#life of violence fic

[annabelle--cane]

ooohhh violence. finally tracked down an old ao3 link for a deleted fic that has been haunting me for eight years, slapped that baby into the wayback machine, found a capture with the completed work before the author wiped their account, happily read the first chapter, and then found that the link to every subsequent chapter just lead to the "This work could have adult content" page and didn't have archived versions of any of the actual chapters themselves. why why whyyyy.

[liauditore]

cw// implied character death, double life nonsense

because you are love itself.

[triglycercule]

i love that the murder time trio all have dangerous little greetings. horror has his little hand drill thing. killer puts a knife up his sleeve and then does a little switcharoo. dust INSTINCTIVELY shoots whoever he sees with a bone. no greeting whatsoever. so just imagine how things go on a first meeting or whatever. immediately horror and killer have to dodge bones from dust and horror's like hey wtf man. mildly irritated but he just met these guys so he's willing to forgive. he's not gonna lose his cool in front of these two random ass guys even though one just tried to kill him. killer just has that dumbass smile on his face like always (but he was intrigued when dust did that. like who tries to kill someone on first sight?? he's curious now :3)

and then theyre all just standing together and staring for a moment and horror sticks out his hand. killer takes the bait but then he just points a knife to horror's stolen eye once he realizes that he got duped and his other hand is now currently being drilled into. dust didn't shake either of their hands because he could see the drill and tell that killer had something off about him in general. but he does give a tiny smile when he sees the state that the two r in rn with the drill and knife. it's an eensy bit funny in his eyes

least violent mtt interaction

[yinyuedijun]

not to fire discourse shots on a thursday noon but I think it's absurd to love a character whose entire backstory and character arc revolves around the trauma of slavery and racism and then set arbitrary limits on writers who wish to write about those aspects of his characterization. like I'm not saying you HAVE to write or read content about this aspect of his character to appreciate him, but I think it is a little backwards to decide that the things that give him complexity as a character are exactly what we should not be writing about LMFAOAOFLSNSM

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 28 - Denial

title: just one bite

fandom: secret life smp

cw: violence/gore, very unsafe/gross food practices, vomiting

~

Jimmy’s barely stepped out of the Cherry Blossoms’ Nether portal when—

“What? Hey—!”

Someone jumps on him from behind, shoving him almost to the ground. He staggers forward several steps, trying to toss them off—he catches a glimpse of red hair swinging in his face—

“Gem—” Jimmy grunts, shoving her backward against the edge of the portal. “Get—off—”

She growls in his ear, tearing at his shoulder (between his neck and his armor, a small patch covered by his shirt and usually his jacket, which he had shucked for his trip to the Nether) with her teeth, both hands occupied by holding onto him.

Her weight is heavy on his back, too heavy with how he’s still out of breath from dodging a ghast on his way to the portal, and he shoves back again and this time her grip loosens.

“Someone, help!” he shouts out of frustration, glancing around for anyone as he bucks, finally throwing Gem to the ground.

She scrambles up almost immediately, and for a moment, Jimmy’s certain she’ll jump him again (there’s a glint in her eye, something red that he really doesn’t like), but Scott comes sprinting out of a building, and Impulse comes down the hill from their tower, and Gem backs off, slowly wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Everything okay?” Scott asks, stopping at a safe distance away, keeping a suspicious eye on Gem. Gem moves closer to Impulse, and the two of them have some moment of communication—she nods toward Jimmy, gives Impulse a significant look. He nods back.

Jimmy huffs, clutching his chest. “Jeez, Gem, give a man a heart attack! She jumped me  on my way out of the portal!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have come through our portal,” Impulse suggests, voice . . . flat, less joke-y than Jimmy would have expected.

Right.

“Well, I’ll just be going,” Jimmy says loudly, backing away toward the stairs—

Only to get bumped into by another person, sprinting on past like they didn’t even notice him.

Bdubs makes a beeline for Gem, where he stops and she . . . nods, again, at Jimmy.

He looks back.

Bdubs is Red, now, Jimmy saw that pop up on his communicator, but when did he throw in with Gem?

And why is the look he’s giving Jimmy almost . . . hungry?

Jimmy doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like this one bit.

“Sorry, Jimmy,” Gem says, thoroughly unconvincingly, her voice devoid of emotion. “We’ll see you soon.”

And, erm.

That was.

“That was ominous,” Scott laughs nervously, and Jimmy has to agree.

Then he leaves, not quite turning his back on them.

There’s something strange going on there, no doubt. Probably best to let it be and focus on his own task.

When Jimmy gets back to Baxter (not back-to-back at Baxter, Martyn isn’t there and he really isn’t sure that he trusts Martyn, anyways, as the man is now the only Red and Jimmy thinks he might jump at the chance to make them both Red), he strips off his armor to replace his jacket and notices the tear in the shoulder of his shirt.

He frowns, tugs down the collar of his shirt, checks out his back in the tiny mirror that Martyn had found.

Okay, not bad. Where Gem had gotten him through his shirt, his skin is a little red, some small bruises sure to bloom soon enough. There’s a bit of blood with the fading imprint of Gem’s teeth, only two or three of them deep enough to actually pierce his skin.

Why on earth did Gem bite him? He can’t taste that good. What kind of task would she, a Yellow, have that would make her attack (and bite?) another Yellow?

Weird. It’s all weird.

Well, he has a minute, and he’s already at Baxter, so Jimmy pulls off his shirt and sets to fixing it up real quick, messy stitches pulling the hole closed.

That’s life. Sometimes your friends ambush you and bite your shoulder. Usually it’s their dog that bites you, of course, but sometimes they need to cut out the middle-man.

So really, Jimmy doesn’t pay it much mind. It doesn’t feel strange compared to some of the things he’s done in the past, honestly. Not normal, not necessarily, but not weird.

What possible bad effects could it even have, anyway?

-

“Timmy! Get in here!”

It’s that evening, and Jimmy was just stopping by the Roomies’ base to ask for a trade (his pickaxe just broke, he’s short one diamond to make another) only to find the place seemingly abandoned. He’d wandered around for a bit, knocking on doors and glancing about, but he’d finally assumed that nobody was home and decided to go try Pearl instead (though she did die earlier today, and he isn’t sure how amenable she’d be to trading).

But right as he was about to head out, a whispered shout got his attention.

Jimmy looks around again, frowning.

“Grian?” he asks uncertainly. “Are you here?”

A long sigh, and a couple of meters away, a trapdoor pops open, hidden by surrounding grass. Grian’s head pokes out, and he frantically waves Jimmy toward it.

“This isn’t suspicious at all,” Jimmy says. “Is this part of your task?”

“Forget the tasks, get in!”

Which is very unlike Grian.

So Jimmy lowers himself through the trapdoor, follows Grian down a ladder and then a thin, rough-hewn tunnel, then up another ladder until they come out . . . in the Roomies’ base.

“Why couldn’t we use the front door?”

“Trapped,” Cleo says shortly, coming down the stairs, Etho right behind her. “Grian? I thought you said that we weren’t letting anyone in?”

“It’s just Tim,” Grian waves her off. “We need someone we can use as bait.”

“Bait?!” Jimmy sputters, taking a careful step away from Grian. “I’m—I’m not bait! Bait for what?”

What’s with people and having tasks that seem to directly harm him?

Grian, Etho, and Cleo all make dark eye contact. Eye contact that Jimmy doesn’t trust, not one bit.

The front door’s trapped. He can try to go back the way he came, but he can’t get down a ladder faster than someone can drive a sword through him. His pick broke, so he can’t mine out.

“Have you noticed anything . . . weird . . . going on?” Grian asks after a moment, and Jimmy scoffs.

“Weird? Other than you luring me here to use as bait?”

“They’re zombies, Jimmy,” Etho says ominously, and Jimmy blinks.

“What’s zombies?” he asks, assuming they aren’t talking about normal zombies. Everybody knows that.

“The others,” says Grian. “Gem, Bdubs, Impulse, Pearl. We think it started with Gem—she killed Bdubs, right? Then Impulse. But—”

“She killed Pearl,” Cleo interrupts. “And I saw it. Tore her apart with her teeth.”

Jimmy’s stomach turns.

He’s not the biggest fan of violence, but he can get his hands dirty. Figuratively. He usually has to be at least a sword’s length from any death he causes, because he really isn’t a fan of blood and flesh and all that! It makes him queasy just to kill from a distance.

To imagine Gem, literally tearing into Pearl with her own teeth, blood and viscera dripping everywhere until Pearl eventually died in her arms?

Traumatizing.

Jimmy actually wants to vomit just thinking about it. He really doesn’t like gore.

The injury on his shoulder aches, just a little. He rubs it absently, trying to shake the horrible image from his mind. “So—so what makes them zombies?”

“They’re hunting,” Grian says. “Bdubs wasn’t allies with Gem, but now he won’t leave her side. Same with Pearl and Impulse. They’re all together, hunting every Green and Yellow left. They were after Scar, last I saw.”

“They look wrong,” Cleo frowns. “They’re stiff, and their eyes are . . . off.”

“They’re zombies,” Grian repeats, and Jimmy. . . .

Jimmy still doesn’t really believe them. Why—how would there be zombies?

“Sure,” he says, glancing back to the trapdoor. “Can I go now? I have a task, right, and—”

“It isn’t safe—”

“If you don’t want—”

“We need to find other people,” Etho says reasonably, silencing the other two. “Maybe Jimmy can go get Joel?”

“Or he can be bait,” Grian suggests again. Cleo nods.

“Well, now I don’t want to leave,” Jimmy mutters. “Prove that they’re zombies.”

“Right. Come with me,” Cleo says, pushing past Jimmy to head down the ladder.

Which is how Jimmy witnesses the hunt.

Cleo leads him across the map to the Secret Keeper, where they hide behind one of the boulders, poking their heads over just enough to see what happens. They make it there just in time for the hunt to cross past them.

It’s . . . disconcerting, if he says so himself. Four Players on horseback, chasing after Scar, who runs by, panting and exhausted, his hair damp with sweat. Scar climbs up the boulder they’re sheltering behind, shoots a couple of arrows at the pack that has stopped, waiting.

“C’mon, Scar,” Gem calls, and Jimmy hears it again. That odd emotionless quality, the feeling that, perhaps, she prefers not to speak. “You, of all people, will love it.”

“It’s right up your alley, Scar,” Pearl entices, and maybe it’s a trick of his ears, but she sounds the same way. Still Pearl, but . . . not-quite-right.

“No! No thanks!” Scar yells, voice jumpy and panicked and downright terrified. “I don’t want to join your little murder cult, thanks!”

He ducks as an arrow whizzes over his head, and Scar shrieks before running away again.

The pack follows.

Cleo stays frozen for another moment, head tilted slightly as she listens, presumably ensuring that they’ll be safe.

That. . . .

That wasn’t right. Like, Jimmy’s sure that he can justify it with relatively few mental gymnastics, but it wasn’t normal behavior.

“I need to get some stuff from my base,” he whispers, and Cleo shushes him, but doesn’t tell him no, so Jimmy scrambles down from the boulder and makes a break for Baxter.

What does he need? Some food, probably. A note for Martyn—hey M, zombies!!! bye -J—enough iron to craft up an iron pick if he never gets another diamond, a change of clothes, some other necessary survival-y things.

And when he leaves Baxter, he finds Cleo with Scar again, over at the Heart Foundation.

“Scar,” Cleo’s saying, looking down at him from a horse (when had she gotten a horse?) that seems to be very skittish around the quite new fire spreading up to the heart. That hadn’t been happening when he left. “Scar, the ones chasing you—”

It’s out of nowhere that Pearl and Gem ambush Scar, shooting at him as the man jumps away, fear fresh on his face—

Then Pearl leaps off her horse and sprints, faster than should be possible, diving into Scar and knocking him to the ground. Jimmy winces as the arrow in Scar’s back get twisted under her weight, but he barely has a moment to notice it before Pearl buries her teeth into Scar’s upper arm.

Scar screams, flailing, and Pearl pulls back, stringy flesh snapping free in a burst of blood, and goodness gracious Jimmy might throw up, his legs are trembling and his palms are all clammy—

Gem dives to Scar as well, and her teeth dig into his cheek—

A hand grabs the back of Jimmy’s shirt and he panics, kicking out blindly, he doesn’t want to die like that—but it’s just Cleo; she sits him in front of her on the horse and snaps the reins and off they ride.

Jimmy doesn’t watch. He doesn’t watch, but he can’t cover his ears. He can’t not-hear Scar’s warbling pleas for help, his agonized screams, the slow trail-off.

His communicator buzzes.

He doesn’t have to check it to know.

“I told you,” Cleo reminds him, and Jimmy swallows several times.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Jimmy manages.

“Not on me.”

-

That night, back in the new housing arrangement, Jimmy’s hand brushes against his own shoulder while changing and his breath vanishes from his chest.

No.

No.

If the zombies is a real thing, and Gem’s the one who started it—

Jimmy doesn’t look at the bite. He can’t. Well, he can—Grian has a mirror, but he won’t. He won’t look and see if it’s progressed.

His skin is a bit warm under his touch, though.

Probably just because he’s had his hand on it for so long. He just warmed up his skin, is all. He’s fine.

It still hurts. It still twinges when he presses on it, his shoulder aching just a bit, through and through.

He’ll be fine. They probably have to kill him, right? He’s fine.

Jimmy pulls on his nightshirt, careful that the collar doesn’t slide down in the back, and opens the door to the bedroom, before pulling the rough wool blanket off Grian’s bed and laying it out on the floor, where he’s decided to spend the night.

Goodness gracious. He didn’t expect this to happen this week.

“There’s five of them, then,” Grian says, walking in and stripping off his sweater, left in his white undershirt. He stretches, briefly flexes his muscles (defined by the hard work that comes with joining a new server) in the mirror before throwing himself onto the bed. “Great. I really wanted to have to worry about a zombie apocalypse on top of all my other problems, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy chuckles. “I’ve got a task to do, dude!”

“I’m just surprised they haven’t got you, yet. You’ve cheated death way too many times already.”

Jimmy doesn’t touch his shoulder. He doesn’t even think about it. “Yeah. Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?”

Grian groans. “Tim, I really don’t want to babysit you this week. I’ve already got a dishwasher to keep an eye on, I don’t need two responsibilities.” “You won’t even notice I’m here.”

“Right. You’d better not betray me after this. I gave up space in my bedroom for you.”

Jimmy would never betray him.

He hopes.

-

It’s day two, and Jimmy’s feeling . . . fine.

Which is a relief, honestly. He skips breakfast to go on a walk, the early morning fog not-quite-cleared, around the back of the base and up the hill, where he stops on the bed monument and sits, the sheets a bit damp from dew.

