving the world but only through pain, and the other fated to fail in its destruction, time and time again.

It’s no surprise, really, that they both find a refuge of sorts in dreams, and even that they can sit in one side by side for a few moments.

And that was a bit of a digression. Oops. I just have a lot of Thoughts about Moridin, and about Moridin-and-Rand and the choices they make and the roles they play and what leads them there and how they see those roles, and how they are alike but not, sides of a coin tossed again and again.

Anyway.

Why had Moridin come to help Rand in Shadar Logoth, back during the fight with Sammael? What twisted webs was he weaving? He had claimed that Rand had invaded his dream, but was that just another lie?

No, I’m pretty much certain that was true. That Moridin really does just…use those dreams as a chance to escape from his own place in all of this, for a time.

He and Rand are both focused on an ending right now. Rand is increasily focused on just getting to Tarmon Gai’don, on ‘we can die at Tarmon Gai’don’, at forcing everything to that one point and progressively losing hope of anything that might come after. He’s losing sight of why he’s fighting and of the purpose of all of this, looking only at that one point when it will all finally be over.

And I think Moridin’s…kind of in a similar position. Which says something about Rand’s current mindset and brings us back to the ‘even his victory may be as dark as his defeat’ thing. It’s also more or less exactly where Moridin wants Rand to be. He must know anguish…

Except that Min didn’t want him to be hard.

I am trying not to make the obvious joke here. I’m trying. I swear.

She might call him a fool, but she did not lie, and that made him want to be the man she wished him to be. But did he dare? Could a man who could laugh also be the man who could face what needed to be done at Shayol Ghul?

Rather blunt terms, but…yeah, that’s kind of the crux of the problem at this point. He doesn’t see how to reconcile those, because he doesn’t see a way to let himself feel without shattering.

It would take a hard man to face his own death, to fight the Dark One while his blood spilled on the rocks. Who could laugh in the face of that?

…Yeah. Oh, Rand.

That’s the thing; on some level he can just about see that what he’s doing to himself right now maybe isn’t good, but he can’t see another way. Because how can he face that? Except he has to, and I’m still fairly sure a large part of that is going to be in accepting who he is and who he was, and in finding…is it a pun if I say ‘a memory of light’?

She says we need to break the seals. She’s right.

Rand froze, pulling Tai’daishar up short, ignoring the groom who had come to take the horse. To hear Lews Therin agreeing…

What do we do after that? Rand asked.

We die.

Well that was almost helpful, Lews, thanks.

You know that if he wins, there will be nothing for us. Not even death. Yes…nothing, Lews Therin said. That would be nice. No pain, no regret. Nothing.

If he wins, there will be nothing. That’s…more or less what Moridin said and again, he seemed to welcome it. Which makes ‘not even death’ also a pun and I would say I’m sorry but I’m not at all sorry.

What I am is wondering how much of an effect the bond or link or whatever it is between Rand and Moridin might have on their thoughts and mindsets.

Rand felt a chill. If Lews Therin began to think that way…No, Rand said, It wouldn’t be nothing. He would have our soul. The pain would be worse, far worse.

Oh, Rand. He still desperately doesn’t want to die, though he doesn’t see another option. And more than that, the ‘if Lews Therin began to think that way…’ it’s as if Rand himself can barely avoid falling into that mindset, and if Lews Therin starts to, it’ll only make it all the harder. Especially because Lews Therin is Rand but that’s another issue. But Rand is just barely holding on as it is, and he’s already promised Lews Therin that they can die at Tarmon Gai’don, and now to have Lews Therin wondering if defeat might not be the better choice, if maybe oblivion is preferable…it’s hard enough for Rand to hold on to any reason to keep going and this would be too much.

And so he argues with himself, trying to remind himself that it would be even more pain, that it wouldn’t get better, that he can’t just stop that easily, that it isn’t an escape. That he has to keep going.

(Also I’m once again thinking of Moridin and his seeming eagerness for this ending of everything, and…if he’s thinking along the same lines as Lews Therin is, but if Rand is right…)

It didn’t work, Lews Therin whispered. We used saidin, but we touched it to the Dark One. It was the only way! Something has to touch him, something to close the gap, but he was able to taint it.

Oh.

OH.

Something has to touch him.

There’s a link between Rand and Moridin.

The True Power cannot be tainted, because it is already of the Dark One.

Moridin can touch the True Power.

‘A Memory of Light’…

I wonder.

Duty was like a mountain. Well, Rand felt as if he was trapped between a good dozen different mountains, all moving to destroy him.

I mean you did turn yourself into one…

The sun was near to setting, and the mountains were bathed in a red light. Beyond them and to the south, so strangely close, lay Emond’s Field and the Two Rivers. A home he would never see again, for a visit would only alert his enemies to his affection for it. He had worked hard to make them think he was a man without affection. At times, he feared that his ruse had become reality.

Mountains. Mountains like duty. The duty of solitude in this case, for somewhere southward along those too-near mountains was his father. Tam.

