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re-diesirae · 3 years

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7. Leon

Leon had watched Claire like a caring friend the whole night. The woman had fallen asleep so fast that Leon knew she was exhausted. He let the woman rest on his lap, and he found his eyes wandering absently to her face.

She looked pale under the dim light, and her auburn-hair locks fell lazily over her face. Leon pushed one behind her ear, and she barely moved under the light touch.

Leon froze, fearing that he had awoken her, but the woman continued to sleep quietly.

"You must be truly tired if you let your defenses down like this," Leon whispered with a smirk.

It was not the first time that they shared sleeping quarters. During the early months after the Racoon City incident, Leon, Claire, and Sherry had stayed together. The trio had remained hidden, fearing that Umbrella would try to catch them. In those days, Claire and Leon alternated their guarding duties, and he remembered that the woman was a very light sleeper. The slightest sound would send her on her feet and ready to shoot. He had found that cute and admirable.

Tonight, however, Claire was sleeping soundly, and not even his touch had woken her. He was not sure if he should feel concerned or happy that she felt safe enough to rest with him.

After some hours, he tried waking her up, as he had promised. Claire woke up when he shook her, but she soon fell asleep again, and he did not have the heart to wake her again.

Claire did not look too happy when she found out he had not woken her, but she forgave him after he explained what had happened. They left the cottage and walked through the forest. The casual chat was helping them both to stay calm, but he had not expected the conversation to turn to the subject of her luck with men.

Claire was a beautiful woman; she was not like other girls. She had grown with Chris, so she was not the sort of a woman to lay low waiting for the prince in shining armor to come to her rescue. No, Claire was the kind of girl to save herself. She knew how to stand her ground, and some men would feel intimidated by that. In his personal opinion, that was just what he had found so attractive in her.

Claire was a strong woman, and that was appealing. If someone was not able to see that, well, that bastard certainly was an idiot. When the conversation turned about him and Ada, he quickly brushed it off.

He and Ada had a complicated relationship. There was an attraction, but he doubted there was anything beyond that. When Claire pinpointed the group of Plagas infected, Leon chose to take cover behind the bushes. They were not hard to handle, but he did not have infinite ammo, and he did not want to waste them without reason.

"I think the wisest move now is to avoid conflict unless it is necessary," Leon said.

"I am with you with that. You'll want to save your bullets for the big ones," Claire nodded, looking at him.

"Big ones?" Leon asked with a frown.

"Yeah, nasty things. They took me by surprise yesterday, and I blew up the town in panic. The explosion was a little bigger than I thought, but well, I was desperate, and I wasn't thinking clearly."

Leon looked at the woman feeling a bit guilty. He had seen the woman's condition the night before. She could barely stand, and Leon hated imagining her facing those monsters. He was somehow amazed that she had managed to come out alive.

You never stop surprising me.

"I didn't meet any last night," Leon said, "but I trust your word, any idea of what it is?"

"Nope. I've never seen anything like it. I dare say it might be a new strain. I guess we get the privilege to test them."

"What an honor," Leon said sarcastically.

Leon looked around them. Considering the situation, they needed a plan to survive. The first thing they needed was knowing their surroundings. Usually, he could count on Hunnigan's assistance in these cases, but she was out of reach, which meant they would have to do it the old way.

Leon noticed a rocky formation in the distance. It was probably high enough for them to look around.

"Alright, so plan. We need to figure out the terrain, so I think we should try to find a good vantage point to look at what we are facing. There's a rocky cliff in that direction, do you see it?"

"Yup, I do."

"I hope you are in the mood for hiking."

"Leon, if you know me the way you say you do, you'll know I'll never be in the mood for hiking."

"But I'll do what I've got to do."

"That's the spirit," he said, "Don't worry. I can carry you if you get tired."

"Excuse you. I might dislike hikes, but I don't need anyone to carry me."

"Of course. It's nice to see that good old Claire is still there."

"The old Claire has always been here," she said, winking at him. "Just improved..."

Leon let out a soft chuckle. He was glad that Claire's humor was still there. He loved that part of her. How she could make things look less grim with a funny comment or two. Her manners had become more mature, and perhaps, a little reserved, but she was still herself; sweet and lovely Claire. He could not ask for a better partner in the current situation.

Leon took the lead mainly because he wanted to ensure Claire's safety. The woman assured him that she was ok, but her appearance said otherwise. She was too pale, and the hesitance of her steps did not go unnoticed to his watchful eye. Claire was coherent. He could scratch out any head damage due to the concussion, but there could be other injuries that he had not noticed. He would need to check in their next stop.

"Strange..."

Leon stopped for a moment, looking around. He listened but heard nothing more than birds and the whistle of the wind through the woods.

"I expected more hostiles, but we've barely encountered some Plagas infected. Don't you find it odd?"

He saw Claire look around them as well.

"Well, it is a very different scenario from last night," Claire agreed, "Perhaps they are more active at night."

"That's not a common trait when it comes to Plagas, but you might be right," Leon reasoned, "Well, then maybe we should restrict our moves to daytime. It might slow us down, but between speed and safety, I vouch for the latter. Especially if there's limited ammo in the equation."

Making stops during the night and limiting their moves to the day would make them lose some time, but he had reasons to prefer to go slower this time. Claire could use the rest breaks.

"Yeah, that might be the best," she sighed.

"Don't worry. We'll make it out of this one."

"Yeah, I know," she nodded, "Leon..."

"Yeah?"

Leon looked at her. Her cerulean eyes locked with his. They were the same blue eyes he'd met that night in Raccoon, but for some odd reason, there was something different in them now.

"Thank you."

That caught Leon by surprise. A thank you was not something he expected to hear from her now.

"What for?" he asked, confused by the sudden thank you.

"Eh, well. I don't know. For being here now, I mean," Claire said shyly, "I suppose it was hard to reach me, and you didn't have to, yet...you are here."

So that was what she meant. Leon did not know why she felt like she had to thank him. They were friends, and he would have never let the terrorist take her like that.

"Don't be silly," he said, "You don't need to thank me for that. If it hadn't been me, it would have been your brother, but neither of us would let them take you away so easily."

Claire smiled.

"Yeah, you might be right."

Leon snorted. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. Claire was silly to be thanking him for something as simple as that. She was cute without even noticing it, and that thought made him remember something that had been bothering since all began. Why were those bioterrorists after her?"