He slips off his pack, massages his shoulder as he looks out.

He’s not spent much time on this part of the map. It’s nice, different from where he’s set up. It’s very green here, plenty of trees and scurrying animals and whatnot. If he looks to the left, he can see a bit of the mesa, and he briefly hopes that Martyn’s doing all right.

Who is he kidding? Of course Martyn’s doing all right! It’s Martyn, he’s been Red for ages and fine the whole time. And it isn’t like he could even become a zombie—he’d just be out of the game, wouldn’t he?

Facing forward, he can see the Heart Foundation, a grey drab of smoke still hanging over the remains of their heart. Jimmy can see them down there, Tango cooking something up in their open-air kitchen, Skizz feeding their horses.

It’s quiet, this morning.

Jimmy likes the quiet. He really, truly does. He complains about it sometimes, and he’ll be the first to admit that he can get a little loud, but some of his favorite moments in the Southlands had been those nights on watch, just him looking out over the wall at the rest of the world, thinking fondly of the friends who trusted him to protect them.

They should set up a watch, shouldn’t they? Sure, they’ve trapped the entrance, but that won’t stop a dedicated Player by any means. Especially not a team of five of them.

Has Scott been recruited?

(By which he means, of course, has Gem pinned down her closest ally, tearing chunks out of his face as he begs and screams for mercy, her loyal zombies descending upon him like a pack of hungry wolves.)

He left his communicator inside, hasn’t checked it since last night.

Scott could be down. Joel could be. BigB. Not Tango or Skizz, he can see them. Not Martyn, Red as he is. Not Grian, Cleo, or Etho. Not him.

Not him.

Jimmy scrubs a hand down the stubble on his cheek, resolutely ignoring the soreness in his shoulder.

This is just a task. A task that's turning a concerning amount of people Red, but a task nonetheless. If the aim of the task is to change everyone into a zombie, then they'll either achieve it or the time will run out.

They have to survive a week, all told.

They can do that. Jimmy isn't great at surviving in the best of times, but he refuses to let himself die.

He refuses to become a zombie. It makes him want to vomit, even as he pushes his imagination away from the idea of biting down on one of his friends, chewing dripping mouthfuls of—

Jimmy swallows. Twice. He won't throw up.

Then, from behind—the crunching of bramble, footsteps through the woods—

Jimmy spins around, and Joel freezes, sword raised.

“Are you—?” Joel manages, voice rough. He doesn't finish his question. He doesn't need to.

Joel looks like he's been living in a nightmare. His hair is unbrushed, leaves and twigs stuck in it. His hoodie is missing, shirt is torn and fraying at the edges, one long thread trailing down to his mud-stained knees. The shadows under his eyes are deep and oily, his eyes just the tiniest bit red around the rims.

Jimmy shakes his head. “A—a zombie? No, I—are you—?”

Quick as a flash, Joel launches into him. Jimmy barely has time to put his hands up, to do anything, he didn’t bring a weapon with him like an idiot and now he’s going to die—

Joel knocks them both to the ground (Jimmy’s shoulder lands on a stone and a whimper of pain escapes his lips), entirely on top of him, his sword thrown to the side, and Jimmy doesn’t have time to protest because he knows with sickening certainty that Joel’s teeth are about to rip out his throat and it’ll be so gross.

Joel’s face is right in front of his, suddenly, and Jimmy swallows. His wide eyes are fixed on him, unable to leave his face.

Joel is very close. Far too close. Jimmy doesn’t struggle, terrified as he is (though his face warms, blood rushing to it).

Joel’s breath is hot against his nose, his chest heaving against Jimmy’s chest, and Joel grins, teeth shining with saliva, and leans in even further.

“Me neither,” he whispers, lips practically touching Jimmy’s cheek, before rolling off of Jimmy and onto the dirt.

Jimmy swallows again.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Joel laughs, sheathing his sword. “You absolutely thought I was going to eat you, didn’t you?”

Jimmy shakes his head (less as an answer, more as a way to dispel the embarrassing lack of thoughts). “I just—well, anyone could be—”

Joel just laughs again, then starts picking his way down the hill. “Is Etho all right, then? I imagine you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t someone here already.”

Jimmy rolls onto his side. He’d had bread in his backpack; hopefully it hasn’t been squished by his sudden slam to the ground.

He did not expect to get pinned by Joel when he woke up this morning.

And—not pinned, not—even if that’s what happened, it isn’t—

Right. No more thinking.

Jimmy rubs his shoulder, then follows Joel in.

-

It’s day three, and Jimmy definitely isn’t feeling quite right.

He’s fine, of course. He’s doing well, even. It’s really just the pressure of everything terrible that’s stopping him from feeling entirely perfect, and nothing else.

Martyn shows up around seven in the evening, and he stands outside of the barricaded wall built around the base with crossed arms as Grian looks down disdainfully from the top of the hill.

“I was Red last week, and you let me in,” Martyn shouts up at him. “It’s not fair! You can’t discriminate against me, just because I’m Red! I’ll file a report with . . . with somewhere, I’ll get you canceled!”

“The rules are clear,” Cleo calls down, standing beside Grian. Jimmy, up on the wall, grimaces an apology to Martyn. “No Reds.”

Martyn does the best impression of a kicked puppy that Jimmy’s ever seen, eyes huge and lip trembling.

“Please?” he asks, voice wavering. “I won’t do anything bad, promise!” “He’ll pee on everything,” Jimmy tells Etho beside him.

Etho raises an eyebrow.

Martyn ignores them. “Security wasn’t near this strict before,” he says, voice smoothly segueing into conspiratorial. “What’s with all the extra care? A couple of Yellows are feeling insecure?”

Cleo and Grian exchange a look. Joel, still working on reinforcing the wall, glances over.

“You . . . you know there’s zombies, right?” Grian asks slowly.

Martyn shrugs. “I mean, yeah? Every night. There always have been, I don’t know why this is news to you lot.”

“Other zombies,” Cleo clarifies. “There are. They’re becoming zombies.”

Martyn’s head tilts in confusion. “What’s becoming zombies? The horses? I thought that was established already.”

“No, it’s—it isn’t—”

“Is this someone’s task? Something to do with not seeing a single zombie all week?”

“Just let him believe that,” Grian says tiredly, as Cleo tries to continue explaining. “He’s immune, anyways. No real use trying.”

“Sorry,” Jimmy says, leaning over the wall.

Martyn clicks his tongue. “Timmy. What happened to the Big Dogs, huh?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you were gonna kill me this week. . . .”

“I would ne—well, I would do that, actually, can’t really blame you. Still, Baxter’s missing you. He gets lonely, up on that hill all by himself.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Sorry,” he says. Then, because he does feel a little bad about abandoning Martyn with barely any warning, adds, “I’ll be back next week, okay? It’s . . . part of my task.”

“Oh,” Martyn nods knowingly. “Infiltrate another alliance. All right, Tim, see you around!” He skips off, whistling a high-pitched tune, and Etho shakes his head and clambers down from the wall.

Cleo and Grian leave the hill, go inside through the secret tunnel, and Joel finishes up the part of the wall that he’s been working on and follows Etho in, and Jimmy’s alone on the wall, staring out after Martyn as he leaves.

He’s fine.

His hands are shaking.

“Jimmy, come get dinner,” Joel calls from inside the base, and Jimmy shouts back some sort of response but he doesn’t move.

They have to die to become a zombie, don’t they? His—it doesn’t count. He’s still alive, he’s still Yellow.

The aching pain in his shoulder doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bruise. It’s a bruise that is taking a little too long to heal and that’s okay. It’s probably a bone bruise, honestly. That’s why it’s healing slowly. Bone bruises take forever.

He really, really doesn’t want to be a zombie. He hasn’t done anything for his task all week because all he can think about is this awful apocalypse. How on earth Grian’s managing to do whatever it is he’s doing with that Magma Cube is far beyond Jimmy.

He can’t die. If he dies, he might become one of them. Even if he only has the tiniest bit of zombie infection in his shoulder. If that’s even true. Which it isn’t. More likely, it’s just a normal injury that’s part and parcel of these games.

“Oh, Jimmy!”

Jimmy’s heart freezes in his chest.

At some point, his eyes had drifted down to his shoes, scuffed and dirty, but now he looks back up, dread sinking down his throat.

Scar, coming into view down the path, twirling a shining knife around (one that Jimmy knows, with horrid certainty, he won’t use). His voice is oddly flat, his pace somewhat jolting as he skips his way toward the wall. Behind him, on horseback, are Gem and Pearl. Impulse and Bdubs are nowhere to be seen—that gives them something of a better chance, at least.

But before Jimmy can feel any sort of relief over that, another group catches his eye—Tango, Skizz, BigB, all headed around the side toward the base.

Oh no.

No, they’re being flanked, aren’t they?

“Come on, Jimmy!” Gem yells. “You know you need to, let’s just hurry things up a bit!”

His tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth, his feet welded to the ground. They’re here, and this is going to prove once and for all that their defenses don’t work and then it’ll be a bloodbath and goodness gracious he wants to vomit just thinking about it—

“Hey! Leave them alone!” That’s Skizz’s voice, loud and spitting fire, storming over to stand between the zombies and the wall, and oh so they haven’t been turned, that makes things quite a bit better.

“H-Help!” Jimmy manages, given strength by the Heart Foundation’s stance, and they’re human and he can’t just abandon them, can he? “Grian! Joel! They’re here, help!”

He fumbles for his bow, leaning on the wall of the parapet—but his fingers feel weak and can’t quite grasp the string. He drops his arrow before he can fire it, and is he even allowed to fire it? He’s still on Yellow, after all—can he fire it?

His moral quandary is brought to an abrupt halt as Grian pops up from the tunnel, scaling the wall in a matter of seconds. He frowns down at the opposing groups below, then whistles sharply.

“BigB,” he says, and BigB, now beside Skizz, glances up.

“Oh, hey, G.”

Scar grins, his eyes glinting, and Jimmy takes a step back.

“What’s going on?”

Joel has shown up, pushing himself out of the ground, and Etho follows him, both already drawing weapons.

“They’re here,” says Grian grimly. Etho shrugs, stretches.

“Guess we’d better face them, then,” he says, resigned in an almost upbeat way.

“Is Scott with them?” Cleo asks, rolling out of the hole and onto the ground.

Grian hums. “Don’t see him.”

“We aren’t here for a little chat,” Impulse calls up to them. Pearl hums, practically drooling. “We’re hungry. You all get it, don’t you?”

Jimmy swallows. He does feel hungry—just a bit, in the pit of his stomach. But it��s probably because he only had a piece of bread for lunch and he hasn’t eaten anything for dinner yet. It isn’t—it’s not the same kind of hunger.

“Plenty of food on the server,” Grian says evenly. “If you wanted a lunch invite, you should’ve just asked.”

“Oh my gosh, they smell so good,” Scar stage-whispers, loud enough that Jimmy can clearly hear. “Can we please just go for them? I really want to sink my teeth into Etho.”

“Nobody move,” Grian throws behind himself, digging in his satchel. He turns his attention back to the intruders. “You’re out of luck, fellas! Nothing to see here. Nobody’s home, even!”

“Hey, uh, Grian?” Tango asks nervously. “You mind letting us in?”

“Don’t let Tango in!” objects Etho, striding toward the gate to get the man in his line of sight. “He died earlier, he’s one of them.”

“I—what? No, I’m—”

“Come on,” Pearl drawls, then everything is thrown into chaos.

Skizz lunges at the zombies, sword drawn, forcing Gem’s horse to stumble back and Pearl to slide down from her saddle, pulling out her axe. At the same time, Grian finds what he’s looking for and throws it at Scar—an Enderman spawn egg that cracks on the ground next to Scar, an Enderman folding up out of it.

And Etho, sudden panic choking his voice, says, “Oh—Grian, I looked at it—”

The Enderman vanishes with a vwoop, then reappears in the base, arms reaching out toward Etho—

Etho runs, shoving out the gate and across the thinning woods, Scar whoops and takes chase, Tango darts in through the now-open gate, and Jimmy leaps down from the wall and follows after Etho, the screaming Enderman, and Scar.

He isn’t sure what he intends to do—kill the Enderman? Stop Scar?—but he follows, struggling to get his sword out of its sheath.

“Get him, Scar!” Gem encourages, far too close, and Jimmy glances to his left to see her loping along on her horse, keeping easy pace with the train of runners.

She could kill him, no problem. She would just have to divert her course a little bit, slam an arrow into his chest, swing her sword as she galloped by.

The fact that she doesn’t is more disconcerting than anything.

Jimmy just keeps running, feet pounding against the ground, backpack bouncing on his back, air coming in gasps.

Etho is having a worse time of it—he’s dodging and weaving to try and keep away from the Enderman, but his detours mean that Scar is quickly closing the distance between them, his sword poised to strike.

Can Jimmy attack him if he tries to kill Etho?

Does he dare?

He can hear Etho’s heaving breaths, the stones on the beach of the lake scattering under his feet, and Etho’s sword clatters against those same stones as he tosses it to the side and splashes into the water, immediately slowed by the drag of water against his legs. Scar continues in after him, slashing out—the sword cuts across Etho’s arm, just missing his armor, and Etho grunts but keeps pushing until the water becomes deep enough to swim.

Jimmy slows to a stop as he approaches the beach, the burned Heart Foundation base a dark shape over the murky water. Etho’s trying to make it there, the water chopping loudly under his windmilling arms, but Scar strikes—

“Don’t—” Etho cries out, the sound half-drowned as his head sinks under the water—

And again—

And Scar takes a weakly struggling Etho and drags him up onto the Heart Foundation, ignoring his waterlogged coughs to straddle his legs and bite into his chest.

Jimmy does vomit this time.

He really, finally does, he falls to his knees on the rocks and just turns his insides out, hacking and coughing and trying not to hear Etho’s screams over his retches.

He fails.

He hears the flesh tearing from bone, squelches and creaks and horrible gurgling, and what’s even worse is that he can smell the blood.

He can smell Etho’s blood from here, where the stones dig into his knees and his vomit paints the ground—he can practically taste the coppery viscousness floating over on the air. It rests heavy on the back of his bile-flooded tongue; Jimmy bites the taste back (not swallowing it, not devouring it) and pushes himself to his feet, even as the last of Etho’s cries fall silent.

He couldn’t save him.

When Jimmy looks up, Gem is still there. Sitting on her horse, watching him.

She’s going to kill him, now. She’s going to lick her lips and leap for him, and Jimmy’s too shaky from puking to even think about defending himself.

She doesn’t move, though. She stays, and offers him a humorless smile, and raises an eyebrow.

“Ready?” she asks, and Jimmy isn’t sure how to respond.

Instead, he picks up Etho’s sword in the hand that isn’t holding his own and sprints back toward the base.