This whole passage is lovely; sad and beautiful. ‘The duty of solitude’. And the setting sun, bathing those mountains in red – a gathering storm, a growing darkness, a fading light that becomes harder and harder to see as all that is left to him is a duty that feels like it will crush him. The mountains of duty and the red of blood and battle and all that he can see of his future, as the light vanishes.

And at times, he feared that this ruse had become reality. It’s the much more painful side of ‘fake it ‘till you make it’. In the early books he was very much projecting an image of the person he needed to be, or thought he needed to be, but wasn’t yet. But how long can that last before it becomes reality? How far can you go before you lose yourself to it? At some point, does it matter whether it’s a ruse or reality, if the actions taken are the same? Where is that line and how do you keep it from vanishing entirely?

At times, Rand longed for Tam’s voice, his wisdom. Those were the times when Rand knew he had to be the most hard, for a moment of weakness – a moment running to his father for succor – would destroy nearly everything he had worked for. And it would likely mean the end of Tam’s life as well.

But he can’t keep closing off those he loves, and those who love him. The duty of solitude, he calls it, but that’s…part of the problem. He has so few left that he trusts, and there are few left who even see the humanity in him, not to mention his pain, and he can’t do this alone.

Also I just really, really want a Rand and Tam reunion. Rand needs Tam. Rand needs pretty much anyone he can get who still loves him as Rand. And also TAM.

He needed to be alone. Relying on anyone would risk being weak when he reached Shayol Ghul. At the Last Battle, he would not be able to lean on anyone other than himself.

Except…the opposite of this.

Again though, it’s all too easy to see how he comes to this line of thinking. He’s been hurt and betrayed, and he fears that anyone near him will be hurt as well, but…you can’t do this alone, Rand. He has the two other ta’veren, and he will need them. He has Min and Elayne and Aviendha, and he relies on their bond to strengthen him. He has Nynaeve, and he doesn’t have Tam right now but he should, and he has Bashere and Lan and his other allies and he needs all of them; he may stand at the centre of what is coming but the Last Battle can’t just be him. He can’t do all of it on his own. And again, what is he fighting for, if he closes himself off to that extent? It will only get more difficult to care about the rest of the world if he doesn’t allow him to care about those closest to him.

At this rate, his stewards worried that he would soon bankrupt his assets in Illian, Tear and Cairhien. Rand had not told them that he didn’t care. He would see the world to the Last Battle.

And will you have no legacy other than that? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Not Lews Therin, but his own thought, a small voice, the part of him that had prompted him to found schools in Cairhien and Andor. You wish to live after you die? Will you leave allof those who follow you to war, famine and chaos? Will the destruction be how you live on?

Rand shook his head. He couldn’t fix everything! He was just one man. Looking beyond the Last Battle was foolish. He couldn’t worry about the world then, he couldn’t. To do so would be to take his eye of the goal. And what is the goal? that voice seemed to say. Is it to survive, or is it to thrive? Will you set the groundwork for another Breaking or for another Age of Legends?

What are you fighting for. You need to remember, otherwise you will destroy it in your effort to achieve it. And this is his struggle right now, to care about what comes after, when it’s taking everything he has just to get there. To care not just about victory at the Last Battle but about what that victory means, and what it establishes. Because if all he thinks about is that one single point, if he burns the world to win, then he has not won at all.

And he knows that, but it’s so hard for him to accept and to acknowledge because it’s too much; he’s right that he can’t fix everything, and that he’s just one man. He has to let others help him, and he has to look past that point, and that’s why his role as the potential saviour of the world fucking sucks, because it’s demanding of him everything he has and then some, and he doesn’t even have much hope that he’ll be around to see what comes next. He just has to care anyway, and caring hurts.

Eerily, Rand felt as if he could almost remember those events – not what had happened, but the anger, the desperation, the decision. Was the mistake, then, not using the female half of the Power as well as the male?

Well, partly. Or perhaps they would both have been tainted. But yes, collaboration is probably a good starting point.

There was a game children played, Snakes and Foxes. It was said that the only way to win was to break the rules.

I mean, finding a way to turn the True Power against the Dark One, thus making the Shadow’s own power serve the purpose of the Light could certainly be considered ‘breaking the rules’. The question is how. Moridin seems like the answer there, but…how? Can he be forced into it? Or…I mean okay I’m not sure I want to even hope for redemption here because Ingtar aside that’s not really how these books seem to go but there is the whole no man can walk so long in the Shadow that he cannot come again to the Light so it’s not impossible, maybe…

Could he break the rules by slaying the Dark One?

No don’t do that that’s a terrible idea.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard again, sheepherder,” Min said.

“I have to.”

She pinched his neck hard, and he flinched, grunting. “No you don’t,” she said, her voice close to his ear. “Haven’t you been listening to me? What good will you be if you wear yourself out before you reach the Last Battle?”

Listen to Min, Rand, she’s wonderful and she can help you. Let her help you.