"I wanted to ask you," he said as they began to walk again, "Do you have any idea of what they would want to kidnap you?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she sighed. "I receive a lot of hate mail, so maybe it is someone who holds a grudge against me. I don't know. It could be someone targeting Chris, too. Both of us have rubbed some people the wrong way for a while."

That was an understatement, especially if they were talking about Chris Redfield. Leon could easily list all of the people who were plotting any possible revenge on Chris, but Claire was different. Even though Claire worked as hard as he and Chris did to fight bioterrorism, she was a lot more discreet. Claire kept her name as low profile as possible, but she was a Redfield, and the family reputation preceded her.

They reached the base of the cliff, and Leon let out a displeased sigh. It was practically a 90° vertical climb up. Even with equipment, the climb-up was dangerous. Now, without equipment, the climb-up was technically suicide.

Leon could probably handle it, but he feared for Claire.

"Well, I guess that will be an intense hike," Claire sighed, looking at him.

Leon smiled at her. He looked around, trying to find an alternate route, but he found none.

"Don't look at me like that, Leon," Claire said. "I can tell what you are thinking. I am fine. I can do it."

Leon disagreed, but he knew Claire, and if she had something in common with her brother, it was her stubbornness.

"Look, I know you can, but it is still dangerous. So I want you in front, in case you fall, I can catch you."

Leon knew that Claire was not happy with the arrangement, but she accepted and did as Leon asked her. Leon helped Claire up the cliff, and he made sure she had a good grip on the rock before following her up. The climb was not easy, even for someone with the physical condition that Leon had. He watched her back carefully as they ascended.

When they finally reached the top, Claire left herself fall on the grass gasping for air. He could see the sweat drops forming over her unusually pale skin, and he kneeled by her side.

"Are you ok?" Leon asked, rubbing her back.

"Barely," she smiled, "I hate hiking..."

"Yeah, sorry that I made you go through that."

Leon smiled apologetically. He stood up and looked around. At least their effort had not been in vain. The cliff gave them a clear view of their surroundings, but they only saw trees, kilometers, and kilometers of trees and greenery.

"Well, at least it isn't an island this time," Claire signed by his side.

Leon frowned.

Think, Leon. This time it isn't only your ass you are trying to keep alive. You must get Claire home safely.

Leon snorted. If Claire could hear his thoughts, she would be mad.

"Hey, Leon. Look over there!"

Claire's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. The woman was pulling his arm and motioning her head at something behind them. The agent looked back and immediately understood.

There was something that stood amidst the leafy sea of forest, and its shape reminded him oddly of a tower.

"Why aren't I surprised?" he said bitterly.

"Looks like trouble, but it might be a good place to start."

"Guess we won't know until we check."

"Yeah, and that usually leads us to more monsters."

"I am sure you are used to that already," Claire smiled, patting his back. "Judging by the sun, it is almost noon. If we are planning to stop for the night, we should think of looking for a place to hide, and maybe something to eat and water."

"Luckily for us, we are in a forest. There should be a water source nearby, and how good are you in botany again?"

"Good enough to not poison you. I'll keep my eyes open for eatables."

He smirked at her comment. Claire was simply adorable sometimes.

"Ok, let's go then."

NOTE: if you guys want to come and chat about the fic, or just about CLEON in general. Feel free to drop by the discord and say hi! JOIN SERVER

#my fanfiction #my fanfic writing #Cleon #leon x claire #leon s kennedy #claire redfield #claire x leon #Resident Evil

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dmintraining · 3 years

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im about to just gush about my halfling family with no coherency so youve been warned

ok so my whole dnd experience began with one lightfoot halfling level one bard called eoifira maplefoot. i knew i wanted her to be Not A Good Person, but also didn't feel comfortable playing a bitch when i didn't know anything about the other players in the party, so i did what any normal person would do: i encorperated pretending to be nice to get what she wants into her back story.

eoifira's backstory time! (where we get introduced to the character i will play this summer, llwella, and a character i am desperate to play at some stage, erling) middle child of turpin and grace maplefoot (grace's maiden name was proudfoot), eoifira was taught to entertain by her grandmother on her mother's side. her mother's family ran the only inn and bar on a small island, but when her father married her mother, his parents moved in too. so, under one house, we have the proudfoot grandparents : otto and mary, and the maplefoot grandparents : hildegard and basso. turpin and grace had three children together, their eldest daughter, llwella, is two years older than eoifira, and their youngest is their son, erling.

like i said, mary taught eoifira how to entertain, through story telling, playing the lute, and playing the spoons. the two performed regularly in the bar. llwella was never a people person, but people liked her well enough and she was a wizard behind the bar from a young age. erling played a bigger role in the running of the inn than the bar, as he was far more gentle than his eldest sister and much less self-centered than eoifira.

running the only inn and bar meant that these three kids met a wide variety of folks, and for eoifira, that turned out to be a huge problem. a 16 year old eoifira met a 29 year old halfling wanderer with a chip on her shoulder, and became fast friends with her. by the time she was 18, eoifira had been indoctrinated into this other halfling's way of life : she would regularly travel to the mainland to aid in the slaughter the nobles who were partially responsible for the poverty of her island. the duo did not limit their targets based on age, if they were of noble descent, they were fair game. initially, eoifira was merely the distraction, flirting with guards and playing the damsel in distress while her girlfriend actually did the killing, but over time eoifira's hands became just as bloody.

no one could prove it was them, but popular opinion was that the girlfriend was the perpetrator, and when a 19 year old eoifira announced to her mother that she wanted to propose, grace maplefoot panicked and locked her daughter in her room. eventually, eoifira's would-be-fiancé stopped showing up at the island, and grace felt safe enough letting eoifira go about her chores on the island. one day, eoifira asks her mother for help out in the fields, where she'd offered to harvest the crops for an elderly neighbour. naturally, her mother agreed, thinking she'd be able to reconnect with her daughter, and explain why she did what she did, and to apologise.

she never got the chance. eoifira slit her throat in the field, disguised herself as a cabin boy using the uniform of a boy she'd murdered that morning, and escaped on a ship to the mainland before anyone even really noticed grace wasn't working the desk of the inn as usual.

on the mainland, eoifira searched for her lover. she found a grave. her lover had been trialed, convicted, and executed for the murders. she had never mentioned an accomplice.

unable to return to her homeland, and with the person she'd carefully curated her personality for dead, eoifira was at a loss.

unTIL she runs into a travelling group in the woods of rouges and college of whispers bards who live as they please, taking what they want. eoifira made a slight adaptation to her personality, so that instead of killing for a Cause, she would kill with Purpose: to get food/gold/possessions the group needed or wanted. unfortunately, eoifira fell in love with one of the bards, and thought it would be safe to come clean to him about her past in its entirety.