-

“I’ll be fine,” Joel reassures Grian, hitching his backpack higher up on his back. “They know I’m here, they’d never think I’d go back to my base.”

It’s the fourth day, and Joel is leaving for supplies.

Jimmy’s feeling. . . .

Well, he wouldn’t say that he’s doing well.

His entire arm is burning. All the way down to his fingertips, buzzy and painful and nauseating. He hasn’t eaten anything, his stomach churning near-constantly.

He’s been ignoring it for too long, but he doesn’t dare look at his shoulder in the mirror. He can feel it, feel the heat that radiates from it, how swollen it’s become.

He’s fine.

He’s fine, and he’s hungry, and he’s fine.

(He’s hungry, but the food that Grian cooks tastes like ash in his mouth, and his stomach is constantly rebelling, so he usually only manages a couple of mouthfuls before feeding the rest of the plate to Cleo’s dogs.)

(And Jimmy watches Joel go, and something in the pit of his stomach growls at the sight of his friend.)

Grian’s certain that the zombie curse is Gem’s task, that she has to turn everyone she can. If he’s right, then it should wear off when the new week starts.

Jimmy’s already made it four days. That’s over halfway through. He can do three more.

Joel, apparently, can’t.

It’s after lunch that day that their communicators buzz with a dreaded message. Joel’s fallen to Gem, which means he’s joined the zombie crew.

That leaves so few of them. Grian, Cleo. Skizz, Tango, BigB. Scott, presumably.

Jimmy.

Jimmy spends most of the day away from the others, gathering food in the surrounding woods. There isn’t much to scavenge, at this point—he finds some berries, an apple tree (nothing that looks remotely appealing). One of Cleo’s traps has a rabbit in it, but he doesn’t touch it.

The bloody fur and raw flesh is the first thing to look somewhat appetizing to him.

On second thought—

Before Jimmy realizes what he’s doing, he’s disabled the game trap and dug his teeth into the mangled fur of the rabbit, tearing into its flesh with wild abandon. His handkerchief of berries falls to the ground and he eats, congealed blood smearing onto his cheeks, it’s—but he barely manages three bites before he’s violently vomiting all over his hands and the carcass, dropping to his knees as his body spasms and rejects the horrid meal.

No. No, that’s—

There are probably bugs on it, maggots, even, he just started eating a dead, raw rabbit without even wanting it, and there’s fur caught in his teeth and his mouth tastes foul—

He has to get rid of the evidence.

He isn’t a zombie. He isn’t.

Jimmy picks up the remains of the carcass and starts sprinting, down to the lake, where he throws the rabbit as far as he can. It lands with a plosh in the water, sinking instantly, and Jimmy sticks his hands in the water as well, washing them of his vomit and the rabbit.

That was—

That was—

He feels shaky.

Of course he feels shaky, and it has nothing to do with his cravings. He hasn’t properly eaten anything in ages and he’s thrown up twice in the past two days, there’s nothing in his body to fuel him.

But how can he eat when nothing sits in his stomach?

He’s not going to become one of them, but if he starves himself it’ll be the same difference. He has to figure out a way to eat something. Something close enough to whatever it is he craves that it’ll stay down. And it has to be closer than a rabbit carcass, he thinks, shuddering.

He unstraps his waterskin and swishes some lukewarm water around in his mouth, spits onto the stony beach.

He’ll make it through this.

And he’ll get this horrid taste out of his mouth.

-

Cleo has a bucket of rotten flesh that she keeps outside the doghouse, used to feed her pets.

That’s where Jimmy gets his supper.

He feigns eating the porkchops that Tango serves, squirreling bites away in his napkin when no one’s looking. Then, when Cleo wakes him up for the second watch, he sneaks out to the doghouse and raids the bucket, taking whole handfuls of squishy, dripping flesh, flies buzzing away.

He eats it right there, leaning over the bucket, too hungry to be as disgusted as he wants to be. He stuffs fistfulls of stinking, green-tinged meat into his mouth, barely chewing as it slides wetly down his throat, landing in his stomach with a sensation that’s almost physical.

It isn’t quite what he wants, but it works. It doesn’t satisfy the craving, it doesn’t make his arm stop burning, but he starts to feel like he can think through the hunger again.

He stops himself before he can eat too much. It wouldn’t do to finally find something that’ll stay down, only to overstuff himself and get sick. And he can’t take enough that Cleo notices that her stock has depleted.

Jimmy washes his hands with a calm sort of detachedness, willing himself not to think of what he’s just done and how revolting it was. If he doesn’t think about it, he can ignore it.

And ignore it he does, until he’s patrolling up the hill, looking out over the server.

There’s someone out there, far off. Climbing around the Secret Keeper’s boulders. Martyn, hopefully. Martyn’s still out there kicking, somewhere, and Jimmy doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the zombies were up at this hour.

Then he freezes, every line of his body going stiff, as he feels something hard poke into the small of his back.

“Hey, babe. Been all right without me?”

Jimmy swallows, his throat gone dry.

The pressure on his back releases, and he turns around as slowly as he can manage, hands held up to show that he doesn’t have a weapon.

Joel’s there. Of course Joel is there. Jimmy had recognized his voice, flat and unaffected as it was.

His eyes glint dully with red, his skin pale in the moonlight. He sheathes his sword, sweeps back his dark hair.

Jimmy swallows again, the rotten flesh threatening to make a reappearance. Joel takes a step closer, his eyes boring into Jimmy.

“I—get out, I’ll wake the others—”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Jimmy clamps his mouth shut. Joel smirks, eyes lighting up.

“You are,” he says. “Gem told me you’re one of us. I didn’t believe her. How’ve you been hiding it this long?”

He’s not. He’s not hungry, he’s not one of them.

“You didn’t really eat much, though, did you?” Joel contemplates aloud. “I made you a sandwich yesterday, and you didn’t eat more than a bite. Are you really starving yourself over this?”

“I’m not starving,” protests Jimmy. “I’m—I’m fine.”

“When did you last eat?”

“I—half an hour ago.”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “So late? What, were you waiting to sneak raw meat? I’ve heard that raw pork is about as close to human flesh as you can get.”

“Rotten flesh is closer,” Jimmy argues, before he realizes what he’s just admitted. Joel chokes out a shocked laugh, just as flat as his voice.

“You—sorry, rotten flesh? Rotten flesh? Jimmy,” Joel says, voice dripping with astonished pity. “That’s probably the grossest thing I’ve ever heard. How could you—?”

“You don’t get it!” Jimmy bursts out, and now he can’t control the words spilling out of his mouth because he’s been on edge for days— “You don’t—I’m fighting every day! Nothing tastes good, I keep throwing up, my friends are dying all around me and then trying to kill my other friends, my arm hurts so bad—”

He cuts himself off, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. The rotten flesh had filled the gaping hole in his stomach momentarily, but the hunger is roaring again, stronger than ever. He can’t even think about it—just the idea of cannibalizing his friends makes him tremble in fear, but it seems so—

So—

“Jimmy.”

He shakes his head, eyes on the ground. “No. I don’t—”

“Just give in.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

Joel places a gentle finger under Jimmy’s chin (when did they get so close?), tilts his eyes up to meet his. Jimmy’s breath catches in his chest; he stares at Joel, lips trembling.

“Just let go,” Joel breathes, eyes fixed on Jimmy’s. “Don’t you want to be satisfied? After so long of denying yourself?”

Jimmy’s tongue darts out, wets his lips. As much as it disgusts him, he really, really doesn’t want to be hungry anymore.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. Perhaps it’s that, the fear of the pain, the fear of letting go, that’s been making him hold on so long.

Joel winces. “Yeah,” he says, voice still low. “It hurts. But after that . . . after that, it feels so good. Better than you can imagine.”

It does hurt, then.

If there’s anything that Jimmy doesn’t do, it’s pain. He hates pain almost as much as he hates violence and gore, getting anxious over the smallest anticipated harm.

He’ll hold out. The hunger hurts, but it’s a pain he knows.

“Think about it,” Joel says softly, his breath warming Jimmy’s lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

He slips away, into the darkness of the woods. Jimmy stands there a moment longer, chin still elevated, until he can no longer hear Joel’s footsteps heading away.

Then he falls to his knees and sobs.

-

It’s the fifth day, and Jimmy can barely breathe.

He can’t look at any of his friends without craving them, without longing to sink his teeth into their flesh, and it grosses him out but he can’t stop thinking about it.

Grian’s skin looks so soft, especially the skin right under his chin, above his adam’s apple. Jimmy watches it move as they eat, scrambled eggs that squirm their way down Jimmy’s throat and will surely come back up later. He keeps his eyes fixed on Grian’s throat, pretending that he’s chewing that instead of eggs, and the imagined sensation of blood and skin filling his mouth makes the food almost bearable.

It also makes his hunger that much worse, though, so he abandons the breakfast table as soon as possible, hurrying out to check the game traps.

His arm is useless, at this point. It hurts almost as much as the hunger, has become a chunk of deadweight at his side, heat branching out from him to spread to the rest of his body.

For far too long, Jimmy contemplates just cutting it off and eating it, but would that count? Would it count to eat his own flesh, or does it have to be someone new?

Also, then he’d probably bleed out and just die anyway. That wouldn’t be helpful.

He ends up digging in the bucket of rotten flesh after he pukes up the eggs, shoving the gooey, stinking flesh into his mouth, shuddering and gagging with each piece he forces himself to eat.

It isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, but he can’t. He isn’t one of them. He’s human.

He’s sweating all the time now. The heat from his arm has started burning away at his body, carrying an incurable fever. It’s like his body knows exactly what he’s resisting and is determined to make him suffer about it.

“Jimmy, you doing okay?” Tango asks later that day (evening, the sun beginning to set, Jimmy’s head pounding and his stomach growling every other minute), as they feed Cleo’s dogs. Tango turns the bucket over into the yard, frowns as only a small pile plops out.

“Yeah? Why? Why wouldn’t I be doing okay?”

Tango shrugs. “I dunno, man. You look like you’re coming down with something. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m—I’m great!” Jimmy blusters, tension flowing through his stomach in choppy waves. “I, I mean—maybe a bit warm, but—”

“Better than the zombies?” Tango quips with a grin.

Jimmy swallows. “Um. Yep.”

Maybe it’s speaking of them that summons them. Maybe they just can’t resist such succulent, intoxicating human flesh. Jimmy’s having enough of a hard time with it, and he isn’t even one of them.

But the zombies turn back up, jeering and chanting for them to come out and fight, and Jimmy heaves his chestplate on and picks up his sword to go meet them at the gates before remembering that someone should make sure they aren’t coming in from the back.

He pokes his head over the wall—Gem and Pearl and Impulse are there, but there’s no sign of Joel or Scar or Etho.

That can’t be good news.

“Grian,” Jimmy hisses, sidling over to where Grian is boredly listening to the zombies’ cries, his bow trained on them. “The back. Half of them aren’t even here, they might be coming in the back!”

Then, high on the air, a whistling sound—an arrow flying toward them—

Jimmy moves instinctively. He leaps onto Grian, pushing him down against the parapet, his nose buried into Grian’s soft hair, the hilt of the man’s sword jabbing into his stomach.

The arrow soars over them, landing somewhere on the other side of the wall—landing in Gem, if the answering scream has anything to do with it.

“Sorry! Sorry, I was aiming for Grian—”

Grian’s skin is so close to Jimmy’s mouth right now.

He goes still, breath catching in his chest. Wave after wave after wave of desperate hunger crashes into him.

He—

Then Grian pushes him off, and the moment is broken.

Right, right, Jimmy needs to get a hold of himself—

“Thanks,” Grian mutters, then rolls to his feet, turning his bow behind them.

Sure enough, Joel, Scar, and Etho are standing on top of their base, not far from where Jimmy had spoken to Joel just last night. Had that talk been Joel scouting out the area for a surprise attack? How could he have let it go on for so long without alerting anyone to Joel’s presence?

Joel—it looks like he smirks at Jimmy, though from this distance, it’s hard to tell. Jimmy turns away, raising his sword threateningly toward the zombies on the ground.

Down there, Gem is on the ground, trying to work an arrow out of her chest. Pearl and Impulse are beside her, swords raised against any further attack.

“Tango! Uh-oh, uh-oh—”

Skizz, on Grian’s other side, sprints past Jimmy, almost knocking him off the wall. He jumps off and runs toward the staircase up the hill, and Jimmy watches—Tango’s on the steps, fleeing the hill, panic in his eyes and an arrow in his shield—

Skizz doesn’t last long.

It’s mere moments before screams echo down the hill.

“Come on!” Grian yells, and Jimmy blindly follows him down and up the hill, joining Cleo and BigB already on their way. The four of them round the top of the staircase right as Joel pulls a bite of flesh away from Skizz’s arm with an awful ripping sound, blood spurting everywhere.

Grian leaps into action, forcing Etho to drop Skizz’s other arm and defend himself, even as Scar bites Skizz’s neck, blood quickly soaking Skizz’s shirt. Skizz screams and screams, free arm twitching up and back down, his lifeblood and chunks of flesh just falling to the ground as two zombies tear at him like they haven’t eaten in weeks—

Even as Cleo starts forward, Skizz’s tortured eyes roll back into his head and his body goes limp, dropping like a deadweight. Joel enjoys one more bite (and there’s something in his eyes, boring into Jimmy’s, something inviting and proud and gloating) before abandoning the body, running for the woods. Scar and Etho follow, Etho getting a good slash in on Grian’s upper arm before fleeing entirely.

Jimmy stares at Skizz’s remains, at how much red there is. Someone tore off his cheek before they got there, part of his jaw visible, redstained teeth eerily peering out at them. The air stinks with the scent of his blood, worse than any butcher’s shop, worse than any battlefield.

Jimmy’s stomach turns.

It always does. It always does, he can’t stand gore and violence, he can’t see it happen without bone-shaking terror and enough nausea to make a shipful of sailors hurl their guts over the railing, and right now is no different.

Jimmy collapses to his knees and pukes, two meals’ worth of rotten flesh coming up slimier than it had gone down.

-

“Timmy saved my life, really,” Grian says, slapping Jimmy hard on the back.

It’s the sixth day.

It’s the sixth day.

“Then puked on your shoes,” Cleo points out.

“Yeah, well. He knows I won’t forgive him for that, no use trying. But I think Scar’s arrow would’ve hit me off the wall if Tim hadn’t tackled me.”

“It’s good to have you on our side, Rancher,” Tango says proudly.

Jimmy doesn’t say a word.

He can’t open his mouth.

If he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to resist digging his teeth into Grian.