“Cadsuane says that—”

“Wait,” he snapped, twisting around so that he was facing her. She knelt on the bed, short dark hair curling down beneath her chin. She looked shocked by his tone.

“What does Cadsuane have to do with this?” he asked.

Min frowned. “Nothing.”

“She’s been telling you what to say,” Rand said. “She’s been using you to get to me!”

Yikes. If Rand’s reached the point where he can so quickly mistrust Min…

The serving woman continued to clink dishes. Why couldn’t she just leave!

I am concerned about the identity of this serving woman.

Min couldn’t be working with Cadsuane, could she? Rand didn’t trust Cadusane by any measure. If she’d gotten to Min…

Rand felt his heart twist. He wasn’t suspicious of Min, was he?

At least he caught himself. Min is pretty much the last one he does trust completely, and he came very, very close to losing even that. He’s so close to the edge here, to not trusting anyone at all, to being suspicious of even those who love him most. He’s long since stopped trusting Egwene, he has less trust for Nynaeve than he once did and maybe trusts her more than most Aes Sedai but not completely, Elayne…hard to say, but there’s some slight political tension there, Aviendha maybe but they haven’t had a chance to interact in approximately forever because Aviendha’s being stubborn. Lan’s gone again and even that one is a bit strained, which hurts me, he mostly trusts Bashere but still takes some precautions, he hasn’t seen Mat or Perrin in forever and I don’t know if trust is really the right word there anymore either…and that leaves Min. The one person with him who he can confide in, who can bring him at least a little bit back to himself, who he can trust completely.

And he caught himself here, but still the suspicion was so quick to come, and he had to push it aside. It was still his first reaction, and he had to consciously stop himself from following that path. Oh Rand.

Burn me! He thought. She’s right. I’ve grown too harsh. What will become of me if I begin to grow suspicious of those that I know love me? I’ll be no better than mad Lews Therin.

It’s a good line of thought, and a necessary one, but I’m still SO CONCERNED because again, this entire chapter has been ANTICIPATION EVERYWHERE and at any moment it’s going to go horribly wrong and

“Min,” he said, softening his voice. “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I’ve gone too far.”

She turned to look at him, relaxing. Then she stiffened, eyes widening in shock.

Something cold clicked around Rand’s neck.

AFLKE;JLASJS;ELTIAH;ERKLEFJAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

That is such spectacularly terrible timing. The moment he lets his guard down, the moment he lets himself – makes himself – soften even a little. The moment he reminds himself to trust. The moment he begins to admit something he really needs to admit to; he needs this realisation so badly. And he’s on the verge of it there, and then…this.

Because this will only teach him the cost of that ‘weakness’. The price of trust.

It’s so perfect because it’s SO AWFUL. The exact worst thing happening at the exact worst moment.

The serving woman stood behind him, but her form was shimmering. She vanished and was replaced by a woman with dark skin and black eyes, her sharp face triumphant. Semirhage.

HERE. WE. GO.

At that moment, Rand felt terror. He met Semirhage’s eyes anyway, and she smiled deeply.

THIS IS THE WORST THING AND I’M SO HERE FOR IT.

He’s absolutely powerless. It’s the box again but worse, and it’s the same thing – half a second of something that could almost be mistaken for a tiny bit of trust, and it ends in pain and powerlessness and terror. And there’s nothing he can do so he tries to stand defiant but this is Semirhage and she has absolute power over him right now and that is absolutely horrifying.

This is where Rand breaks, isn’t it?

And oh shit I just realised that this is set up so that Min is in the room.

Just when Rand was thinking about how he tried so hard to convince his enemies that he was a man without affection. One of the few people he shows and feels genuine affection for is in the room, and Semirhage knows how to hurt people the most, and “I would cut off my arm before I hurt you.”

Run, Min.

Or throw a knife. That works too.

Well it doesn’t work, actually, which is kind of a shame, but. Massive credit to Min for trying – again. This is Semirhage, one of the Forsaken, one of the most powerful channellers in the world and the monster parents scared their children with for millennia, and Min should be so out of her depth but she just…decides not to be. She’ll face this, and pull a knife, and call for help, and do anything she can think of, because that’s what she does.

And Rand is just…standing there watching, powerless to move, unable to grasp saidin, unable to do anything at all.

Desperate, Rand reached for saidin again, but found nothing. In his head, Lews Therin began to snarl and weep, and Rand felt almost as if he would join the man. Min! He had to get to her. He had to be strong enough!

He forced himself toward Semirhage and Elza, but it was as if he were trying to move someone else’s legs. He was trapped in his own head, like Lews Therin. He opened his mouth to curse, but nothing came out beyond a croak.

This is…terrifying and it’s just the beginning, because she hasn’t even done anything yet. But he’s absolutely powerless, no matter how much he tells himself that he has to be strong enough – there’s nothing he can do. He’s been here before, in the box, and that only makes it worse.