he was repulsed. she made a dramatic change to her personality, now advocating for sparing peoples lives; she was now a pacifist. eventually, the man she was in love with came around to her, and they got engaged, and lobbied for the party to become more merciful. the party got sick of their bullshit, and sprung an attack on the couple, killing her fiancé stone dead right in front of her. standing at a whopping three feet with an armor class of 13 and very little training as a bard, eoifira knew she didn't stand a chance, so she fell to her knees and started begging, claiming her lover her threatened to kill her if she hadn't done what she did. they believed her, the idiots.

that night, she went around to their individual tents and slit their throats as they slept.

once again alone in the world, and now in her 40's, eoifira began her life on the run, never really staying in one town for too long, preforming in taverns in return for lodgings and food. there's more on her, but im going to take us back to the island, the day of the murder.

llwella actually discovers the body. she and her sister were close (or so she thought), so initially llwella thought that whatever had slaughtered her mother had gotten to eoifira too, and went into mourning with the rest of the family. then, the murder of the cabin boy came to light. with very little digging, llwella followed the blood trail eoifira had left behind before and during her time with the party, and by the end of her investigation, became certain her sister had murdered her mother. she never felt as peaceful as the rest of her family- she had a horrible temper and a tendency to drag out grudges for longer than was healthy, but this discovery ignighted a rage in her that did not subside when she lashed out like she normally would. she knew she needed to be more proactive about this anger, and eventually joined a monkhood : the way of mercy. they were helping her work on her anger by channeling her energy into her job, which initially was to kill the patients who were beyond saving (think nurse ratched type), but as she progressed, she became responsible for reinforcing quarantines by any means necessary. eventually, she hit a block. she'd managed to work through most of the sources of her anger and use the energy productively, but try as they might, her fury towards her sister was too strong- it came to a point where it was affecting her work with the monks. they told her she needed to find and forgive eoifira if she ever wanted to progress.

llwella left to find her sister alright, but with no intention of forgiving her. she was going to end her sister if it was the last thing she did.

she spent years trying to find her, staying in inns she knew eoifira had preformed in and following her faint yet distinct trail left from her performances and charisma.

unbeknownst to llwella, she actually caught up to eoifira.

one evening, eoifira was sitting in a dark corner of an inn she'd just finished preforming in, having a nightcap before turning in for the night, when her sister appears. she sees llwella check in for the night at the desk, before immediately heading up to bed. eoifira moves to the desk, and starts flirting non-stop with the receptionist, flustering them so much that she manages to see the bookings list without getting noticed. she knows what room her sister is in.

in the wee hours of the morning, eoifira sneaks into her sister's room and slits her throat, running away before making sure she'd bled out.

luckily for llwella, there was a cleric in the vicinity, who'd been up late with night terrors, and heard her helpless gargling as he made his way back to bed. he was young, and only half-trained, and while llwella survived, her wound tends to seep blood and pus when she exherts herself to expend a ki point, and her voice is low, gravely, and prone to breaking. she has not yet come that close to her sister again.

back to their hometown : after their mother passed and the family went into grieving, erling, while mourning just as much as the others, subtly kept both of the family businesses running. there was a brief period of time where his father and his grandparents began to take up the reins again, but the workload fell on him once again once it was discovered eoifira was not in fact, dead, but on the run after having killed many people, mary included. when llwella joined the way of mercy, erling became enamoured with the idea of healing people. he loved his sisters, despite now having severe mixed feelings about eoifira, but he wanted to heal, he wanted to help people plain and simple. he didn't want to kill for fun like eoifira, but he didn't want to kill for mercy like llwella, he wanted to heal. but he was stuck behind a till and a bar for several years, until the proudfoots, now well into the ends of their lives, decided to sell the bar. his father took full responsibility for the inn, and with all four grandparents helping out here and there, erling felt comfortable enough to go out and chase his dream. unable to afford medical school, he reluctantly reached out to the monks his eldest sister had joined. he was upfront about his hang-ups about their practices, but opened up about his quiet and private worship of one of the deities they worship, mishakal. they directed him to a local collection of life clerics who worshipped the same goddess, and he became very happy there with them, at ease.

im yet to decide what whips him out of his peaceful life with these clerics and into a life of adventuring, but im pretty sure it will have something to do with either llwella or eoifira dragging him out either directly or indirectly (i have a feeling llwella might go missing, and it might be up to her brother to find her (because while eoifira doesn't hate her sister, she has pretty much washed her hands of her family))

#chats #dnd #dnd character #dnd original character #maplefoots #eoifira #llwella #erling #halfling supremacy

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pendragonfics · 5 years

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Witches

Paring: Wanda Maximoff/Reader

Tags: female reader, set after Avengers: Age of Ultron, alternate universe - canon divergence, reader has powers, girls in love, girls kissing, fluff and angst

Summary: Separated from Wanda, Reader seeks those who took her love to Avenge her.

Word Count: 1,400

Current Date: 2019-12-07

Requested By: @xxxtwilightaxelxxx

Have you ever lost someone who was supposed to be by your side? You would think that you mean a pair of novelty scissors, or a handwritten note, but no. You lost your closest, your dearest friend, your...dare say, soulmate.

You had been with her for so long. Born a day after her and her brother, raised in the house next door. Lost your family in the same attack that claimed her own. You even followed her to the facility where they injected you, her brother, and her with things that at the time felt worthwhile following the loss of your families.

The pain that followed was not.

While the twins had come through the injections enhanced, you were kept in confinement, in agony, in pain and a world of fear.

The last you saw of Wanda was the day of the attacks. Americans. All that you heard was that there was the metal man who killed your families and a green monster, but no more.

They left you in your cell.

You closed your eyes so very tight and watched them come in, in mismatched uniforms speaking English, barking orders. One opened your cell, and afraid, you watched as the hulking muscled man looked in, and left with a turn of his cape.

When they left, you ran and hid in the hills like a wild creature.

You didn’t come back at all. After you saw the city in the sky and returned to the earth, you realised that Wanda Maximoff had disappeared off the face of Sokovia, of the earth. Nobody had accounted her as dead, but as you saw Pietro you screamed so hard that you swore vengeance on the one who killed him.

The Americans.

As you sat over his body, you closed your eyes, tight. Tears fell, but when you went to wipe them, you realised. You couldn’t see your hands before your face.