The man is right beside him, one heavy arm still weighing down his shoulders, and Jimmy is overly conscious of how close their cheeks are. He can’t think of anything but that, can’t think of anything at all except turning his head to attack Grian’s face, tear his skin from his flesh, eat and eat and eat until he can’t feel the starving fever that gnaws on his very bones.

It hurts so, so much.

He can’t continue like this.

If—a deal. A deal with himself. If Grian keeps holding on for ten more seconds, he’ll go for it. He’ll give in. He’ll finally give in. But if—if Grian lets go, then—

Before he can finish defining the deal in his feverish, disconnected thoughts, Grian hops away, off to the small kitchen in the corner, dishing up toast for everyone.

“Skizz will definitely come for me and BigB,” Tango says, taking one of the plates from the counter and sitting at the table. “This place isn’t working anymore—every time they get another one, they’ll just be one closer to totally overwhelming us.”

“So we need to hide,” nods Cleo.

“We need to get out of here,” Grian agrees. “I was thinking maybe the mesa? We can pay Martyn off to keep them distracted, maybe, and hide in the tunnels where we got the Warden.”

“Wouldn’t Etho want to check there?”

“Oh, right, that might be the first place. . . .”

“We could go to my backrooms,” BigB says.

“That sounds terrifying.”

“What? They’re totally normal!”

Sweat drips into Jimmy’s eyes.

The conversation blurs into background noise.

Grian’s not wearing any armor. Cleo already slapped on a chestplate, and Tango and BigB are fully kitted out, but Grian’s still just wearing his sweater and jeans.

He looks. . . .

His stomach is so empty. Jimmy’s stomach feels like it’s tearing itself apart. That’ll kill him. He’s starving.

Surely. . . .

Surely one bite won’t turn him into a zombie?

Just—just one bite, just something to ease the hunger pangs the slightest bit, something to tide him over until the end of the week. He won’t take any more than that, just that one bite, and then he’ll be quiet and do his job, he promises.

Just one bite, one bite of Grian’s mouthwatering flesh, surely he wouldn’t begrudge him one bite? Jimmy saved his life, after all. One bite won’t turn him into a zombie—after all, Jimmy was bit ages ago, and he’s fine!

One bite can’t hurt. It would just be to quell his shaking mind. He’s fine, he just needs one bite. Just one bite.

The sun coming through the window warms Grian’s cheek, a slight rose tinting his pale flesh as he laughs at something Cleo said. It looks delectable, melt-in-the-mouth, disgustingly delicious and it’s everything Jimmy needs, he just needs a little bit, just one bite, that’s all, just the cheek—or some other part, wherever is least inconvenient for Grian, wherever he wants it to be, just one bite—

“Don’t you think, Tim—”

Jimmy can’t hold himself back. He dives across the table with a crash that shakes the whole house, sending toast and plates flying, reaching for Grian, mouth already open—

“Jimmy!” “Hey, what—” He has to! None of them understand, he has to, Jimmy can’t survive any longer like this, he needs—he needs it—just one bite, he just needs a little bit, he just needs to tear Grian apart under his teeth, he needs blood and flesh in his mouth and sliding down his throat in satisfying chunks, he just needs—

Strong hands pull him back. Everyone is yelling, all around him, and Jimmy’s teeth snap down around nothing as Grian scrambles back, knocking his chair over and falling to the floor.

No, no no no, he just needs a bite—

“Just one bite,” he sobs desperately, tears streaming from his eyes as drool drips from his lips. “Please, any of you, just one—just one bite, I promise, I just need one, I’m so sorry—”

They don’t give it to him.

They want him to starve.

They pull him down hard into his chair, and Jimmy barely has time to struggle before they tie him down, heavy ropes pulled tight around his growling stomach and over his pounding heart. He writhes, tries to get at whoever is closest, but his mouth can’t quite reach anyone.

No, no, please! Please!

“Jimmy,” Tango says, and Jimmy manages to focus long enough on his face to see the shocked disappointment painting it. “Jimmy, how long?”

Jimmy takes in a shuddering breath, one that doesn’t fill the hole in his stomach. “Please,” he begs. He can’t take it anymore, he can’t, it hurts so much, he’s going to fall apart but he only needs a little bit to keep going! “Please, just one bite, please!”

“Of course!” Grian says angrily, tossing up his hands. “Of course it would be Tim, of course Timmy would hide that he got bit! You’re the person that everyone hates in zombie movies, Tim! You aren’t special, you moron!”

He doesn’t get close enough for Jimmy to even attempt to reach for, but his lips tremble as he stares at Grian’s flesh anyways, desperate for just a taste. He’s finally broken, he’s finally given in, but he doesn’t need much. Anything, please, anything.

They don’t give him anything.

They leave.

They leave, and they leave him there, and they show Jimmy Grian’s communicator—

<Grian> left you zombies a gift at the base

And he’s there alone.

Alone, shaking and starving, fever and pain radiating through him in waves, he just needed one bite. . . .

“Well. You know, we don’t usually have a taste for people like us, but. . . .” Joel smirks from the entrance, eyes fixated on the tears streaming down Jimmy’s face, at the reddened veins crawling up his neck from his useless arm, at the hunger etched deep into his fearful eyes.

Joel lunges for him, and Jimmy closes his eyes and hopes that he doesn’t throw up as he feels his stomach be literally torn open.

[clarisse-doodles]

Cass + ballet 🩰 (ft. supportive siblings and good dad Bruce)

I love the idea of Cass enjoying dance. It's an outlet that allows her to express herself without words, and I think she would enjoy the highly technical aspect of ballet combined with its storytelling and emotional side. and as a former dancer I always have fun imagining my fav characters do ballet :)

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

At first Minato thinks the sound he hears is his eardrums popping, but a moment later he realizes that it came from a distance– a distance they’re closing as they sprint onward, in fact.

In front of him, Sanada stops short. “What–?” Minato can barely hear him. “Dammit… Both of you, hang on!” He takes off again, not even short of breath. 

Minato is almost jealous. Despite all of his time spent with the track team, he feels dizzy and ready to collapse by the time the alleyway behind Port Island Station comes into view. Every breath might as well be filling his lungs with tar instead of air.

The shadows in the alley sharpen and focus into human shapes– not two, but three of them: one sprawled on the ground; one standing as tall as it can; the third looming over them both, arm extended towards the smallest figure, taking aim–

“Takaya!” Minato’s voice sounds foreign in his own ears. He wouldn’t have guessed he’d be able to speak at all, much less shout.

Everything happens all at once after that.

Takaya’s whole body jerks towards Minato’s voice. 

The shape on the ground lunges up and forward, taking the smaller figure crashing back down with it.

The gun goes off with a sound like–

Like a gunshot.

It isn't a clap of thunder. It's not at all like the crack of a whip. 

There is no metaphor that can soften the truth. 

The noise that tears open the silence of the Dark Hour is a gun being fired: a spark igniting powder propelling a bullet at shattering speeds towards the soft, vulnerable bodies of his friends.

Speckles of something dark and reflective fan through the air, glittering obscenely where they catch the light of the moon. Takaya almost seems to glow under that sickly light; pale skin and hair and eyes and shining silver gun gleaming ghost-bright in the murk of the alley, in stark contrast to the dark shapes huddled on the ground.

He meets Minato's eyes briefly. His expression is openly astonished for less than a moment before it shifts to fury, then is immediately papered over with a mask of calm indifference. He says something, but Minato is still too far away to hear. The Dark Hour swallows him up faster than Minato would have assumed possible.

He isn't terribly preoccupied with Takaya's Houdini act at the moment though, because–

"Shinji–!"

Aragaki lies prone on the pavement with Amada pinned underneath, whose breath is coming in shallow, panicked gasps, his face pale under dark splotches of blood. The bullet intended for Amada has shredded Aragaki’s right shoulder into a confusion of gore and torn wool and glimpses of pinkish-white that Minato tries not to think too hard about.

“Hang in there, Shinji!” Sanada hauls him off of Amada and onto his back, revealing another wound in his gut, a black well of blood. More of it dribbles sluggishly from the corner of his mouth. Aragaki doesn’t cry out in pain as Sanada and Mitsuru rearrange him in their hold, lifting him off of the cold concrete and supporting his head. He hardly makes any noise at all.

Minato feels like his ears have been jammed full of cotton. He can tell people are talking, but he can no longer pick out any voices or words. His vision tunnels, phantom colors chewing at the edges. 

He stands there and watches as Yukari frantically tears out of her jacket and hands it off to Mitsuru, who packs it hard against Aragaki’s ruined shoulder. 

He stands there and watches as Junpei unties his own jacket from around his waist and uses it to dab gingerly at the side of Amada’s face– it’s only now that Minato realizes that not all of the blood that Amada is wearing is Aragaki’s. The shape of Amada’s left ear is all wrong, like some of it is just missing, but Minato only catches a brief glimpse before Junpei presses the jacket over the injury and holds it there, hiding it from sight.

Yukari tries to summon her persona. Io flickers above her like a mirage for less than a second before vanishing. She pulls the trigger again, but the result is the same. She pulls the trigger again and again and again, face contorted and body heaving with sobs that Minato can’t hear. Io stops appearing at all. He stands there and watches.

It’s no use. They’re too far from Tartarus or any powerful shadow that could be harboring a piece of its influence. They’re too close to the end of the Dark Hour. Minato has two personas that can cast Recarm, but they wouldn’t be of any use even if he could draw his evoker, if he could move at all.

He stands there. And he watches.

Aragaki is saying something to Amada, and Amada answers through his sobs. Their mouths are moving, but Minato still can't hear. Why can’t he hear anything? Why does it feel like his mind is clouded over in static? 

Something jabs hard into his side and suddenly Minato’s ears work again, like a loose wire has been jarred back into place.

“--ato! Minato! Hey, are you listening?!” He blinks, dumbfounded, and turns to the source of the voice. Junpei is staring at him. Minato has no idea what he’d call the expression Junpei is making at him, but it’s not one he’s ever seen him wear before. “Give Sanada-san your coat, man! We need to stop the bleeding!” 

Even though he can hear again, it still takes him far too long to actually comprehend what’s being said. Junpei starts to repeat himself before it finally clicks and Minato shucks his jacket and hands it over. Junpei passes it off to Sanada, and Sanada presses it against the hole in Aragaki’s stomach. Aragaki doesn’t even flinch, just looks over at Koromaru gently nudging his hand. He pets him weakly. It’s probably the most movement he can manage.

“Just a few minutes–” Fuuka says, nearly hysterical. “The Dark Hour ends in a few minutes. As soon as it does, I-I’ll call an ambulance!” 

“Did you hear that, Shinji?” With the hand that isn’t leaning on the makeshift bandage, Sanada grabs Aragaki’s, gripping tight. Aragaki grips back, much weaker. “Just hold on for a bit longer!” 

“Aki…”  Aragaki’s voice is quiet and thready, but everyone falls silent at the sound of it. “Take care of him…” He slowly inclines his head towards Amada. 

“Don’t talk like you won’t be around!” Sanada says through gritted teeth.

“Pr…promise me, Aki.” 

Sanada’s breath hitches and he bites his lip against it. “…Alright. Alright, I– I will. I promise I will.” 

Aragaki smiles and Minato’s heart lurches. It’s sad. It’s final. 

It’s relieved. 

Aragaki is smiling like a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. He looks so content that Minato almost envies him. “This is…how it should be…” he sighs.

He slumps in Mitsuru and Sanada’s arms. Minato’s ears ring. There is a chorus of strangled cries from his teammates. 

Amada chokes like he’s been stabbed. “No–! H-he can’t–!”

“Is he–?” Junpei’s voice shakes.

“He’s alive,” Sanada gasps, still clutching Aragaki’s hand. “He’s still breathing–”

“I can feel his pulse,” Mitsuru affirms, pressing two fingers gently to Aragaki’s neck. “It’s weak, but it’s there. He’s only passed out, but unless he gets medical attention soon…” She can’t even finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. The implication is heavy enough. 

“Still breathing,” Sanada murmurs to himself. “He’s still breathing–” He says it again and again, as though he can force the words to remain true through sheer repetition.

Without fanfare, the green glow of the Dark Hour vanishes. The murky clouds that had blotted out the stars disappear and the moon returns to its normal size. 

“Yamagishi!”  Mitsuru exclaims.

“R-right!” Fuuka is already dialing. Her voice is strained and thin but steady as she relays the necessary details, and the person on the other end of the line thankfully seems to understand. It isn’t until she closes her phone that Fuuka allows a choked sob to escape. “Th…they’re on the way,” she says, her voice breaking. 

All they can do now is wait. Nobody speaks. Most of the team crowds around Aragaki, if nothing else to assure themselves that he’s still alive. Only Amada stays off to the side, until Junpei breaks away to crouch next to him and speak quietly. 

And Minato. He’s frozen in place, staring at the battered body of a man he’s come to greatly respect as the life slowly leaves him. His eyes burn, but it doesn’t feel like the sting of tears. They don’t feel wet at all. Has he been blinking? 

A hand rests on his shoulder. “Minato-san,” Aigis says, her vocals strangely gentle. How does she feel about all of this, Minato briefly wonders. “Are you alright?” 

“...No,” he answers, voice barely audible even to himself. Minato hasn’t felt like this since… not since Back Then. Not since the bridge, and the car.

Aigis’ face remains as impassive as always, but somehow she still looks sadder than she ever has. Sadder than Minato thought she was capable of. “I am here if you need me.” The compassion in her voice feels like a brick thrown against his chest.

It’s only a few minutes until they hear sirens, but it’s the most agonizing few minutes of their lives. Even in Tartarus, where a minute can stretch like taffy, time has never seemed to creep by so slowly.

A group of punks has started to gather, trying to gawk at the sprawled figure hidden within the protective ring formed by his teammates. They scatter as soon as the ambulance pulls up, stopping right next to the huddle. Four paramedics pour out and swarm around the injured parties as fast as they can. Two police cars arrive moments later. Officer Kurosawa steps out of one of them.

The alley is filled with disorienting pulses of red and blue light. Minato almost misses the sickly haze of the Dark Hour.

There’s a whirlwind of voices– explanations and questions and medical jargon– but Minato absorbs none of it. He just watches (again– again, he just watches, and does nothing) as three of the first responders transfer Aragaki onto a stretcher and load him into the ambulance. The fourth gently guides Amada inside as well. 

Everyone wants to go with them, but there’s only enough spare room for one more person. Minato isn’t surprised when Sanada insists it be him. Nobody argues, and the ambulance takes off the moment Sanada is inside. 

The last train has already left the station, so the rest of them will have to find another way to the hospital. And they will. They have to.

None of them can bear the idea of doing anything less.