And…somehow he’s going to have to find a way out of this, because that’s how this works, so now I’m just remembering the They will pay. I am the Lord of the Morning moment and trying to think how that will scale up, and.

I love how perfectly, incredibly, beautifully awful this is. It’s…you really couldn’t make this worse for Rand. To be so powerless, at a moment where he almost allowed himself to acknowledge that he has gone too far. To take that and then encage him, put him at the mercy of the one who knows pain better than possibly anyone else alive. While Min is there. And he knows what this collar is, knows that Semirhage can control him with it, knows her and what she is capable of, and there’s no way out.

Just. Wow. I…yeah.

Rand stood up off the bed, his legs moving against his will. Then, his own hand whipped up and began to squeeze his throat just above the neck band. He gasped, stumbling. Frantic, he reached again for saidin. He found pain.

THIS IS SO MUCH.

I UNDERSTAND NOW WHY YOU ALL KEPT WHISPERING ‘22’ AT ME.

THIS IS SO SPECTACULARLY TERRIBLE AND IT’S JUST GOING TO GET WORSE AND THIS IS IT THIS IS THE BREAKING POINT THIS IS

This is just the warm-up and

We’re in the box again! Lews Therin cried.

And suddenly, he was. He could see it, the black confines, crushing him. His body sore from repeated beatings, his mind frantic to remain sane. Lews Therin had been his only companion.

I mean there is a slight irony to ‘frantic to remain sane’ being immediately followed by talking about the voice in his head as his only companion. But yeah, this is the box again. Except, you know, worse.

Boxes are bad for dragons.

Rand hadn’t been willing to see Lews Therin as part of himself. The mad part of himself, the part that could deal with torture, if only because it was already so tortured. More pain and suffering was meaningless.

This is Fine, I am completely fine, this is absolutely 100% okay. Oh, Rand. That…hurts.

And it’s also such a twisted reflection of Egwene’s recent adventures in pain. She took it in and was able to disregard it because it was secondary to the greater pain of watching the Tower fall apart, but in it she found strength and purpose and a cause she believed in. There is pain, but she could endure it because she was focused on something greater. Rand…it’s similar and yet so very different. The pain is meaningless because there’s so much more pain, so much that he won’t even let himself acknowledge it as his, because it broke Lews Therin so how could it not break him too, if he lets that barrier down? The pain is just more pain, and he’s focused on another goal, but even that brings pain, and he’s forcing himself through it but it all hurts and he so badly wants an ending but he can’t even let himself hope for that too strongly. It’s such an excellent and terrible not-quite-parallel, because it really does manage to be so similar in so many ways, and yet create a sense of opposites.

Perhaps a large portion of the difference comes from that moment when Egwene realised the key: understanding. She knows why she’s fighting, and it strengthens her. Rand hasn’t reached that point of his own arc, quite – he knows he has to win the Last Battle but he’s lost so much of the reason for it. He’ll have to reach that point too, but this is….not the time for it. This is kind of the opposite of that.

He stopped screaming. The pain was still there, it made his eyes water, but the screams would not come. All fell still.

And Egwene stood silently before Elaida and the other Aes Sedai, beaten and bleeding, but calm. Yet for her it was a moment of triumph, while for Rand it is a moment of desperation; he is very close to seeking refuge in madness, here. He is powerless and he can’t see a way out and it’s taking him back to the worst thing he has endured and making it even worse and this is not even remotely a moment of victory. This is despair.

So you get these scenes that are similar in staging, to some extent, with similar beats, and yet they serve almost opposite purposes. I love it.

Also just so much pain.

Semirhage looked down at him, frowning, blood dripping from her chin. Another wave of pain washed across him. Whoever he was.

He stared up at her. Silent.

WHOEVER HE WAS.

WOW.

THAT’S…damn. Whoever he was. He’s adrift in pain, letting himself take refuge in the part of him that is Lews Therin, because there is so much pain there that more is meaningless, and yet he’s not fully Lews Therin either, he’s just…

It reminds me of the battle of Cairhien, in that sequence where Rand comes close to losing himself kind of for the first time, where we get one of my favourite lines: because of Couladin, true, but at the heart of it, because of himself. For a moment, he could not remember his name.

It’s eerie and silent and absolutely terrifying.

Whoever he was. Just…yeah. I…yeah.

He stared up at her. Silent.

When they beat him, after taking him out of the box, he made himself smile through the pain. Now…now it is just silence. Staring at her silently as the pain washes over him and even his identity is adrift. Silence. Nothing. And in its own way it’s even more than the defiant smile. This isn’t defiance, really. It’s something else. Apathy, maybe, except that’s not quite right either.

“What are you doing?” she said, compelling him. “Speak.”

“No more can be done to me,” he whispered.

OH.

WOW.

OKAY THAT’S.

ALRIGHT. UM.

YEAH.

I was trying to find the words to describe the silence and then THIS HAPPENED and yeah it’s a perfect description and it’s so chilling.

Also because Rand now is not the time to issue that kind of challenge.