At first, you thought you were cursed. But the following days, weeks - months proved fruitful in your infiltration into North America. You grew a tough shell and stole to survive. All you had was the clothes you wore and your wits, and your fierce determination to avenge the deaths of the Maximoffs.

It took time, but you made it to America using the crazy abilities you had discovered. In Sokovia, they called you worthless. In your pursuit of Wanda Maximoff, you had become a shadow of yourself. You read about the disappearance of the things you had pilfered as you made your way across the world. One journalist called you the Baba Yaga, to which you laughed.

You were making way halfway across the state of Virginia, stowing in the back of a goods truck to New York State when you realised that it wasn’t doing the speed limit.

As you tucked into the back of the cargo, you realised it wasn’t transporting Amazon packages but people. You almost fled, afraid; but then you felt the truck tip a little, steering wilder, and faster than before. Becoming visible, you jimmied what locks you could with the knife you kept on you, gathering twenty scared souls in your clutches.

“Are you a good guy?” A crying little girl asked you.

You bit your tongue to try not to cry as well. “I hope so,” you replied. You were about to say more, but the back of the truck was ripped open - quite literally! - by a familiar green fist. You had spent so long trying to find and fight these people that you had forgotten the fear you felt, the fear you had of them.

A masked man in blue and red entered, and seeing you, faltered. He lifted a hand to his ear, and spoke as if to someone else, “Witch, you’re going to want to see this.”

You balked, backing away. “Do not touch them!” You cried out, snarling.

“The truck’s not going to hold for much longer,” he argued.

“You Avengers think you can fix things, but you leave holes that cannot heal where you fight.” You grind your teeth. “I will protect these kids. Not you.”

“Look, I -,”

“__________!” A familiar voice cried. “Help them out, bring the children out!”

Your heart racing, you searched for the voice. It was as if an angel had come from the heavens above, speaking in her voice. Divine intervention aside, you listened, and barrelled past the man dressed as the French flag with as many children as you could gather in your arms. Once you touched them, and thew yourself from the vehicle, you closed your eyes as usual, except, as you propelled yourself forward, not only were you invisible, but the children too: and, you were flying.

It happened quickly after that. The green monster cleaved the truck in half, and the red and blue and the metal man who you remembered from Sokovia got the rest of the children out. You watched, in midair, clutching the ones you held tight as the monster threw the vehicle into the forest adjacent to the road, and it blew up as it soared away.

“__________, __________!” The voice called again. As you managed to find footing on the earth once again, you looked around, wildly, panicking.

“Wanda?” You cried out. In your emotions, you didn’t notice the children rush to the others. You couldn’t notice anything beyond what you sought, and that was the girl you were, had always been, would always be in love with. “Wanda!” You cried once more, tears flowing freely.

On the middle of the highway, you fell to your knees, hopeless, miserable. Weak.

“My, __________, I have you. Don’t cry, I’m here.”

You felt gathered up in a pair of arms, a familiar scent encompassing you. You couldn’t see through the tears, but you tried to. Gazing up, the sun was in your eyes as you looked to her face, the light as a halo behind her brilliant hair. Years might have passed since you last saw her, but she still looked the same.

It was Wanda. Your Wanda.

“Love?” You wept. “You’re alive?”

She nodded, kissing your cheeks. You closed your eyes, the grief escaping slowly, a release. She kissed your eyelids, your nose, and lastly, your lips, each as soft and kind as she ever was.

“I thought you were dead,” Wanda wept, her own tears falling.

“I thought you were dead!” You replied. “I saw your brother. I have come all this way to avenge him, to avenge you. But -,” the words catch on your lips. “I am not strong enough to.”

“I have fought for Pietro’s honour with everything in me ever since he died.” Wanda lifts her chin. “And I cursed the name of Barton for letting him die.”

“Barton?” You ask.

“The archer. But he is like a father to me now. All of my grudges are healed.”

You notice on her shirt, a symbol. The same as the man in blue, and the metal man. “You are...you are an Avenger now?” You ask, incredulous.

“Yes, my love,” Wanda kisses your lips once more. “With time and training, perhaps you too might be one as well.”

“Wait, you know this girl?” The helmet of the metal man lifted, and as soon as you saw the face of Tony Stark, you bared your teeth like a wolf. “Ah, you’re the Baba Yaga they’re talking about. Gotcha. Makes sense that you and Scarlet Witch know each other.”

You move toward him, but Wanda holds you back. “He’s not worth it,” she says to you. She looks to Stark and rolls her eyes. “I’m bringing her back with us. Or I walk.”

“How do you know Wanda?” The man dressed like the most common flag colours asks. “You’re friends?”

She smirks, replying, “Best friends.” Gathering you in her arms, she kisses you before them all. It’s been so long since you felt her against your body, but your mouth does not forget how much you love her. She gathers you in her arms, the kiss continuing, and you both begin to fly from them.

As you go, you hear an “oh, that kind of friend,” and you part from her kiss to giggle. It’s something you haven’t done in so long and yet it feels natural to do so with her.

“Americans,” you both mutter in disdain, and you kiss her once more.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x oc #wanda maximoff/reader #wanda x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #pendragonfics #chaotic--lovely #f/f #Female reader

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hellzyeahwebwielingessays · 4 years

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The Not-So-Amazing Mary Jane Part 19: MJ is NOT a super hero

Previous Part

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Master Post

Mary Jane is an incredibly gifted woman who you don’t want to mess with. But do those gifts really make her a hero, one who could take on Mysterio?

I was initially planning on looking at Mary Jane’s combat record in this post. However, before doing that there needs to be a dash more context to really put things into perspective.

I could simply cite Sen v2 #32 to prove my point. In this issue the Parker family are on the run since Peter unmasked and opposed the Super Human Registration Act. At her wits end MJ contacted Sue Richards for guidance.

During their conversation MJ opens up about how stressed she is. She even refers to Sue and other heroes as ‘you people’, clearly demarking a difference between them and herself.

Sue basically tells MJ to toughen up, referencing herself, Jessica Jones and Storm, the (then) wives of Reed Richards, Luke Cage and Black Panther respectively.

However, at the end of the conversation MJ points out the difference between herself those women was that she didn’t have powers to fall back on.

There you are. MJ herself acknowledging she has no powers and is not a super hero.

End of discussion.

Well no, because we can dive much deeper.

Let me start with this irrefutable statement: Mary Jane is a bad ass.

She truly is.

Mentally, emotionally, physically, she’s pulled off some truly impressive things.