[violetmuses]

Tandem - Multifandom Crossover ❤️‍🩹

Title: Tandem - Multifandom Crossover ❤️‍🩹

Fandoms: “Rebel Ridge” + “Bad Boys” 

Characters: Terry Richmond + Armando Aretas

Love Interest: Female Reader 

Main Storyline: When Terry Richmond arrives in Miami, who knows what could happen next?

Tandem Masterlist

@peaxhygirl @superstar-t20 @adoresmiles @klssngss @deja-r @hyper-trash-panda @amethyst-loves-bucky @planetblaque @sweettea-and-honeybutter @lovedlover @xjjawsomex @readingisahobby @kindofaintrovert @nelo0wesker @gg-trini @cloveroctobers @maliagurl @nobodygetsza @twinklestarslight @yassbishimvintage @sweetiepie4190 @persethegawd @mangoes03 🏷

=====

2024

Relocating to Miami, veteran Terry Richmond wanted to start life all over again after escaping the rural and dangerous town of Shelby Springs. 

Upon entry, the new apartment offered more than enough space. Justice grounded some peace, but even with his cousin avenged, time still burned. 

After taking this much-needed shower to clear emotions, Richmond dumped the weathered backpack and organized his very few items. 

Learning the brand-new area, Terry signaled that elevator and chimed down. Modern decor prolonged this lobby as sunlight illuminated. 

Just before Richmond headed outside, one different man entered the building. 

Detective Mike Lowrey of the Miami Police Department would introduce himself to staff members. 

“Someone will move here, but we'll handle everything.” Lowrey took charge. 

Red and blue overcasts crossed that Florida skyline. Even sirens wailed. 

What the hell? Terry thought. 

Just when Richmond planned to ask questions, the entrance opened. 

Officials escorted this handcuffed man right into the complex and Richmond's nerves heightened with each passing moment. 

“Yo, what's going on? You good, man?” Terry almost gritted his teeth. 

This guy named Armando Aretas wouldn't respond at first. 

Wearing this Bud Light shirt, Aretas chose one trucker hat that veiled his brown eyes. Jeans covered both legs and boots stepped along. 

“It's fine, we got it.” Lowrey noticed Richmond's concern and tried to settle this problem down. 

“What in the world?” Several people offered questions as well. 

Yet when police unfastened Armando's handcuffs, voices shared relief in all directions. 

“Come with us.” Lowrey gestured to Richmond and led Aretas near the elevator. 

“Yes, Sir.” No matter what, Terry offered respect as all three individuals moved upstairs. 

________

“It's a long story, but Armando is my son.” Lowrey stood in the hall with Richmond once Aretas settled his own apartment. 

“Why bring out that police motorcade?” Terry squinted. 

“Like I said, it's a long story. Just know that he works for the department now.” Lowrey explained. 

“Aight.” Terry cleared his throat. “If he's not in trouble, I'll feel better honestly. Thank you.” 

“You're welcome.” Detective Lowrey excused himself from Richmond and returned to Armando's space.

Time would explain what happens now. 

*****

Armando woke up as sunlight greeted the bedroom windows. Gaining this furnished apartment, he organized essentials yesterday. 

Packing his new laptop bag, Aretas left to “explore.” 

Reaching the hallway, Armando pinged this elevator and noticed that someone joined. 

“Terry.” Richmond ended up clipping his name first. 

“Armando.” Aretas wouldn't make eye contact, but followed Terry's lead with introductions. 

“You good?” Terry repeated his genuine question from yesterday. 

“Yeah. Thanks.” Armando accepted Terry's kindness. 

Heading outside, both men walked in silence as vibrant lanes of South Beach lined up. 

Cheerful voices beamed and upbeat music played out loud from vehicles while Terry acknowledged surroundings. 

“Found a coffee shop.” Richmond pointed near one storefront and welcomed Armando past its threshold. 

“Good catch.” Aretas moved. 

_____

“Morning. Could I have some black coffee and a muffin, please?” This muscular man stepped toward the counter and greeted you. His bright eyes nearly prompted your heart to rattle. 

“Got it. Anything else?” You grinned while counting his order. 

“No, Ma'am.” Terry almost smiled not long after paying up.  

“Can I have a name for the order?” You set out markers. 

“Terry.” Richmond quickly stated his own first name

“Thank you. Just wait for a second.” You prepared everything. 

Stepping out of the line, Terry gave room for  different customers, but noticed Armando using his laptop from this window seat. 

“You want something?” Terry leaned inward this time around. 

“I'll get up in a second. Appreciate it.” Aretas noticed Richmond's words again. 

“Terry?”  As expected, you called Richmond's name. 

“Be right back.” Terry reached the main counter again. 

“Here you go.” You handed out his order and smiled once more. 

“Thank you.” Terry almost grinned before sitting back down. 

______

Armando stepped up next and Terry observed everything. 

Once you rang more items and called Aretas, Armando gathered his regular coffee and took one scone, not even messing up his device. 

“Not bad.” Aretas said. “I'll have to leave soon, but thanks for helping.” 

“No problem.” Terry nodded, but looked elsewhere as this Porsche rolled near the curb. 

“Gotta go.” Taking coffee, Armando stepped outdoors and joined the passenger seat of Mike Lowrey's classic ride. 

______

Staying behind at the coffee shop, Terry observed how you handled customers and clocked out that afternoon, leaving this place just in time for lunch. 

“Excuse me?” Richmond stood from that window seat and questioned you. 

“Yes?” You welcomed him outside as this bench waited near the storefront. 

“I'm new here, so thank you for the coffee.”  Terry stepped forward and shook hands.

“Of course.” You smiled. 

“Something happened at my apartment complex yesterday. This guy moved in, but officers showed up and…” Richmond trailed off when you cleared your throat. 

“Armando Aretas…” You nearly whispered. “The police are quiet for different reasons now, but look up his name whenever you can. Most of that information is public.” 

“I will. Thank you.” Terry stood and began to walk away, but you spoke up once more. 

“See you tomorrow?” You wanted to know if Terry would come back. 

“Yeah, I don't mind. Take care.” Terry nodded and bid farewell, leaving your side. 

******

Buying his own laptop, Richmond planned to learn information. 

Nothing could've prepared him for upcoming details, though. 

What the fuck?! 

Realization tunneled this search. Soon enough, Terry's heart raced and dropped all at once. 

Aretas launched havoc on several counts and attacked officials from the Miami precinct four years ago. 

Richmond even found one vital news report from the large-scale case: 

“Famed Miami Detective Mike Lowrey was shot one evening. The video quickly surfaced online and went viral in a matter of hours. Footage first appeared on the darknet and soon spread to mainstream social media platforms. Authorities believed that the shooter uploaded this video himself.”

Damn! Terry slammed his laptop, fed up beyond words. 

No matter what, Armando's crimes remained true with permanent ink. 

*****

Another morning brightened, yet Terry's mind clouded again. 

When Armando's main door opened, Richmond almost flinched while unarmed. 

“Hey, hey, Woah! You good, T?” Armando lifted his empty hands. 

“The barista warned me and I did some research last night. Y'all left out too much.” Richmond turned frustrated without yelling. “Nobody told me about your case.”

“Dammit!” Aretas paced back and forth, quietly upset. “I can explain what happened, all right?”

“Go ahead.” Terry arched his brow. “I got plenty of time on my hands.”

_______

Sitting with Terry in private, Armando started talking first. 

“After leaving the military, I joined the family cartel. My mother planned everything and hoped that I wouldn't spare Lowrey.” Aretas grounded his truth. 

“What happened to your mother?” Terry settled the question. 

She's dead.“ Armando never hesitated with that phrase. 

“Damn, man.” Richmond attempted. “The case is harsh, but I'm sorry.”

“Honestly, there was nothing good about our situation.” Armando declined. “She lied to so many people.” 

“You learned the truth now, right?” Richmond attempted. 

“Yeah, but you know what? I really don't wanna talk about this anymore.”  Mentally exhausted, Aretas stopped debating and glanced toward his new watch.

“Fair enough. You're right, so let's get out of here.” Apologizing, Terry stood from the bench and followed Armando to this new spot. 

*****

“Hi, Terry. Good morning.” You've smiled and already learned his order as Richmond faced the register. 

“Morning. Thank you for giving the update with Armando. We've talked.” Richmond quietly acknowledged how he checked details last night. 

“Of course. We can't risk more issues if people haven't learned that case because Armando just got back.” You nearly whispered the response like code 

“You know a lot about this one.” Terry glanced around. 

“I used to work as an informant.” Still facing Terry now, you offered black coffee and handed over this muffin again. 

Wow. Richmond noted. 

_____

“Hey.” Slightly accented English rasped near your direction when Armando stepped forward. 

“I'm not a snitch.” There's no joyful greeting this time around. “We've lost too many people and I just want everyone else to be safe.” 

“I know.” Aretas completely understood your point. 

“Listen, I'm not afraid.” You arched one brow while ringing up his regular coffee with another scone. 

“I searched your name, too. Why give up the police department for a coffee shop?” Aretas moved ten steps ahead and had learned all about your skills. 

“You.” Your genuinely pleasant voice darkened for the first time. “Once the case guaranteed prison, I quit.”

“Thought you weren't scared?” Armando slyly chuckled and departed the line, waiting for his order. 

____

“Armando?” When you called his name, the area nearly silenced and almost everyone held their breath. Even Terry closed one fist to veil his mouth. 

“Ooh!” Everyone observed as you traded the items. Within seconds, Armando stepped back and didn't face drama. 

When Aretas sat back down, Terry almost smirked. 

“Why the face?” Armando clipped. 

“She hasn't kicked you out.” Richmond pointed near the register as you kept working. 

“Whatever.” Aretas casted both eyes toward that ceiling. 

______

Armando exited that local coffee shop as Mike Lowrey's classic Porsche rolled out again. Before long,  Richmond sat with privacy this time. 

When you began to leave for lunch once more, Terry still noticed your presence. 

“Don't worry.” Terry laughed and opened the front door for you. ‘I'm not hard-headed like Armando.” 

“Very funny.” You walked toward Florida sunlight and joined the storefront bench as usual. “Any plans today?”

“No, Ma'am. Still figuring out my apartment complex.” Richmond glanced toward you. 

“You'll learn.” Now, your gentle voice encouraged him. “Living somewhere new is a process.”

“I understand.” Terry nodded. 

“Oh, shit! Sorry, but I gotta go.” Your phone buzzed seconds later. 

“No problem. See you.” Saying goodbye, Terry watched you almost jog around the block for some odd reason. 

What now? Richmond thought. 

*****

Once you entered this restaurant, confetti popped upwards. 

“Happy birthday!” Members of the AMMO squad cheered after standing from this large table. 

“I thought you needed something! This is my lunch break.” You hugged weapons expert Kelly and tech genius Dorn laughed for a moment. 

“We've already cleared the schedule with your manager.” Captain Rita Secada welcomed your spot from that table. “Take this weekend off.”

“Thank you, Rita. Everything looks great!” You smiled toward the platters and would share each meal with friends. 

Just before indulging, you realized that Detective Marcus Burnett, Mike Lowrey's longtime partner and best friend, peeked around one corner. 

“Where's my niece? Happy birthday, girl!” Marcus shuffled footsteps into the private room. 

“Thank you, Marcus!” You opened both arms to hug Burnett and still observed his recovered heart. 

Not long ago, Marcus collapsed during Mike Lowrey's wedding. 

Lowrey fell in love with Christine, an experienced physical therapist. She also help .ed Mike heal with his shooting recovery that took place years back. 

“Doesn't matter if you've left the team. You're still important, Rook.” Marcus shortened one of your nicknames. 

“I appreciate it. How's everyone?” You acknowledged Burnett's family. 

“Everybody's fine. Megan just gave birth to a baby girl.” Smiling, Marcus counted his second grandchild. 

“Aw! Congratulations, Grandpa.” You laughed while messing with Marcus. Even Kelly almost giggled. 

“Pop-Pop.” Marcus corrected the title and arched his brow toward you. 

“You're still old!” You joked right back and everyone cackled. 

_______

“Happy birthday to you!” Servers pushed the cake forward as everyone sang along. 

Grateful, you blew out candles and prepared your sweet tooth, sitting beside Kelly and Rita. 

“Oh, damn! You cut the cake already?” Detective Mike Lowrey showed up with his wife Christine. 

“Might bring this party to the house, Rook. Now we're crammed in here!” Marcus chuckled. 

“Stop it, Marcus! Let's get some cake and go from there.” Mike jokes with his best friend. 

Even you hugged Christine, sharing dessert with everyone as sunset arrived. 

There was no better feeling here. 

******

Armando returned to this apartment and showered after trading used car keys from Mike at the precinct. 

Lowrey had just picked up his wife Christine to celebrate your birthday elsewhere. 

“Going back home with everybody if you wanna visit.” Mike called. “We can't stay at this restaurant all night.” 

“I don't think she likes me.” Aretas knew better than to interrupt your surprise. 

“Even you and I need to work on things, but I'm trying all right?” Lowrey still attempted. “Come over. It'd be good.” 

“I know. See you later.” Armando hung up, prepared to deal with the occasion. 

****

“Don't argue tonight.” Marcus warned both  you and Armando. 

“Hey, be careful. Now you're instigating.” Lowrey cautioned Burnett. 

“Hold up, I brought wine.” Settling down Mike and Marcus, Aretas carefully held two bottles. 

“Thank you.” Mike welcomed Armando inside and you found Christine again, heading to the backyard. 

______

“Still mad at me?” Armando offered the question while sharing cake with you. 

“No.” You shook your head. “Only cautious.”

“That's fair.” Aretas nodded in return as music played. 

“In all seriousness, how are you doing?” You wanted to help Armando regardless. 

“Better. Things are pretty quiet.” Aretas offered his vague response. 

“Started messing with Terry yet?” You laughed about one regular from the coffee shop. Terry Richmond even became Armando's neighbor.

“No, but can I ask you something?” Aretas leaned back in his chair. 

“Yeah?” You silently waited for Armando's next move. 

“You want him?” Armando clipped the unexpected idea. 

“What are you talking about?” You squinted. “We just met.” 

“Y'all smile almost every day now.” Aretas pulled his observations with Terry. Even coffee transactions looked more joyful. 

“It's none of your business, but you sound jealous.” You nearly laughed. 

“C'mere.” Throwing out trash for both of you, Armando started flirting. 

“Yes?” You stand from the table and trailed Aretas, intrigued. 

“Stop ignoring me.” His slightly accented English nearly whispered to reveal this truth. “It actually hurts my feelings.”

“Did I hurt your feelings or bruise that ego?” You corrected his phrase this time. “Get it together, okay? You're not the big bad wolf anymore.” 

Taking your words, Armando became outright silent as you walked away and started dancing with everyone else that night. 

*****

The next morning, you wake up after somehow choosing this living room floor. 

In some corner, this air mattress waited nearby and even one of Armando's wine bottles looked empty. 