But mostly because…no more can be done to me. We’ve reached that point. So much pain and suffering that more is just…more. It’s meaningless. There’s nothing left, and there’s barely even anything left of him, and he is a being of pain, what’s a little more?

There’s just this sense of that step past desperation – desperation implies hope. And Rand was there a few seconds ago but now he’s just…pain.

Wow that line is a lot.

Shit. Okay.

Another wave of pain. It shocked him, and something inside of him whimpered, but he gave no outward reaction. Not because he held the screams in, but because he couldn’t feel anything.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS.

Well okay actually I want to compare it to Egwene again because that’s another difference – she withstands the pain, and accepts it. She feels it, and it hurts, and she withstands it because there is a greater pain that she also allows herself to feel, and she accepts that too because it is a part of her purpose, and she embraces that purpose.

I just love how a very similar concept – the nature of pain, and the point at which it is ‘overcome’ – can be used in such starkly different scenes. One a triumph, one a nadir.

The box, the two wounds in his side corrupting his own blood, beatings, humiliation, sorrows and his own suicide.

OKAY JUST. THROW THAT AT ME. RIGHT OKAY UM.

Sorrows and his own suicide WHY WOULD YOU EVEN.

Just. Wow. That…I can’t really say that came out of nowhere but damn.

Killing himself. He could suddenly and starkly remember that.

The moment Lews Therin broke. And he can remember it, remember it clearly, sorrows and his own suicide, and what does that do to someone? To remember that, while he is powerless and in pain, already barely withstanding everything he has to endure in this lifetime, remembering in vivid detail the moment he broke in his last one. I just. This is.

This is so good. This is so well done; that doesn’t do it justice but I’m really kind of amazed by this scene because to get something like this right is hard. Rand’s been through so much that it could easily just be ‘okay and now there’s more pain’, or it could be too much and just become absurd or meaningless, but it manages to find a balance where everything just hurts.

After all of these things, what more could Semirhage do to him?

Do. Not. Ask. That.

“Great Mistress,” Elza said, turning to Semirhage, eyes still seeming faintly dazed by something.

Possibly by the removal of the Compulsion in her mind but also very possibly by the pain she can feel secondhand through the Domination Band. And Rand doesn’t even consider that; it’s another of those moments where you see Rand through another character’s eyes even as you’re in his POV and it’s a little bit horrifying.

“That’s twice now those knives have tasted my blood.”

Min. Run.

“You say nothing more can be done to you? You forget, Lews Therin, to whom you speak. Pain is my specialty”

Yeah.

The thing is, hurting Rand himself may be more or less meaningless at this point. He exists in pain. But you don’t have to hurt Rand to break him.

He turned around, obeying her wordless command, and found Min hanging above the floor, tied by invisible ropes of Air. Her eyes were wild with fear, her arms bound behind her back, her mouth blocked by a woven Air gag.

It was always leading here. To hurt one of the last people in the world he cares about, who loves him, who he loves. And he remembers Lews Therin’s last moments, remembers Ilyena, remembers sorrows and his own suicide and now he’s standing powerless and in pain and he has to see where this is going and still there is nothing he can do.

This is…absolutely perfect. There’s really no way this could have been made worse.

Use it, Lews Therin whispered. Kill her while we can! I will not kill a woman, Rand thought stubbornly, a figment of a memory from the back of his mind. That is the line I will not cross…

I mean if you don’t cross it you’re going to kill a woman you care about. But if you do cross it, then you’ve crossed your last line. And so either way Rand loses, because this is the line he has drawn in the sand, the moral event horizon he has set himself, the last threshold he will not – cannot – cross, because crossing it means he has nothing left to hold to. It doesn’t matter what the line is; it matters that there is a line at all, and now…I’m not really seeing a way out of this without crossing it one way or another.

The last that could be done. There is a double meaning there, perhaps, and if so it’s excellent.

And then he began to form weaves, complicated ones of Spirit and Fire.

“Yes,” Semirhage said, almost to herself. “Now, if I can remember…The male way of doing this is so odd, sometimes.”

Rand made the weaves, then pushed them toward Min. “No!” he screamed as he did so. “Not that!”

“Ah, so you see,” Semirhage said. “You weren’t so difficult to break after all.”

Semirhage is spectacular. I was annoyed that she wasn’t getting a chance to live up to her reputation but holy shit does this ever make up for it. Because this. This is.

This is one hell of a way to fulfil the character Semirhage promised, in the mentions and glimpses of her. Which is a hard thing to do, because that kind of character often works better off-screen than on; most of the time they end up disappointing. Semirhage almost did, but man, this changes things.

The weaves touched Min and she writhed in pain. Rand continued to channel, tears springing to his eyes as he was forced to send the complex weaves through her body.

I am 100% certain this is not the way he should be re-learning tears.

Semirhage must have released Min’s gag, for she began to scream, weeping. “Please, Rand!” she begged. “Please!”