But the thing is those things she’s pulled off…they wouldn’t be that impressive (if at all) if say, Wonder Woman did them. Or She Hulk. Or Mockingbird. Or Batgirl/Barbra Gordon. Or you know…Spider-Man himself.

So why do fans gravitate towards these things, these feats of heroism, self-defence and protection of others?

Because they are impressive considering Mary Jane is NOT a super hero.

You see it’s all a matter of scale.

The Chameleon is a trained and experienced mercenary but doesn’t possess any super human powers beyond the ability to change how he looks. In what has become one of her most iconic moments, Mary Jane defeated him with a mere baseball bat. This occurred when she knew what to expect, when Chameleon was underestimating her and when he was unarmed. That is impressive no doubt.

But were the situation the same but Batgirl was substituted for Mary Jane it wouldn’t nearly be as impressive because Batgirl, even with just a baseball bat, is at worst on a similar power level as the Chameleon. But in all seriousness is almost certainly his superior in terms of combat proficiency. She’s thoroughly trained in various forms of hand-to-hand combat, strategy, thinking on the back foot and highly experienced.

And experienced against people who’re actually much more physically dangerous than the Chameleon, such as Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy or the Joker. When you remove Chameleon’s stealth and weapons you are left with someone who is highly violent and could kill the average civilian if given the chance…but ultimately not someone as dangerous as most of the famous super villains from Marvel or DC.

If anything arming Batgirl with a baseball bat would be needlessly excessive, she could defeat Chameleon with just some punches or kicks.

Now apply that same scenario but substitute in Mockingbird, who can dent steel with her bare hands and has an accelerated healing factor and arguably superior fighting skills to Batgirl. Or how about She-Hulk, someone with vastly more strength, an even better healing factor and immensely more durability. And as Wonder Woman…she is literally a millennia old demi-goddess with divinely empowered durability, strength and speed, fast enough in fact to easily deflect bullets. *

If you were told any of these women defeated the Chameleon with ‘just a baseball bat’ would you be impressed? Would you feel that’s a huge accomplishment for any of them?

Of course not.

Because on even an incredibly rudimentary power scale common sense would clearly define for you that Chameleon wouldn’t be a physical threat to any of them.

Because they are actual super heroes wit either physically enhanced physiologies or advanced equipment or highly practiced expert level combat training.

The reason MJ dispatching the Chameleon has been celebrated for over 20 years is because none of that applies to her.

Let’s unpack exactly what MJ does and doesn’t have in her arsenal.

Mary Jane lacks any bona fide super human abilities or advanced combat training.

She has experienced being targeted directly by criminals or being caught up in criminal encounters. But these are intermittent experiences resulting from either her association with people the criminals have a grudge against (typically Spider-Man) or plain bad luck. She does not regularly in her day-to-day life deal with such things nor does she even deal with them on a weekly basis in her life. If she does they are likely the result of simply living in Marvel’s version of New York city, which thereby means most of her experiences are the same as the average resident of the city.

Apart from these intermittent experiences (and exempting her seeking help from others) the traits she possesses that might (in one capacity or another) be applicable in a dangerous situation are as follows:

She is a physically fit woman approximately aged between 24 and her mid-30s. But nowhere close to being Olympic athlete levels of fitness.

Excerpt from ‘The Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe: Spider-Man 2004’

In terms of conventional/stereotypical beauty standards she is generally considered to be stunningly attractive. She is 5’8” and weighs in at 120 lbs. Her outward appearance then could potentially be used to make her would-be assailants underestimate her or even be dazzled by her beauty as a distraction

Mary Jane is not blind to the harsher realities of life and has developed proficient street smarts. But it’s not like she knows where to find stool pigeons and how to go about shaking them down for information, nor the inner workings of the criminal underworld.

She is a skilled actress particular practiced at adopting the façade of a seemingly carefree and simple party girl

She is at worst rather experienced when it comes to flirtation. Arguably we could extrapolate this into her being decent at general seduction but that’s debatable

She has good at improvising

She is exceptionally skilled in social interactions

She has a pretty decent ability to read people’s personalities, but is not a fully trained psychologist or any similar field that’d make her an expert at reading people very quickly and taking advantage of them as a result

She has certain basic self-defence skills gleamed from classes most people can attend

She has had at exactly one basic training session with Captain America, where the focus was more upon mental discipline and focus. The session never implied he taught her any practical self-defence moves and the session was geared more to instructing Peter not Mary Jane.

She has demonstrated/developed certain basic and unrefined (albeit often proficient) self-defence skill. These primarily consist of using melee weapons (typically objects not actually designed for such a purpose, like baseball bats) and to a lesser extent firearms, and to an even lesser extent hand-to-hand attacks. Mary Jane for instance has never been shown to practice using a handgun, although she does know how. She can slug someone in the jaw, but she’s never been shown to have trained how to do that, you see what I am getting at.

Technically speaking she possesses a pair of bracelets that are modified web-shooters, along with a set of regular web-shooters.

The former have a limited amount of web-fluid and are designed to stall a target, with the aim being for Mary Jane to surprise her assailant and buy time to escape, not engage in an outright fight. She has been shown to rarely carry either of these on her person though and there is no implication she has them in Amazing Mary Jane #1. Additionally since she is on set it would be unlikely that she’d be allowed to wear them as they wouldn’t be part of her on outfit for the movie.

Along with most of New York she has possessed identical powers to Spider-Man (in addition to organic based web-shooters) for less than 24 hours, during which time she displayed a proficiency in using them (due to bad writing, literally no one struggled to adjust to the use of Spider-Man’s powers). She has never possessed these powers again since, and this includes in AMJ.

On a handful of occasions she has piloted various different advanced armoured suits designed by Tony Stark. These have chiefly included his rudimentary MKII armour and the Iron Spider armour originally designed for Peter’s use.

In both she demonstrated proficient defence skills. It is not clear how easy the armours are to use so whether MJ’s proficiency was due to a natural skill or due to the armour’s design is debatable. Regardless there is no indication she regularly has access to this technology and certainly not in AMJ.

MJ possesses incredibly strong willpower and understands the need for self-sacrifice, demonstrating in her time a willingness to give something of her self for the good of others. This could be important in regards to protecting other people.

As you can see MJ’s skillset is impressive for a civilian.

But some instances (like the Stark armours she’s donned) make the depths of her skills unclear. The most advanced equipment she has access to are her web-shooters but she is shown to only use or even carry them on occasion. In both cases she is not shown to have access to either in AMJ. Her other skills are things anyone in real life could hypothetically possess and in fact several other civilians in the Marvel universe either do possess or could possess.