What happened last night? Your now pounding mind buzzed questions. 

When Kelly emerged from the kitchen, you took random sunglasses to dodge brightness. 

“Where's everybody?” You stood up and joined K, greeted by many choices to eat. 

“Mike and Christine are running errands, Rita left, and Dorn took my car to the auto shop.” Kelly pinpointed almost everyone. 

Before you'd question Armando's spot, footsteps moved toward the living room. 

“You're wearing my sunglasses.” Aretas chuckled and gestured by your face. 

As you gaped while embarrassed, Kelly covered her mouth in shock. 

______

“What happened last night?” You offered the question between Armando and Kelly. 

“Lots of drinking and dancing.” Kelly just smiled towards you. “We all crashed down here when Mike and Christine went upstairs.” 

“How much did I drink?” You absolutely cringed right now. 

“You finished that wine bottle with Armando and danced together.” Kelly took a moment and drank water. 

“Dancing?” You then furrowed your brow near Aretas. 

“Yeah, it was fun.” Armando nearly smiled, but caught himself. 

“I definitely have some videos. Hold on.” Kelly seemed more and more humored. 

“Oh, no!” You removed the sunglasses, but still veiled your face this time. 

Just when Kelly began scrolling, Armando's phone started ringing.  

“Hello?” Both you and Kelly stopped messing around when Aretas picked up the call. 

“Dude, it's Terry. We need help, man!” Terry Richmond somehow contacted Armando. 

“What happened? I'm listening.” Aretas put Richmond on speakerphone to hear every detail. 

“The coffee shop's manager is dead.” Terry exposed that truth loud and clear. 

*****

As sirens wailed throughout and emergency lights flashed beyond direction, yellow tape met that coffee shop when law enforcement intervened. 

For the first time since quitting, you prepped one of the uniform jackets and dodged guidelines to help. Sitting back would never become an option. 

“Estimated time of death?” You questioned experts after joining that crime scene. 

“Last night around 10:00 PM.” One professional spoke up this time. 

“Quick kill. Discreet enough to avoid some outward panic.” Mike observed, requesting for you to bring Terry Richmond for questions. “Get Terry, Rook.”

“All right.” You turned away from that body bag while the forensics team moved along. 

______

“Explain what happened, T.” Drifting back to the police station, you joined Armando while Terry occupied this interrogation room.  

“Uh, everything seemed normal. Walked by the coffee shop and picked up my order as usual, but when I left that restroom to go home, there was spotting on the floor.” Terry leveled his response right now as bright eyes focused. 

Spotting? Fuck! You realized. Blood. 

“Where did you find that spotting?” You offered more questions for Richmond while Armando typed. “Did you see anything in the restroom?” 

“No, Ma'am.” Terry cleared his throat. “There's an employee door and office space located directly across from restrooms.”

Bingo! Of course you memorized the layout this year and pictured each area. 

“Who found that body?” You offered that chance just in case. 

“I found your manager sitting dead in his office chair.” Richmond's deep tone answered. 

Despite remaining composed, your heart still dropped. 

______

“We'll block this area until further notice. Who knows what else happened?” Returning to the crime scene, Lowrey took charge again. 

“Looks like another homicide case.” Marcus Burnett cringed. 

“Nope.” Lowrey declined. “Our squad just confiscated plenty of drugs, too.” 

“What the hell?” Burnett still can't believe what's going on. 

“Rook, bring Terry along.” Lowrey asked you to invite Richmond near everyone else as a precaution. 

Here we go. 

*******

Once this team confirmed an investigation, Mike, Marcus and Rita returned home before kicking off the police department's brand-new game plan. 

You bring Terry around as expected and gathered remaining members of the AMMO squad. 

“Sorry for the last-minute rush. We can't take any chances if you stay near that crime scene.” You explained this plan as Terry entered your house. 

“Don't worry. I get it.” Terry nodded, glancing around. 

“Make yourself at home. Kelly and Dorn would crash here all the time.” You welcomed Richmond. 

“Thank you.” Terry nodded and gathered his backpack, scoping the residence just in case.  

______

While Kelly and Dorn occupied one of the guest rooms, Terry showered upstairs. 

Down by that kitchen, you've set up this Bluetooth speaker and quietly played music while cooking for everyone. If only circumstances improved. 

“Hey.” Slightly accented English caught your attention and you carefully turned around. 

“Almost done making dinner. Did you need something?” You asked. 

“Where's your outlet? I just need to charge my phone. ” Aretas lifted his cell. 

“Check underneath my kitchen counter.” You gestured for a moment and finished cooking as Armando walked over. 

“Thanks.” Armando plugged the phone and washed his hands, setting the table with five plates or matching silverware like second nature.  

When that kitchen table looked ready this evening, you'd texted the group chat and everyone started heading downstairs without fail. 

“Smells good in here.” Terry almost smiled over some good news. 

“Thank you, T.” You still expressed gratitude right now. 

“You're welcome.” Terry's bright eyes almost glinted once more. 

Kelly and Dorn sat together, but Armando observed when Terry found this spot near you. 

“Let's not mention the case. How's everyone feeling?” Dorn spoke up next. 

“Never respond. We'll end up with therapy cards…Ow!” When Armando faced Terry, you stepped on his foot under the table. 

“Don't be rude.” You say.

“That hurt.” Aretas clenched his words near you and Terry sipped water to avoid laughing. 

“Get some ice or stop complaining.” You're just trying to eat and Armando frustrated nerves once more. 

“Damn!” Even Terry chuckled while Kelly and Dorn almost looked on. 

“What's so funny?” Armando clipped venom toward Richmond this time. 

“Chill…” Terry warned. “Regardless of the case, you're getting uptight now.”

At that moment, Armando stopped talking and excused himself from this table, choosing to finish his meal outside near the patio. 

Ditching your meal, you followed his path and closed the sliding door. 

______

“What the hell?” Your voice started debating. “You can't keep doing this shit!”

“Go back inside and leave me alone.” Ignoring his plate now, Aretas locked eye contact with you. 

“Don't tell me what to do in my own house!” This nearly raging tone gritted anger. “I brought y'all here for safety reasons.” 

“Why even do it?” Armando kept going. “We can take care of ourselves and you're not a babysitter.” 

“I won't leave anyone behind, not even you, Armando.” No matter what happened next, your words shared this vow. 

“Thanks.” Heading back, Aretas found his spot at the table and tried to feel better. 

******

“Everything okay?” Terry checked on both of you when Kelly and Dorn planned to sleep. 

“We're good. See you in the morning.” Armando nodded and would shower late before resting himself. 

“Aight, see you tomorrow.” Richmond dapped up Aretas for the evening, but stayed downstairs with you. 

Glancing over your shoulder, smiled for their moment of kindness. 

_____

“Don't worry. I'll straighten things up. It's the least that I can do. Terry wanted to help out as you'd reorganize the kitchen. 

“We'll work together. Deal?” You compromised instead. 

“Deal.” Terry cleared different places as you cleaned up. “So how long did you stay with the police? Y'all have pictures everywhere.” 

“About seven years.” You've signaled the dishwasher. “AMMO wasn't even founded yet when I joined that precinct.” 

“Impressive.” Terry almost whistled before fanning out this new trash bag for the garbage. 

“Thank you.” You smiled and described the origin of your nickname: Rookie. “Mike and Marcus call me Rook because of my age. It's not an academy thing.”

“You know enough information and can't feel outdated here.” Terry washed his hands before sitting down in the living room once you both finished responsibilities. 

“Yeah. It's sad, but let's just say that older CIs aren't discreet anymore.” You joined Terry. “No comfort means no details.” 

“How did you find Big Dawg?” Almost laughing, Richmond vaguely referenced Armando. 

“Someone called with an anonymous tip that night.” You explained. “We locked down coordinates and found a bloodbath sprawled out near the Miami Harbor.” 

Shit! Richmond shook his head. 

“How rough?” Terry went on. 

“No survivors: shootings, stabbings, money toppled over that dock. It was one of the scariest things I've ever seen.” You remembered the problem, but never crossed Aretas until now. 

Before Terry asked further questions, you both looked up to see Armando heading back downstairs. 

Fuck. You thought. 

Fresh out of the shower, Aretas wore this tank top with loose pants, heading back to the kitchen. 

“What are you doing?” Changing the subject, you leave this couch and watch Armando get a snack. 

“Can't sleep?” You laughed. 

“Isn't it obvious?” Aretas casted both eyes toward that ceiling and found one bowl, dumping popcorn. 

“Grouch.” Chiding Armando, you gathered more snacks to share with Terry as well. “What's wrong this time?”

“Nothing.” Aretas declined. 

“Hey, don't start that shit again. “She's just checking on you, all right?” As his deep voice returned, Terry defended you while correcting Armando. 

“Stay out of it because I wasn't even talking to you.” Aretas clipped right back. 

“Be grateful that she didn't throw us to the wolves now.” Richmond nearly sized up Aretas while talking about your home. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?” 

“Stop taking charge.” Armando backed off and gestured around. 

“What are you talking about?” Terry squinted, puzzled. 

“You moved here and everybody thinks you're special, but I can't even spend five minutes alone with her.” Armando expressed himself. “Maybe we'd have a better relationship if you'd back off.” 

“Not my problem.” Terry lifted both hands, sitting beside you once more. 

“What do you want?” You crossed both arms and looked toward Armando. 

“Don't ask me that.” His voice noticed you even more as Armando took the popcorn and headed right back upstairs. 

“What?” Frustrated, you squinted near Terry by this point. 

“It's better for everybody if you talk to him. Good night.” Arching his brow, Richmond leaves you as well. 

______

When you finally planned to sleep in your own bedroom, someone knocked. 

You opened this door to see Armando standing in the hall.

“Hey. I'm sorry for irritating you…” Your voice trailed off when Aretas stepped closer. 

“I'm sorry.” His brown eyes locked your presence when Armando sniffled quietly. “I just…”

“Yeah?” You tried to listen because his voice still mattered. 

“Nothing changes what I did, but y'all still ganging up on me doesn't help, either.” Aretas expressed more feelings. “I might as well go back to prison.” 

“Maybe if you weren't so quick to hide from everyone, things would be different.” You offered another perspective. “I just wanna solve this case and go back to normal.”

“I know. It's not easy for me, but I'll try. Get some rest, okay?” Struggling this time, Armando stepped back and you could sleep without interruptions. 

******

By morning, everyone settled around the kitchen together when you finished cooking breakfast. 

“Pass the hot sauce, baby girl?” Terry slipped that nickname by you while looking for one condiment. 

“Here, T.” You didn't even correct him and exchanged the bottle, picking up silverware to eat again. 

“Thank you.” Terry nodded and spiced eggs for his meal, moving on. 

Dorn and Kelly froze in unison here, surprised beyond words. 

“Espero que te quemes la lengua.” Using his native language of Spanish, Armando wanted Richmond's tongue to burn. 

“What was that?” Terry caught on. 

“Doesn't matter.” Aretas stood from the table and noticed Richmond once more. “Help us solve the case or leave.”

“Back up. Gettin’ tired of your attitude.” Of course Terry wouldn't fight, yet patience grew thin. 

“Guys…” Dorn wanted to settle this problem for  everyone, but Kelly stopped him. 

Terry sat back down and still warned Armando. “I thought you wanted another chance here.”

“Stop assuming shit. You have no idea what's going on with me.” Aretas defended himself again. 

Out of nowhere, your phone rings, breaking silence and moving tension elsewhere. 

Putting the call on speaker for everyone, you know better this time. 

“Hello, who is this?” You leveled this question for so many reasons. 

“Hola, Mami. Que tal?” One familiar chuckle reached your phone when Armando's old goon Zway Rodriguez picked up. 

“What did you do?!” After reaching his breaking point, Aretas snapped upon realization, held back by Terry and Dorn when hearing Zway's voice. 

“Just keep me out of prison and I'll explain everything. Otherwise…” Zway requested his own terms. 

“What?!” Armando's rage only worsened, but Terry and Dorn still wouldn't let go of Aretas. 

“Be careful, man. I'd hate for this special girl to be the next target.” Zway dropped that call, bringing everyone into this chaotic frenzy. 

******

“Are you saying that Zway killed this coffee shop manager?” As you stayed home, Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett gathered AMMO members near the department. 

“We'll find out soon enough.” Dorn tracked information to find puzzle pieces for the case. 

“Compromised again?” Mike questioned protocol once more. 

“No, but if we don't listen to Rodriguez, she'll be dead.” Dorn grounded the truth with your safety and planned to lock that case. 

“Be careful while you plan Zway's interrogation, all right?” Marcus and Mike also warned Captain Rita Secada. “We can't even put Armando in the same building.” 

“Fair enough. Go ahead and deal with Rodriguez yourselves.” Rita stepped out of the precinct. 

________

“Listen, be grateful. Armando would've kicked your ass, Zway.” Marcus Burnett paced back and forth while questioning Rodriguez. 

“No, Marcus. If it wasn't for us, Zway would be dead at the morgue tonight.” Mike folded both arms and stood in one corner. 

“Keep me out of prison.” Zway dared to speak this time. 

“First of all, don't fuck around. Did you kill the coffee shop manager or not?” Mike Lowrey squinted. 

“Yeah.” Zway dropped his bored response without showing emotions. 

“Why?” Mike prompted immediate eye contact, keeping composure. 

“It's all revenge.” Zway continued. “I even planted drugs y'all found at the coffee shop.”

“Revenge for what?” Mike questioned. 

“When Armando shot me near that helicopter four years ago, I fell into water, but survived.” Zway revealed. “Keep me away from prison unless you want problems.” 

Glancing toward one another, Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett left the interrogation room. 

_______

“It's official, y'all. Zway just confessed to everything.” Marcus exposed the truth. 

“Is it possible to keep him out of prison?” Dorn looked concerned. 

“No. We need a different plan.” Marcus shook his head. 

“We've got no other choice, then.” Lowrey darkened his voice. 

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Marcus worried. 

“Somebody needs to kill Zway.” Lowrey couldn't turn back this time. 

_______

While staying home as a precaution, you find Terry and Armando in the living room. 

“Hi.” You spoke up. 

“Hey.” Both protective men faced your direction as sympathy reached their eyes. 

“Thank you for looking out.” You've expressed so much more gratitude. 

The doorbell prompted all three of you to glance forward, but Terry checked your RING Camera first. 

“It's Lowrey and Burnett.” Terry pinpointed your friends. 

“Let them in, T.” You offered permission, but Armando stood up anyway, ready for the next plan. 

“Before we start talking about this shit, c'mere, Rook.” Lowrey opened both arms to hug you. 

And for the first time since handling Zway's call, your eyes began to well up. Even Marcus wouldn't pass jokes. 