And it’s awful because she loves him and cares for him and trusts him, and knows he never wants to hurt her…and now he is torturing her and it isn’t him and she knows that but that kind of…doesn’t change the fact that she is in pain at his hands. And she’s begging him, and there’s no way he’s not going to play that over and over in his mind and hate himself for it, and what is it going to be like for Min, to look at someone she loves and remember agony at his hands?

Rand roared in anger, trying to stop, unable to. He could feel Min’s pain through the bond, feel it as he caused it.

I…he isn’t actually going to kill Min, is he? And in doing so break the Warder bond himself? We’re not actually going there, are we?

“Stop this!” he bellowed.

“Beg,” Semirhage said.

“Please,” he said, weeping. “Please, I beg you.”

He’s not even trying for defiance. He just…begs.

I guess the fact that he’s weeping could be considered progress?

But damn the image of him standing there, torturing someone he loves and begging, when moments before there was nothing but pain and silence.

He bowed his head. There had to be a way out! He imagined her using him to tear through the ranks of his own men. He imagined them afraid to attack, lest they harm him. He saw the blood, death and destruction he would cause. And it chilled him, turned him to ice inside.

They have won.

THIS IS SO. MUCH.

THIS IS SO GOOD I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY ANYMORE I’M JUST.

WELL FUCKING PLAYED.

That image. Of Rand used as a weapon against his own, of Dumai’s Wells and Ebou Dar but so many times worse, turned against his own side; he’s made himself into a weapon and now he’s in the wrong hands and wow that is an image.

I mean, it’s not going to come to that but it kind of doesn’t need to.

Semirhage glanced at the door, then turned back to him and smiled. “But I’m afraid we must deal with her first. Let’s be about it then.”

Rand turned and began to walk toward Min. “No!” he said. “You promised if I begged—”

“I promised nothing,” Semirhage said with a laugh. “You begged quite prettily, Lews Therin, but I have chosen to ignore your pleas.”

She’s good. She’s very, very good at this. To make him do what he would see as the worst possible thing, to offer him a way out. And he begged so easily, without hesitation, because there was no question of defiance at that point. To give him that reprieve, even as he thought ahead to the horrors awaiting, but at least the immediate horror has passed. And then to turn back as an afterthought. It’s so much worse than if she had done this right away. To give him that almost-hope, and then to hand him absolute despair.

He stepped up to Min, her pleading eyes meeting his. Then he pressed his hand to her throat, gripping it, and began to squeeze.

“No…” he whispered in horror as his hand, against his will, cut off her air. Min stumbled, and he unwillingly forced her down to the ground, easily ignoring her struggles. He loomed above her, pressing his hand against her throat, gripping it and choking her. She looked at him, eyes beginning to bulge.

How will she look at him after this? It’s such beautifully crafted cruelty towards both of them. They’re both absolutely powerless and this isn’t Rand’s fault, it’s not his choice…but it is still him. And the way it’s written, the language here, highlights that. Forcing her to the ground. Ignoring her struggles. Looming above her. And she can know it’s not really him, that he’s being forced to do this, but. It’s his face and his hands and his body and he is the one she sees and that’s not the sort of thing you can just forget, or ignore.

The one who loves him, the one who trusts him, the one he trusts, the one he can confide in. The one who still sees him as human, as ‘sheepherder’, as Rand. And she’ll still want to, but how do you…get past something like this? How do you avoid it leaving some scars? And that will only hurt them both more.

Also please, please do not kill Min.

This can’t be happening.

Semirhage laughed.

Ilyena! Lews Therin wailed. Oh, Light! I’ve killed her!

Rand squeezed harder, leaning down for leverage, his fingers squeezing Min’s skin and pushing down on her throat.

It’s so detailed, so visceral, which of course it is because that’s the entire point. Every step of this is him, he is doing this and causing this pain and there’s nothing he can do to make it stop and this is Min and she’s still staring up at him and wow this scene is.

He felt horror, he felt her pain. Min’s face grew purple, her eyes fluttered. Rand wailed. THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! I WILL NOT DO THIS AGAIN!

ASLFKAJSLESJAT;LIEHRSE

And he’s remembering the last time and it’s the same thing, lifetimes repeating, doomed to Lews Therin’s fate as he so feared he would be, remembering breaking as Lews Therin even as he’s being broken as Rand and it just compounds, and

Something snapped inside of him.

Okay.

Yeah.

So this is.

This is it.

This is the actual breaking point and.

He grew cold; then that coldness vanished, and he could feel nothing.

The last that could be done. The last step into absolute unfeeling steel, into numbness, nothingness.

No emotion. No anger.

At that moment he grew aware of a strange force.

……..oh.

No.

NO THAT ISN’T

ARE YOU

THAT IS

And if it is, if what it takes to access that power is true nothingness, no emotion, no anger…what does it say about Rand that this is the state he has been striving for for so long? To be steel. To harden himself until he cannot feel. If that has been his goal, and in achieving it he can touch the Shadow’s own power…

I mean the ‘I must be steel’ thing was pretty clearly Not Good but if the endpoing of that trajectory is the True Power, that’s. Um. I mean, the goal was to play Rand until he served the Shadow, even as he stood as champion of the Light. He must know anguish.