What I'm saying is Mary Jane is, by any metric, a civilian.

A civilian who knows how to use a gun, has had cause to defend her self dozens of times and is very good at thinking on her feet. But a civilian nevertheless.

She has the spirit to cut it as a superhero but not without powers, training or access to advanced equipment like Iron Man’s armour. None of which she currently possesses or has access to in AMJ.

When you get right down to it the reason we fans celebrate whenever Mary Jane triumphs or survives or even just pulls off some good moves against a criminal or super villain is because we understand she is ultimately the underdog.

We grasp that it’s innately more impressive for someone in the featherweight division to even hold their own for a little while against someone in the heavyweight division because normally they wouldn’t stand a chance and we are naturally inclined to be sympathetic towards them.**

This isn’t exclusive to Mary Jane by any means, underdog stories date back to the Bible itself with the classic tale of David and Goliath.

To use an example closer to home though, in ASM #229-230 Spider-Man had to stop the Juggernaut, a villain whose strength and durability had given him a reputation as unstoppable. He regularly tangled with the Hulk and was over all far beyond Spider-Man’s weight class. The story is widely regarded as one of the all time best in Spider-Man history, primarily because it is such a shining example of an underdog story.

Such stories are fairly common in super hero comic books, but so too is the popularity of civilian supporting characters that contend with outright super villains and criminals.

Alfred Pennyworth is utterly beloved within the Batman fandom with his attempts and successes at dealing with Batman’s infamous rogues celebrated. The same goes for Edwin Jarvis, sometimes celebrated as the bravest of all the Avengers. Jarvis’ popularity is such he was in fact the main character of the milestone 400th issue of the Avengers. And to use a closer equivalent to MJ, Lois Lane’s moments of skill, toughness and bravery in the face of danger are celebrated within Superman circles.

NONE of these characters are super heroes. Even Alfred, who (in most modern incarnations) has some military history, is still a more elderly gentleman thereby accentuating his vulnerability and making his victories all the larger.

With that out of the way, we now have the appropriate context to start examining some instances of MJ defending herself.

* And what about Spider-Man himself? Has he not tangled with Chameleon often? Is it not usually impressive whenever he defeats him? Indeed it is…but rarely whenever Spider-Man physically over powers him.

Because we readers are very aware that Spider-Man is physically stronger and faster than the Chameleon and his other powers give him yet more physical advantage over him.

In fact a poignant Chameleon storyline entailed Chameleon (in disguise) tricking Spider-Man into removing his powers and thereby rendering him vulnerable.

Even then, the Chameleon opted to hire muscle (mainly muscle with super powers) to take on Spider-Man rather than fight him personally.

Chameleon’s awareness of Spidey’s superior might is arguably the reason he recruited physically powerful Kraven the Hunter in ASM v1 #15 (Kraven’s debut and Chammy’s second outing).

Spidey’s victories over Chameleon are impressive or cathartic not because Peter overpowers him physically, but does so mentally. This is in fact showcased in the very same storyline that Mary Jane famously took a bat to Chammy’s cranium; specifically Spec #243.

In this story, Chameleon (in the guise of Doctor Kafka) uses drugs and makeup to trick Spider-Man into believing he is someone else. However, drawing upon his will power and affection for his loved ones Peter breaks free of Chameleon’s trap.

**And I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that a part of that for at least some fans is the fact that Mary Jane is a woman doing such things, and a female love interest to boot.

Stereotypically women aren’t superheroes or action heroes, and stereotypically love interests are the ones in need of saving, not the ones saving themselves or others.

For some fans this appreciation of stereotypes being subverted can come from a bad place. “Mary Jane just beat a super villain even though she’s a chick!”

For others the appreciation can be viewed as empowering. To perhaps reveal a stereotypical view of my own, I imagine female readers would constitute the majority of this category, although in theory anyone who feels like an underdog or perhaps vulnerable could resonant with MJ’s victories.

Finally there are definitely some readers who appreciate these examples because they are just plain refreshing.

And of course some people might just like Mary Jane in general so seeing her shine in some capacity could do it for them.

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sml8180 · 5 years

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Lasting Injuries

I started writing this yesterday when my knee was acting up from an injury I sustained roughly 8 years ago, and it initially inspired me to write this. I HC that Damien didn’t just have a cane for the looks of it, but because he actually needed it due to an old injury. I decided to write a story about what had happened to him, and when I asked in one of the Discord servers I’m a part of what that injury should be, @doctordiscord123 suggested that maybe Will accidentally shot Damien in the knee while showing off a new gun.

This story is the result of that idea, along with SEVERAL odd google searches.

Heads up for the following: Gun violence, poor gun safety, accidental shooting, accidental kneecapping, descriptions of injuries, chronic pain, long term injuries.

Lasting Injuries

William had told Damien that he had something to show him. He’d told Damien to head outside, and wait for him by the treeline, while he grabbed whatever it was he was going to show off from his room.

Damien hadn’t known what he’d expected, but he knew he wasn’t expecting William to show up and show him a gun. It was a brand new revolver, the metal clean and shiny, and Will held it in his hand as if it were meant to be there.

“I got it for my sixteenth birthday the other day!” Will exclaimed, showing off the revolver to his friend. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Damien nodded. He wasn’t exactly a gun person, but he enjoyed seeing his friend so excited. “You do know what you’re doing with that, right?”

“Of course I do! I’ve fired one before, but now I have my own!”

Damien seemed to relax a bit when he learned that Will knew how to handle his new weapon. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he ended up getting a gun, anyways, seeing as he wanted to go into the military some day. Now that his nerves were somewhat calmed, he was curious. “How does it work?”

“It’s simple, really!” Will told him, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “This releases the cylinder,” he mused, pulling back the release to let the cylinder swing out. “And you load it like this,” he narrated, loading a round into one of the chambers, before clicking the cylinder back into place. He stepped back a bit, adjusting his grip on the gun as he went. “You look down the sights to find where you’re aiming, pull the hammer back,” Will looked down the sights of the gun.

Damien trusted that Will wasn’t aiming at him. He didn’t think he should move, until it was far too late. The shot rang out across the manor grounds, and the next thing Damien knew, he was on the ground, unsure of really what had happened. Things seemed to slow as Will set the gun down and ran to him, pulling off his coat and wrapping it around Damien’s knee.

“Just, just stay there, I’ll get help,” Will rambled, sounding shaken as he stood, sprinting back to the manor.