“What's the plan?” Your kind voice lowered without hesitation. 

“Somebody needs to kill Zway, but Armando can't do it or he'll go right back to prison.” Mike revealed this truth. 

There's no other choice. You've realized the possible outcome. 

“All right, then.” Enough was enough. “Bring the squad together and back me up. Whatever happens, I'm not going down without a fight.”

______

By nightfall, members of the AMMO squad returned to your home and prepared this attack from different corners. 

“Watch the house, Terry.” You offered brief yet vital instructions. “That's all we need from you.” 

“Yes, Ma'am. Be careful.” Armed himself, Richmond focused as you rolled out with everyone and silently waited for more. 

******

“Have Armando take henchmen, Mike!” Marcus yelled out loud while steering another motorcycle and neon lights painted streets. "Don't let him catch Zway!” 

“This is a battlefield, Marcus!” Lowrey moved among blaring engines. “No more rules. I am not responsible for Armando tonight.” 

“What about his redemption, Mike?” Marcus still attempted to be logical. 

“If Rook dies, Armando's second chance won't even matter.” Lowrey gritted his teeth over your chance to live. “Let's go!” 

______

Zway Rodriguez punched speed without fail as racing motorcycles caught up. 

Glancing past his shoulder, Zway quickly realized that someone lifted their firearm while still directing the motorcycle. 

No! Only one person crossed missions through anger four years ago. 

Armando returned. 

“It's Aretas, move faster!” Zway attempted to warn other goons. 

While Zway prepared to dodge Armando, he didn't even notice that your motorcycle joined this fight. 

“Here's payback.” You pulled this trigger and immediately spiraled Zway's route, dashing to escape between shadows. 

“Zway's dead!” Armando turned near you without removing his helmet. 

“Follow back to my house! We gotta check on Terry.” You would return home as expected. 

******

No targets, only silence. 

Terry Richmond heightened awareness while keeping watch in your home. Even distant sounds located for the neighborhood matter at this point. 

When engines revved out loud to line up vehicles this evening, Terry knew that signal. 

The AMMO squad returned. 

“Open the door, T!” You hurried to run inside with everyone else. 

“C'mon!” Terry almost pulled the doorknob this time. 

Kelly and Dorn entered first, no longer hiding in that surveillance van. 

Mike and Marcus pulled through next as Rita stepped up before long. 

When you and Armando reached this house, pain nearly dampened Terry's face. 

Regardless of the plan, it's still a miracle that you're alive. 

Just when this group would settle with relief, lights shut down as the home turned pitch-black. 

“Stay armed and keep watch here! No friendly fire.” Terry warned you and the AMMO squad. 

Within seconds, glasses shattered from rear living room windows as bullets rattled, searching for carnage. 

“Look out!” You screamed, trying to defend yourself while every moment prompted chaos. 

Yet when lights returned for the living room, everyone else glanced around, realizing that Armando and Terry no longer battled here.

“Be careful while searching for them. We gotta move!” Lowrey stepped over countless bodies while instructing all of you. 

Where did y'all go?! Your thoughts rushed as panic heightened even more. 

______

“No corras!” Rasping Spanish once more, Aretas warned enemies not to run. Seconds later, vengeful bullets sparked through lethal fire. 

“I hear Armando's voice in the garage.” Kelly finally noticed echos. “Go, go, go!” 

Scoring the garage, you found absolute carnage here. Even Terry moved forward and disarmed other goons.

“Listen! Either deal with me or I'm throwing you to him. It's your choice.” Richmond still warned targets about Aretas. 

As bullets raced, fear struck combatants every single time. 

“Give me your weapons and leave.” Terry gritted without hesitation. 

While still fighting others, everything slowed down when this bullet pierced time. 

You fell back and toppled against the hard floor right now. 

“Dammit, she's hit. Armando!” Terry barked through shock. 

As blood spilled with each passing moment, you wince despite the guard of your own vest. 

Footsteps rushed to your aid as you still recognized Kelly and Dorn. 

“Call paramedics!” Dorn hurried. 

Rita, Mike and Marcus kept fighting elsewhere in the house, not realizing your injury yet. 

“T….” You struggled, grimacing without assistance. 

“We'll handle this, all right?” Terry still planned to help right now. “Keep your eyes open.” 

Soon enough, Footfalls dashed to reveal Armando's presence. 

“Move!” Slightly accented English pulled more feelings when Aretas shoved Richmond out of his way. “What the fuck happened?!

Entering the garage themselves, Mike, Marcus and Rita stood flabbergasted on sight. 

“Aw, shit!” Mike grilled everyone over your accident. “She's losing too much blood past the vest. Where's medical?!” 

“I already called for help!” Dorn shouted with an explanation. 

“Well, medics better hurry up and reach that bullet!” Marcus exposed his anger. “My niece is dying.” 

Just when you trembled near deadly pain, sirens wailed outside once more. 

******

While beeping sounded, fluorescent lights almost blinded your vision as you woke up in the hospital. 

“Hey, Rook.” Detective Mike Lowrey joined your bedside this morning. 

“H-Hi...” As you struggled talking, exhaustion replaced that cheerful voice. 

“Just take it easy.” Mike cautioned. When you sat up, different wires aided. 

“Terry and Armando?” You looked for Richmond and Aretas. 

“You got it. I'll get 'em right now.” Mike pointed between you and the door. 

_____

“She's awake, c'mon.” Crossing the lobby, Mike updated Terry and Armando as you wished.  

“Made it. How are you doing?” Before long, Terry knocked first and held flowers, showing this rare yet great smile. 

“Tired.” You attempted.

“Better than nothing. You're still here.” Terry joined the bedside chair and sat down. 

“What happened?” You couldn't help asking questions despite everything. 

“We barely reached the hospital and experts took out your bullet during surgery.” Richmond never lied. 

“Thank you.” Your pained voice expressed gratitude once more. 

“You're welcome.” Terry said. “Have you eaten yet?” 

“I can't stomach anything. Maybe later.” Even your throat seems uncomfortable. 

“Okay.” Richmond took notice. Let me know and we'll help out.” 

Knocks resumed and Armando stepped in, no longer wearing tactical gear. 

“Hey, sorry.” Aretas walked closer. “I got some water for you and the vending machine held up.”

“Thanks.” You tried. 

“We just found out that you'll be discharged soon.” Armando revealed. 

“How soon?” You questioned. 

“Tonight or tomorrow.” Armando nodded.

“Thank you.” It's a habit just to repeat that kind phrase. 

Even while you smiled through fatigue, your mood  brightened again. 

*****

Given permission to leave that hospital, you could finally return home, but wouldn't handle work until further notice. There's no other choice this time. 

Headlines soon revealed that the coffee shop became defunct. This establishment pulled too much drama following Zway's dark investigation. 

During your recovery, even Armando helped on a regular basis and only slept from his downtown apartment when working at the police station. 

Sooner than later, Mike Lowrey and Marcus  Burnett had planned another special cookout for the department. Friends still invited you today. 

Planning to leave with Armando, you both signaled the group chat first. 

“Where's Terry?” Moving near that driveway, you haven't heard from Richmond yet. 

“I don't know.” Armando finished packing this car as you joined the passenger seat. “He might've gone to the park early or something.”

Just before Aretas would drive, another vehicle pulled up. 

Richmond turned down the driver's seat window of this brand-new SUV.  

“What are y'all waiting for? Let's go!” Chuckling through joy, Terry guided your route toward the public park. 

This happy ending could shine at last. 

[waywardwizzard]

Curling into a ball, Simon groaned, vaguely aware of someone shouting. A gentle hand on his shoulder made him flinch.

"Easy, doc', just me."

"Mal?" Simon slurred, squinting up at the captain. "How - ?"

"L'il sis threw a fit, figured you were getting into trouble."

Concerned blue eyes flickered over him. "And it seems you were. What the ta ma de happened?"

Simon shook his head, wincing when it gave a vicious trob.

"They tried to take my money." He blinked, "Which is funny considering that I don't have any."

Mal laughed and helped him sit up. Curling an arm around his aching ribs, Simon glared at the captain.

"It's not funny."

"Whatever you say, doc'." Standing up with a grunt, he offered him a hand, "C'mon, let's get back to Serenity."

□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□���□□□□□

Author's note -

I kind of like this one. Don't know why but I do.

@whumperless-whump-event

[northernstcr]

light fires at night (to fill the void) by inthesea is required reading for andreillers

[birchbow]

I feel like Karkat Vs. The Evil Gods is a spiritual successor to Saviors of the Universe even tho it was never fully complete. I have been a fan of your world building since then and I am SOOOO here for it!! I love that we really do seem to have everyone and I can't wait to finish it and then read it all again!

Oh my god same brain cell, I genuinely was just in the car yesterday listening to a song I used to imagine a SoTW music video to, musing like "man I wonder how much of my old plot could be reused" haha. "Spiritual successor" is so true actually. Saviors was SO the project of a teenager/college student. The Saviors team were being brought into the larger world by their ancestors directly, learning to use their powers, leaving their overbearing parental figures and finding new mentors, discovering themselves. VERY college. Whereas KVvTEG takes a lot of the same ideas and vibe--superhero universe, interpersonal drama underlying grander plot, some of the humanstuck designs being similar--but their age and history together is a huge part of the premise itself! Written by a grown-up with a job, lmao.

...I am very entertained by the thought of the crossover tho. Reparenting your much more explicitly superpowered younger self... Just don't let the Gamzees meet. 😬😬 Eesh.

[frankiebirds]

I've always been a little thrown off by the way the characters (the team and the passengers) react to Reid trying to talk down Ted, and I've never liked that the episode ends with Ted being shot (although I appreciate that he survives).

I'm not saying this to be critical of the characters: the team doesn't have audio, and the passengers (save for Elle and the incapacitated psychologist) don't have the knowledge to see Reid getting through to him, but:

I don't know. Look at Ted's face. I'm bad at reading expressions, but at the very least, this doesn't seem like the expression of someone unaffected by what's being said to him, or the face of a man who's about to start shooting people. During the conversation, Ted stops aiming the gun at Reid, and yells at Leo to shut up when he tells him to shoot Reid.

I really think that Reid was on his way to talking Ted down, and I wish he'd gotten to do it. I don't think Elle hitting Ted while Reid is talking him down makes a lot of sense*. She's one of the few passengers who can understand that Ted is calming down, and I think she's at the right angle to see his changing expression. I wish Reid had gotten the chance to keep talking, because I do think he was close to ending it without anyone else getting shot.

One other thing I noticed while watching this episode—throughout the episode, Leo has always been onscreen while he speaks, either in the same frame as Ted, or the camera cuts to him while he speaks. However, if you rewatch the scene, notice that whenever Leo speaks during it, not only is he always offscreen, but his voice has an echo to it that wasn't there before. I don't think most of the analysis I post is reflective of the writer's intent, but that seems very intentional to me, symbolizing that Leo is becoming less real to Ted and therefore losing his grip on him.

*this is a criticism of the writing, not the character. yes, elle is impulsive, but the choice to hit ted while he's being talked down and is no longer aiming the gun at anyone seems like a strange and risky choice.

[mxmarsbars]

wrote some more dl!clock duo angst for anybody interested ^_^

make sure to mind the tags !! this one does contain some violence and death

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 19 - Blood Trail

title: washed up

fandom: hermitcraft smp

cw: blood and violence

~

It was his own fault, really. His own fault that he didn’t check the durability on his elytra, that he hadn’t bothered to enchant them with Mending. How was his laziness more pressing than Mending?

So Etho had tumbled out of the sky, drifting where he could on his damaged wings, until he managed to crash into a tree and fall through its branches, where he landed on the ground just at the edge of a forest.

Etho groaned, pushed himself up onto his knees. His face stung from the lash of the branches against his cheeks, his entire body sore from the impact against the ground. He might have broken his right wrist, caught under his body. It was already swelling up, his hand practically useless.

He wiped his other hand across his face, grimaced when it came away bloody. A quick look down showed he was bleeding from a multitude of different scrapes on his body, his clothes torn here and there. None of them looked serious, or even all that deep, so that could have been a lot worse.

A wrist and some scrapes wasn’t the end of the world, but the dull pain coming from his ankle told him that wasn’t all. He shifted to sit, tugged down the sock of his right foot to check it.

Yep, it looked about the same as his wrist, already swelling up. Maybe broken, maybe badly sprained—either way, he wasn’t walking out of there.

It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. He could be in a lot worse of a situation. Sure, night was falling, but if he messaged the main chat for help, someone would come get him.

<Etho> hey anybody on-world and awake

<Docm77> Hello

<Cubfan135> I never sleep

<Tango> so not bdubs? haha

<Etho> my elytra broke far away… ://

<Tango> oh etho

<Cubfan135> no mending?

<Etho> I haven’t gotten around to it

<Docm77> how far away are you?

<Etho> idk pretty far out

<Etho> [COORDINATES]

<Tango> oh dude that’s forever away

<Etho> yup

<Cubfan135> needing some help?

<Etho> well I think I broke my ankle

<Cubfan135> oh nooo

<Docm77> no potions?

<Etho> nope

<Cubfan135> suiting up now

<Docm77> omw

<Etho> thanks guys haha

Etho set his communicator down in the grass, dug through his satchel. He usually carried a couple of bandages, so he could at least wrap the ankle, get it some support.

He did find an ace bandage, thankfully. He set one end against his ankle, started looping it around the arch of his foot and the joint of his ankle. He moved with practiced efficiency, pinning the loose end and pulling his sock and his shoe back up over it.

He tested it carefully, putting a bit of weight on that foot. Not too bad, but nothing that he thought he could reliably walk on.

A groan sounded from the treeline, and Etho’s head jerked up, scanning the trees for movement. Had the sun already set enough for monsters to spawn?

He wouldn’t be able to wield a sword all that well. He last practiced left-handed combat . . . two or three years ago, probably, on a consistent schedule, he just hadn’t needed it in so long. . . .

“This is why you stay on top of your skills, Etho,” he told himself. Maybe he could construct some sort of shelter? Or—

Another groan from the forest. He’d never been that fond of building, so he didn’t tend to carry that kind of stuff on him. Especially not when he was just flying out to find some unexplored cave, his pockets as empty as they could be. Sure, he had torches, but that wouldn’t be enough to fend off a horde of zombies.

He passed over a village not too long ago, didn’t he? If he could find a large enough stick to lean on, maybe he could make his way back toward it. Surely it wouldn’t be too far of a trek—he remembered seeing it just before he crashed.

Etho glanced back at the forest, the most likely place to find a stick. No sun filtered out through the thick canopy of trees, the darkness much deeper than it ought to have been, even at this late hour.

Yeah. That probably wasn’t going to happen.