Wow.

Okay I can say I did not expect this.

I mean, I wondered, briefly, about Rand and the True Power in terms of his connection to Moridin - I remember at one point saying ‘...Rand can’t use the True Power, can he?’ which in hindsight oops - but like.

I did not expect this.

A clouded face flashed before Rand’s own, one whose features he couldn’t quite make out. It was gone in a moment.

Is he accessing this through Moridin, somehow? And in light of what I was just speculating about, with the whole ‘saidin was tainted because it touched the Dark One but something has to touch him’ thing…if Rand can access the True Power….

But that’s going to come at a price.

I mean the fact that he’s accessing it at all, here, is a price.

Oh, Light, Lews Therin suddenly screamed. That’s impossible! We can’t use it! Cast it away! That is death we hold, death and betrayal!

It is HIM.

Chills. Actual chills. That is…wow. That is such a terrifying, perfect, chilling moment. It is HIM. That beat, there. The realisation. The absolute stunned horror.

This is Rand’s low point, and he reaches out and touches the Shadow.

How perfect is that? How absolutely, perfectly, beautifully terrible?

That is death we hold, death and betrayal. What a line.

I wondered how They will pay. I am the Lord of the Morning would scale up. This. This is how. This is…

Looking for any way out, a way to save himself and Min, a way to escape from Semirhage’s hold over him, a way to reclaim himself…

And to do so, he seizes the Dark One’s own power.

Rand closed his eyes as he knelt above Min, then he channelled the strange, unknown force. Energy and life surged through him, a torrent of power like saidin, only ten times as sweet and a hundred times as violent. It made him alive, made him realise that he’d never been alive before. It gave him such strength as he’d never imagined. It rivalled, even, the power he’d held when drawing from the Choedan Kal.

He screamed, in both rapture and rage, and wove enormous spears of Fire and Air. He slammed the weaves against the collar at his neck, and the room exploded with flames and bits of molten metal, each one distinct to Rand. He could feel each shard of metal blast away from his neck, warping the air with its heat, trailing smoke as it hit a wall or the floor. He opened his eyes and released Min. She gasped and sobbed.

And somehow this, his moment of escape and what should be some kind of victory, eclipses in horror the previous moments. Somehow, this managed to make it worse, even as he freed himself. It is HIM.

This.

Is a stunningly well-executed scene.

Because this is it. The last that could be done, and he reached for any way to stop it, any way at all, and found true emotionlessness and in that, the Shadow’s power.

The champion of the Light, channelling the power of the Dark One. He must know anguish. He did, and it pushed him to this. It is HIM. And so the Shadow lays claim to him. He hasn’t turned but this is…I mean, this is what the Shadow wanted. Even his victory may be as dark as his defeat. It was the only way, and yet.

The True Power.

I’m still just…kind of stunned.

Oh okay we’re not done.

Of course we’re not done.

Rand raised a hand and, filled with the power he did not understand, wove a single weave. A bar of pure white light, a cleansing fire, burst from his hand and struck Semirhage in the chest. She flashed and vanished, leaving a faint afterimage to Rand’s vision. Her bracelet dropped to the floor.

Elza ran toward the door. She vanished before another bar of light, her entire figure becoming light for a moment.

No anguish, no agonised decision, no moment of hesitation, no word, not even any thought shown. Just…a lifted hand, a weave of power, and light. One and then the other, and we see nothing of Rand’s thoughts. No anger, no emotion.

The last line. The last that could be done.

And in that sense, breaking the Domination Band is rather symbolic – it’s the shattering of a restraint. The last thing holding him back. And he breaks it, using the True Power, and as that last restraint falls away and he embraces the Shadow’s power, he crosses the last restraint he’s made for himself. Quietly, almost easily.

What have you done? Lews Therin asked. Oh, Light. Better to have killed again than to do this...Oh, Light. We are doomed.

Rand savoured the power for a moment longer, then – regretfully – let it drop away.

That is such a chilling contrast. Still no thoughts from Rand, because it’s all Lews Therin now. Rand has relinquished that. He’s crossed that line and a part of him knows it, and is horrified by it – and more so by that power he has just touched – but only as Lews Therin does he let himself acknowledge it. And the only thoughts we’re getting here are Lews Therin’s, because Rand is in that numb state of no emotion.

And the contrast of Lews Therin’s absolute horror against Rand savouring that power, and regretfully letting it go. Not even thinking about what he’s just done.

It’s also…I love that it’s What have you done rather than the more classic What have I done? Because, given the nature of Rand and Lews Therin, it’s the same thing. But because it’s phrased this way, it’s also…not. And it’s even more chilling because of it.

The way he can go from we are doomed to this eerily quiet savouring of power before regretfully relinquishing it. The True Power.