While William was gone, Damien started to feel a sort of burning pain radiating through his leg. It was dull at first, but as the moments ticked by, he could feel it getting worse. Will returned with a couple members of the house staff, along with Celine, who quickly knelt beside him, immediately starting to fuss over him.

He didn’t really remember much after that. He remembered Celine and the two adults fussing over him, making sure that he kept calm. They all brought him inside, and he remembered being loaded into an ambulance, with Celine by his side, holding his hand.

A few days later, Damien was feeling a little more himself. He was still confined to his bed in the hospital, but he was awake and alert. That was when he learned that William had shot him in the knee. William was apologizing profusely, saying he hadn’t meant to, it was an accident, he thought he was aiming at the tree.

“Will, calm down,” Damien consoled. “I’ll be alright, there’s no need to worry.”

Damien didn’t realize just how long it would be until he was up and walking again.

He went through three or four operations in an attempt to repair the damage to his left knee. The shot hadn’t been direct; the round had hit more to the side of his kneecap, shattering part of it, but not shattering the entire joint. The doctors did what they could to piece things back together, but there was only so much they could do. After all the operations, Damien had to go through weeks of therapy in order to even take a few steps. He was on crutches for what felt like ages, he wore various braces for years, and used a cane to get around after that.

He did his best to walk unassisted when he could, being the stubborn man he was, especially when it came time for his mayoral campaign. He wanted to seem strong, he didn’t want the public to see him relying on a cane, didn’t want them to see him limping.

Will had always been apologetic about what had happened; he almost never had a gun out around Damien after the incident. Damien always reminded him that it was an accident. They were just kids at the time, after all, they didn’t know better. He didn’t hold any grudge against his friend.

He’d never admit to Will’s face just how frustrating the lasting toll the injury took on him really was.

There were days where his knee hurt so badly he couldn’t stand. Days where he wouldn’t leave the house because he didn’t want to be seen leaning heavily on a cane with his knee braced. He snapped at doctors, at peers, at his own sister, some days, when the pain and limitations became just too much.

His campaign pushed his limits some days. All the events he went to, the debates, the rallies, and everything else, it all took a toll on his knee. Damien had to be on his feet so much, and he couldn’t just skip out on things; it would make him seem unreliable if he did. He did what he could to stick it out, made as many of the events as he could.

The colder months were a blessing and a curse. The cold often lead to more stiffness in his knee, causing it to be sore more often than not. But, he often wore long coats during colder weather, which he made sure would fall beyond his knees, allowing him to wear one of his braces. It wasn’t his best brace, but it was better than nothing.

It was early spring when the campaign ended, when all Damien could do was wait and hope he’d done enough. He waited inside, his fingers crossed. Justice, a friend from his years in university, was by his side, trying to help calm his anxieties, as well as offering some support to keep Damien’s weight off his injured knee, which was starting to act against the man once again.

Celine rushed in, carrying something behind her back. The results were about to be announced, Damien had to show his face out there, especially if it was him who ended up the victor.

“Celine!” Damien called, as his sister approached. “You said you would be here almost half an hour ago.”

“I know, I know,” Celine stated, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I needed to pick something up.”

“I need to get outside,” Damien told her, already beginning to pull away from Justice. “What did you need to pick up?” he questioned, knowing full well his sister would be following him. He didn’t get an answer, and simply rolled his eyes as he stepped outside, just in time for the man up on the stage to begin reading off the final results in front of him.

It barely registered that it was his name being read off.

“Just a little something for you, Mayor Damien,” Celine finally told him, offering a cane to her stunned brother. The object was brand new, and straight as an arrow; the main body a shiny black, with a silver tip and ornate silver topper.

Damien took the cane in his hands, speechless. It felt as if time had stopped, at least until he felt Celine taking hold of his shoulders and turning him around.

“Well, go on! You need to say something to them!”

The new mayor took a breath, and stood a little straighter as he scanned the audience. Hundreds, thousands of eyes were trained on him. He took a deep breath, and planted the silver tip of the cane on the ground, finding that it felt far more sturdy than his older ones. He took his first steps with it up onto the stage, and felt the wave of energy from the audience wash over him as he walked to the podium with confidence.

They were some of the most confident steps he’d taken since he was a teenager.

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Dark felt fairly decent when he got up in the morning. His shoulders and neck didn’t feel as bad as they had for some time. He felt like today was going to be a good day.

That was until he went to actually get out of bed. His left knee practically gave out on him.

He thought back to that day so many years ago. When Damien had been shot in the knee. That injury had been a part of him for so long. Even though he was no longer in Damien’s body, he could feel the injury all the same.

Dark sighed, looking to the mess of pink hair beside him, still sleeping. Wilford didn’t remember the incident from what he could tell. It was for the best, really. He always claimed that it was simply his chronic pain that occasionally lead to him bracing his knee, or using a cane. He didn’t mention the damage that had been done by a stray bullet.

So, Dark simply braced himself against the wall, going about his usual routine. He showered, did his makeup, got dressed. He was sitting in the chair in the corner of the room when Wil woke up, strapping his brace into place to support his knee.

“One of those days, Darky?” Wil tiredly asked, getting out of bed and approaching his husband, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders and kissing his cheek.

“Mm-hm. One of those days,” Dark responded, returning his husband’s sleepy kiss.

Wil nodded, and picked up Dark’s cane from the corner. Dark took it from him, running his thumb over the topper for a moment before standing up.

“I’m going to head down to the dining room. I’ll see you at breakfast,” he mused, giving Wilford a final kiss to the cheek before making his way out of the room.

He found an odd comfort in the sound of the silver tip of the cane against the wood floors of the manor. It was a familiar sound, one that Damien had found oddly comforting for years, and one that Dark now found oddly soothing. With the brace on his knee, and the cane in his hand, Dark walked with a surprising confidence, despite the lasting injuries that tried to slow him down.

#markiplier egos #tw: gun mention #tw: gun violence #accidental shooting #poor gun safety #accidental kneecapping #description of injuries #chronic pain #long term injuries #Damien the Mayor #Celine the Seer #William the Colonel #Wilford Warstache #Darkiplier #Darkstache #pre-canon #long post

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cogentranting · 5 years

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Because I Would Not Stop For Death Pt 2.

Summary: My version of the ending of Supernatural, with a specific emphasis on Dean as the main character.

Also on: AO3 Accompanying Meta: X Part 1

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Loss affects everyone differently. In the days and weeks and months following Dean’s death this was especially true.