He had to lean on his sword, then, and hope that it was enough. Luckily, the ground was dry enough that the tip shouldn’t just sink into the earth. Etho counted that as a blessing and started off, adjusting his left-handed grip on the hilt after each step, trying to find what worked best.

It wasn’t all that helpful, to be honest. The sword was just too short to work the way he wanted it to, and he would have preferred it on his other side. Just his luck that he happened to break the wrist and ankle of the same side of his body.

He probably should have wrapped his wrist, too, but he wasn’t in the habit of carrying more than one ace bandage, and he didn’t really have time. His arm shoved into his sleeveless coat, held in place by the halfway-zipped zipper, would have to do.

He should message the others, let them know that he was moving and heading toward a town, but when he reached for his communicator at his belt, he found the holster empty.

Uh-oh.

Etho turned (slowly, too slowly), spotted his communicator on the ground where he’d left it, ten feet behind him, resting in the grass.

Come on.

“Okay,” he breathed, staring at it. How long had it taken him to walk those couple of steps? Not too long, surely, mere minutes, but minutes were everything at sundown.

Should he risk it? Grab his communicator, or keep making his way toward the village?

It was more important to be able to update his friends, probably.

He tightened his hold on his sword, started to hobble back to his communicator. He tried to keep his uneven footsteps quiet, careful not to disturb any monsters in the woods, but the grass underfoot was dry and crunched, and his gait wasn’t particularly suited for quiet at the moment.

He made it to his communicator, though, and puzzled for a moment with the concept of picking it up. He could bend forward if he put his weight on his sword, but he wouldn’t be able to pick it up with his free hand. Not to mention, when he attempted to bend over, his back shot through with stiffening pain—deep tissue bruises from his fall, no doubt.

Right. How was he meant to do this?

He could crouch, he supposed. On one leg, though? Well, his right leg might not take much weight, but it could at least steady him. He would have to put his sword into its sheath, unable to hold it and unwilling to drop it.

He fumbled with it, awkwardly trying to work his sword into the sheath with his left hand. He managed to slide it in, though, and was about to crouch when he heard the snapping of underbrush.

Etho looked up, eyes trained on the dark woods. He scanned them, back and forth, and quickly identified the source of the movement—a bush, right up at the edge, trembling as something pushed its way through—

A rotting hand shoved aside the last branch, and a zombie stumbled out, arms reaching toward Etho.

Now, Etho didn’t usually have any problems dispatching zombies. A quick stab and slash, maybe a running jump, and they were down. One of the easier monsters to handle, honestly. Far easier than creepers or skeletons.

But this zombie was . . . different.

Etho had seen zombie villagers before. He’d always shuddered at their twisted features, their not-quite-right noises. He’d killed those as well, if they were too far gone to be restored.

This one was, quite notably, not too far gone.

It was a farmer, once. Its wide-brimmed hat protected it from the last rays of the sun, its blood-stained overalls not thick enough to save it from whatever zombie bit it, blood staining the jean. Gloves hung from its belt, one almost entirely slipped out, just a finger pinning it in place.

It wasn’t quite a zombie, though, not yet. Sure, its skin was splotched with green, its mouth hanging open to show rotting teeth. Its eyes were completely clouded over with white, its fingernails cracked and blackened. But something about it screamed human, something in the way it checked right and left before lurching toward Etho, something in its repetitive swallowing of saliva instead of letting it all drip down its chin.

This was a freshly-turned zombie villager. Its reflexes were likely to be quicker, its bites stronger. Usually, Etho would turn the thing back, but as proved earlier, of course he didn’t think to bring an Ender chest with him.

He didn’t want to kill it, though. It was just a farmer, maybe still conscious enough to recognize that something was wrong, and he hated to condemn it to death for not being able to defend itself against a monster—not when he should have been able to help it.

Ah, well. He cared more about surviving this encounter than feeling bad for a zombie.

“Whoa there, buddy,” Etho said, hopping back a bit on his uninjured foot. His communicator remained on the ground as he tried to get his sword back out, sweaty fingers pulling fruitlessly on the handle. “If you want to just hang tight for a minute, my friends are on their way. They can turn you back.”

He didn’t think that the zombie could understand him, but there wasn’t any harm in trying.

His sword came free—

The zombie lunged—

Etho missed. Etho missed, and the zombie reached for him—he did his best to twist away, but his good foot slipped out from under him. He hit the ground and swung back blindly with his sword, pulling himself away on his bad arm. His wrist buckled under him and he gasped, pain surging through it.

Before he could properly turn around and defend himself, the zombie was on top of him. Etho writhed, tried to shove it off, but before he could get any leverage, it was biting down on his upper left arm.

A pained noise escaped his clenched teeth as he felt his flesh break under the zombie’s teeth, fire spreading from the bite. Involuntarily, his fingers released the sword, letting it clatter to the ground beside him. He shoved back, managing to dislodge the zombie—but a glance down showed several of the teeth still stuck in his bloody flesh. Etho rolled onto his back, scooted backwards as quickly as he could.

The zombie threw itself at him again, and Etho had nothing to defend himself with—

It bit into his chest this time, and Etho kicked and kicked and beat at its head with his fist, grimacing as its soft head gave way partially under the heel of his palm. White-hot pain burst from his chest as its jaw clamped down on him—Etho’s arms spasmed, but he just forced himself to breathe through it and kept trying to push the zombie away.

Without warning, his broken ankle erupted in pain. For a moment, he couldn’t make sense of it—the zombie was still on top of him, pulling away with a mouthful of flesh, blood dripping everywhere: how could it have grabbed his foot?

There was a hand wrapped around his bad ankle, and as the zombie pushed off of him, Etho saw it.

Another zombie villager, and this one was a teenage boy. It was a farmer as well, made clear by its jeans and straw hat, and Etho had a moment of staring at the two through tear-blurred eyes before he realized that they were probably father and son.

Then the son pulled, and Etho had a second realization.

He’d only seen this happen once. A villager reported missing from one of his villagers, that had been seen dragged away by multiple zombie villagers. Etho had ventured out in search and discovered an entire zombie villager family, feasting on the kidnapped villager.

These two were taking him to their family.

That wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.

“Hey,” Etho gasped, trying to spot his communicator as they started to haltingly drag him toward the forest. “Hey, I don’t really appreciate this. I’ve got—things—”

There it was, glinting in the grass—he reached for it—

The farmer’s boot came down on it, the screen cracking and fizzing out.

Maybe it still worked?

Etho twisted around onto his stomach, gritting his teeth against the scream that tried to tear from his throat at the turn of his injured ankle. His efforts were wasted, anyhow; his communicator was already out of reach.

He kicked, grabbed the grass, tried his best to fight, but the father growled something like a warning and Etho let himself go limp. He just had to wait for an opportune moment.

They breached the treeline, and Etho groaned aloud when the branches and roots of the underbrush began to pull at his clothes, scraping his skin up even worse.

This was going to be fun.

-

“Uh-oh,” Cub said as they landed at the coordinates that Etho had sent. Doc made a noise of unease.

Before them was Etho’s communicator, a large crack splintering down the screen. His sword lay abandoned a couple of feet away.

More ominous than anything, however, was the clear sign of something heavy being dragged through the broken grass and into the woods, the trail dotted and smeared with darkness that shines in the light of Doc’s torch. Blood.

They looked at each other, a quick analysis of the situation passing between them.

No discussion was needed. They turned toward the forest and charged in.

Following the trail was easy—blood marred it, of course, but whatever had taken Etho had made sure to drag him through the worst of the underbrush, making a clear path all the way through. Cub kept one eye on the ground while Doc followed close behind, his mechanical eye whirring.

Then they heard a sound that chilled their very bones.

A scream, cut-off and choked, sounding from not too far within.

Without a word, Cub broke into a run. Doc followed right behind.

-

Etho was still pretty sure he could make it out of this alive.

They hadn’t reached the rest of the zombie family yet, and the two dragging him hadn’t shown any signs of tiring out, but Etho was just resourceful like that.

He’d managed to roll back onto his back (terrible for his elytra, which he just knew were getting as destroyed as his mask already was), and from there he had pulled his satchel onto his stomach and begun pawing through it, ignoring the quickly-failing mobility of his right arm and the pulsing pain and slow seeping of blood from his chest.

He had torches, a pickaxe repair kit, some basic redstone. Food. Some finer instruments for chiseling. Not much, but certainly enough.

His left-handed throw would be rough, but surely he could launch something at these guys. If he could catch the kid in the face with his chisel, it might loosen its grip enough for Etho to sit up, then swing the miniature sledgehammer at the leg of the father. That should shatter the bone, give Etho a moment to grab his pickaxe off his back and swing.

He grasped the chisel, rubbed it between his bloodstained fingers. He had this. He just needed to breathe, ignore all the pain, and. . . .

Before he could take aim, they broke into something of a clearing—still with heavy tree covering, but few obstructions.

Sitting in the clearing were three other zombie villagers: the farmer’s wife, a baby, and another son.

Oh, no. He’d better not have left this too late.

“I really don’t want to die,” Etho said, as casually as he can manage. “I know that’s kind of your thing, but—”

He threw.

That part worked, somehow. The boy dragging him let go as the chisel hit him square in the nose, stumbling back and covering his face.

The next part . . . didn’t. Etho tried to sit up, tried to swing the sledgehammer at the farmer, but his back seized up with all-encompassing pain, just as it had earlier. He was stuck on the ground, muscles jerking, he couldn’t sit up—

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Etho muttered frantically, doing anything he could to roll to his feet. He’d run on a broken ankle, he didn’t care anymore, but this was getting dangerous and he had to go.

He was too late, not even able to turn onto his stomach as the farmer’s hands closed around his right foot and twisted. Etho screamed, briefly, at the horrible jolt and drag of pain as he felt his bones crunching together—he shoved his forearm into his mouth to stifle the noise, tried to focus through his watering eyes.

He threw the sledgehammer—missed. Just his luck. And now the other zombies were stalking toward him, and the older son was back to it, reaching toward his other leg with his mouth open—

The father bit down on his foot, his teeth held at bay by Etho’s shoe. Etho jerked, tried and succeeded in kicking him in the teeth, despite the added pain to his ankle. The farmer dropped him, but the son had his other leg and bit down on his shin—it hurt, it hurt, and the little baby was crawling toward his face, green hands reaching for Etho’s eyes—

This was it. Etho was going to die here.

He had a good run, he supposed. Friends, laughs, some redstone contraptions. Looking back, he’d had more good times than bad times, and that had to mean something. He must have done something right, right?

He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore, but he didn’t give up. He still tried to get away, still struggled and kicked and flung out. He still shoved the baby away.

But his energy was flagging, and soon enough, he would be nothing more than zombie food. The farmer’s wife, bent over him, tore into his stomach—the other son was gnawing on his shoulder—this was definitely it—

He’d never been this bone-chillingly terrified before, it washed over him like a tropical storm, he was dying—

Etho didn’t hear the thud and twang of the crossbow firing, nor did he see the bullet land, but he did see the wife zombie stumble away from him, landing hard on its back. He watched it, confused, his left hand coming up to uselessly try to staunch the bleeding from the gouge in his stomach.

This time, he did hear the whistle of an arrow, which buried itself in the older son’s throat and sent him crumpling to the ground, dropping Etho’s leg.

Etho looked back, over his shoulder and to the left, and there—

Cub, Cub drawing another arrow, Doc tossing a crossbow to the side and coming forward, sword already drawn.

Etho could have cried.

They had come for him. They were going to get him out of here.

The other zombies were taken out with relative ease (though Doc did splash a weakness potion on the baby and led it away to give it a slice of golden apple), and Cub was at Etho’s side in mere moments, light touches cataloging each wound.

Cub’s face had never looked so beautiful. And Doc’s.

He was going to survive.

“Hey,” Etho rasped, trying to smile. “Took you long enough.”

“Dude,” Cub shook his head. “We can’t leave you for one second.”

“Yeah, I’m a noob.” He felt a bit lightheaded. Probably the blood loss. “Got any . . . uh, potions?”

Cub clicked his tongue. “Yeah, but we’re gonna want to clean these out before you have anything. Which ankle did you hurt?”

“Uh, the right one. My wrist, too.”

Cub examined them both, his frown growing deeper and deeper. “You’ll probably want to get these checked out by a real doctor, off-world. I don’t wanna give you a potion if it isn’t set properly.”

“Whatever,” Etho said, biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering. Now that the danger was over, he couldn’t seem to stop shaking. He watched as Cub uncapped a bottle of disinfectant, pouring some onto a piece of cloth and beginning to wipe down the wounds—it stung, of course it stung, he knew it would. Etho tried not to make too much noise.

“No head trauma?” Doc asked, approaching. Etho hummed, still gritting his teeth against the sting of the disinfectant.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “Don’t even remember hitting it on the fall.”

Doc knelt beside his head, took his face between his hands—surprisingly gentle, considering the cold metal of one of them. Etho’s mask was ripped to shreds by now, but Doc still straightened it as he stared into Etho’s eyes, his mechanical eye flashing.

After a moment, he smiled. “You can sleep, Etho. We’ve got you.”

Honestly? Sleep sounded really good.

So Etho fell asleep.

When he woke up, he was home, wounds bandaged and a soft glow coming from the lamp at his bedside.

He was safe.

He closed his eyes again and let sleep take him.

[perpendicularpotatoes]

3 - Coconut War After

And the aftermath of Chapter 3 (or the first picture).

Honestly, given every single one we've met so far, I'm not surprised that most pirates Mr First-Base-Is-Stabbing knows are dead...

If anything it's a miracle these boys survived each other at their youngest and dumbest...

So, Chapter 3 was the last Jack chapter. Couldn't give him a weird beard this time so he got a little ponytail instead.

Some very funny progress pics after the jump. (So are my references for period appropriate underwear and young shirtless Taika.)

Not sure know the exact timeline but first version is from summer, I had the 3rd version below by September and I started working on it again last week culminating in the final version.

Ed's skin came out so light in some of the early versions because I was fighting with the lighting (Tip: if you're going to put some sort of overlay over the entire picture change to change the lighting / mood, don't start with colors based on already very brightly lit reference pictures...)

What is very funny to me is that when I reworked Ed's face with some great reference pics from the right age, I actually had to make the eyes more cartoony again. 😂

Also were we all aware that Taika played a stripper in a mid 2000s TV show, so definitely the best resource for shirtless reference pictures...

Here are a couple of references pics I screenshot from this helpful YouTube video.

and surprise bonus baby Fang 🥰

And yes Ed's underwear is roughly period appropriate (as is Jack's choice to forgo it). Also love that it shows the functional origins of having the little bows at the front.

[what-aboutno]

Been sketching designs for my wriochiluc fic

Bonus little Diluc