You guys. I’m. Wow. This is a lot, and I was expecting a lot. But this is phenomenal. This is absolutely perfect and by that I mean this is the actual worst thing that could possibly have happened and it’s executed so. well.

Just the soft, chilling, silent horror here, and the sense that a part of Rand is screaming and he doesn’t let himself acknowledge it – at least not as himself. That he’s just…empty but for this power he has now found. Empty and emotionless and unfettered.

She looked up at him, and seemed afraid. He doubted that she would ever see him the same way again.

….Yeah.

I mean this is Min, and she’s pretty incredible, but. Yeah.

Also still the narrative we get from Rand is so…emotionless. Clinical. This is technically a thought from him, this expression of doubt, but there’s nothing attached to it. No emotion, no sense of regret, just…statement. Lews Therin is the only part of him that’s able to feel anything about what’s just happened, and that part is almost incoherently horrified. It’s this chilling, jarring dissonant contrast, within Rand’s mind, and the way it’s played out here is…yeah. *shivers*

He had been wrong; there had indeed been something more that Semirhage could do to him. He had felt himself killing one he loved dearly. Before, when he’d done it as Lews Therin, he had been mad and unable to control himself. He could barely remember slaying Ilyena, as if through a clouded dream. He’d realised what he had done only after Ishamael had awakened him.

Finally, now, he knew precisely what it was like to watch as he killed those he loved.

Even this is…clinical, sterile. Precise. A clear description, but utterly devoid of emotion. Eerily so, because the last bit of true emotion we got was Lews Therin’s voice with Oh light…we are doomed. And before that the absolute terror of It is HIM.

And in that time, Rand has escaped Semirhage’s grasp and seized the Shadow’s power and killed two people and crossed his last threshold, and all without…thought. Emotion. It’s just…events. Happening. Actions. Which makes this all so much more horrifying. And makes it so much clearer exactly what it is that he’s done here, in taking those last steps.

The last that could be done.

This. This is a low point. This is the low point.

Also I have to take note of how Rand doesn’t distinguish between himself and Lews Therin in that last paragraph there. It’s when he’d done it as Lews Therin rather than when Lews Therin had done it. It’s he realised what he had done. So on the one hand he’s pushing any horror he feels at all of this across that barrier but on the other hand…he’s barely keeping them separate. Which is interesting. Is that the next thing, then? The piece that will let him start stepping away from this low point? Though I have a feeling we’ll be spending a little more time down here. Best get comfortable.

“It is done,” Rand whispered.

“What?” Min asked, coughing again.

“The last that could be done to me,” he said, surprised at his own calmness. “They have taken everything from me now.”

Oh, Rand.

And it’s fitting that he’s so calm, that he says this so quietly and emotionlessly, and it hurts and it’s beautiful and I thought I was prepared for this but in hindsight I’m not sure I was actually completely prepared for it.

This exceeded my expectations.

They have taken everything from me now. I just...oh Rand.

Just that…calm acceptance that it is done. This is it. There is nothing more they can do, they have taken everything, there is nothing left to hold on to. He has crossed those last lines and while he literally begged and wept in the moments before, at the actual threshold it’s barely a sigh. And now that he has crossed, now that it’s done, it’s just…quiet. Because what more is there to plead for, or fight against? What purpose is there in defiance, in anguish? He has lost everything, relinquished the last of himself, crossed the final line that was holding him, that was letting himself believe he still had some shred of Light left to him, and now that’s gone, and so this is it. No pain, no emotion, nothing, because he has moved past that now.

Which is, you know, horrifying.

On so many levels.

I love this. A lot. This is how you break a character.

And it’s also a really interesting place to go because while I’ll be astonished if he doesn’t manage to find his way back somehow – or forward, I suppose, or upwards – crossing a moral event horizon and reaching this state of the-other-side-of-pain-but-not-in-a-good-way is. Quite a step. As far as Rand is concerned, he’s now past the point of redemption. So where do you go from there? What does he do in this state, and more than that, how does he find his way back to humanity?

“I have made my choice, Min,” he said, turning toward the door. “You have asked for flexibility and laughter from me, but such things are no longer mine to give. I am sorry.”

Even that is…we still don’t really see his thoughts here. Because there…kind of isn’t anything there. It’s not a painful, agonising sorrow. It’s not horror at having hurt her, and begging forgiveness. It’s not feeling her love through the bond. It’s just…a statement of fact. I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be, he said to Nynaeve seven books ago. And now…this. The last that could be done.

It appeared that steel was too weak.

He would be harder, now. He understood how. Where he had once been steel, he became something else. From now on, he was cuendillar. HE had entered a place like the void that Tam had trained him to seek, so long ago. But within this void he had no emotion. None at all.

They could not break or bend him.

It was done.

And so the Shadow rejoices.

What a chapter.

That…yeah. That was incredible. I asked for fictional characters in pain and wow did this deliver.

And just…damn. I…yeah. Okay. I’m going to have a cup of tea and like. Stare at it.

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