To Jack it gave a hard edge. There was an anger and fierceness about him so like that of the Winchesters who had known so much loss themselves. It pushed Jack to reckless, relentless fervor. He tried tracking down the demons that had killed Dean, but to no avail. In the meantime, he prepared for the fight that they all knew must come, stretching and expanding the limits of his powers. And as he did so, he practiced his hunting skills as well, tracking down ghosts and demons and gaining for himself a reputation as a hunter of such prowess that he could only have been a Winchester. Which makes sense. After all, it was avenging the death of a parent which first drove Sam and Dean as well.

To Castiel, loss brought weariness. Dean had been his first real link to humanity and with Dean gone he couldn’t help feeling that humanity itself was just less. He kept on, same as before, but shadows dragged down his eyes and hope’s light was a weak flicker. Even Jack’s growing power and passion could not quite reawaken in him any faith in victory. But for Sam and Jack he persevered. He’d rather fade away, slowly dragged through Hell, than let them down. He kept a watchful eye over Jack, paralyzed by the thought of such another loss, and spent his days in dogged pursuit of some secret bit of lore which might provide them with a new weapon.

To Sam, loss gave instability. A part of him had died and with it had gone his balance. He teetered erratically on the verge of a thousand states of being. Each day might bring a new version of himself. Would he be the lost little boy looking for his brother? Or the cold, driven machine seeking revenge? Some days he was rock and leader, others he seemed to be awkwardly shaping himself to fill Dean’s shoes. No matter how hard he strove he could not find his footing. A fatalism sunk deep into Sam’s heart and quietly he despaired of ever feeling truly whole again. But there was a fear too. A fear that if he gave in to that despair then Dean’s death would be in vain and everything he had left would collapse around his head. He would not press this train of thought too far, so mostly he didn’t think beyond the here and now, the tasks he set himself when he had mustered the strength to do so. Introspection made him feel he might shatter. The future was a dark void, the past an open wound. So sometimes he lead the charge, sometimes he trailed behind Cas and Jack, but always he kept his eyes locked on that Sisyphean task before them.

And thus the three trekked forward, gingerly navigating the shadows and haunted spaces that Dean’s absence left in their lives.

If long ago, before he had the privilege of knowing death like an old song, you’d asked Dean what he thought dying and going to the afterlife felt like, he likely would have guessed that it was like losing consciousness and waking up again. Now, some 12 or 13 years after his first death, Dean knew differently. He was all too bleakly aware that death felt irrefutably and indescribably Other. So it was that from the moment Dean opened his eyes, he was under no illusion that he had somehow been saved. He knew with absolute certainty that he was dead.

He found himself sitting in a black office chair, a little too small for comfort, with an empty table in front of him. Beyond that were bookcases, stretching high above his head, and far beyond what he could see in either direction, each one labeled with a letter and bearing endless stacks of nearly identical thin black books. His feet squeaked against the starkly polished black floors as he scrambled to his feet, uncertain whether he should still expect to face enemies. Almost as quickly he relaxed. He’d been here before, two years ago. This was Death’s library. Nearly the same instant as his realization, Billie emerged from one of the many corridors of shelves. Dean thought he detected an even more severe look on her face than usual. However, four years hadn’t been quite enough time for Dean to begin to decipher her enigmatic expressions.

“Hello Dean.”

He gave a curt nod and shifted his feet, waiting for her to speak. She did not. “What am I doing here Billie?”

“You’d rather be in Heaven or Hell?”

“Do I get a choice? You open a new afterlife travel agency- choose your destination? Or have we come back around to that promise you made Sam. That you’re going to throw us into the Empty when we die.”

“Tempting as that may be sometimes, no. I thought I’d been pretty clear that we’re past that. ‘Larger picture’ and all that.”

“Right, right. New job, new outlook. I remember.” Dean was relaxing, gaining confidence. One might even have called him hopeful. Surely just being here was a good sign. And hadn’t Billie, after all, been an ally to them more often than not? “So uh,” he clapped his hands together. “If you’re not gonna turn me over to the angels or the demons, and you’re not gonna drop me in the Empty, can we just skip through this little pep talk or lecture or whatever you have planned and get me back down to Earth?”

“I never said I was sending you back.”

“So what am I doing here?” He barked impatiently. As confidence in his own situation had grown, the thought of Azazel in the Bunker had crept its way into his mind, along with thoughts of the revenge Alistair might want for the man who’d killed him.

“You’re here because you and I need to have a talk.”

“Great let’s get this heart to heart over with. Sooner the better. I need to get back to warn Sam about what’s coming.”

Billie came closer, impatience mixed with an uncharacteristic note of sympathy in her eyes. “You’re misunderstanding me, Dean. I’m not sending you back at all.”

Dean jerked his chin up and squared his shoulders. “I need to go back there. Sam, Cas, and Jack, they need me. They need to know who’s coming for them. And Chuck- Chuck needs to be stopped.”

“And you’re the one who’s going to stop him? Dean Winchester with a can-do attitude and handgun is going to stop God?”

“I’m going to try! And Sam and them, they need all the help they can get. I thought you were on our side in all of this! You’re the one who brought Jack back. You’re the one who backed us. You’re pulling out now!? You do one thing and after that you’re just ready to throw in the towel? To run and let Chuck have his way?”

Billie’s eyes narrowed. “You should watch what you say. You might come to regret it.”

Dean jabbed a finger in Billie’s direction. “You said that Sam and I were important. You said that we had work to do.”

“Argue all you like Dean. But I couldn’t send you back even if I wanted to.”

Dean scoffed. “You’re Death. You’ve done it before, and more. The Old Death even pulled Sam’s soul out of the Cage.”

“Circumstances have changed.

Despite the endless hours spent in anticipation, the end caught them unawares, though not unprepared. It had been a long time since they believed they’d find any weapon to help them fight Chuck, but recently they’d begun to suspect that Jack was as strong as he would get (at least within Sam’s lifetime). So for some time they had been waiting, in anxious tension for the day when Chuck would make his move.

As for Chuck, he loved his parallels. So exactly ten years after Michael and Lucifer took their fighting stance in that very spot, Cas, Sam, and Jack found themselves standing on the dry dead grass of Stull Cemetery.

Storm clouds had rolled in, casting a pall over the stark field, and a few cracks of lightning tore the sky because, of course, Chuck had a flair for the dramatic. And this was Chuck’s doing—all of it. The field in Kansas, the fate of the world, the battle lines drawn. Team Free Will was down a man and felt it as if missing a limb. They’d debated whether or not to bring in backup—Jodie, Donna, Bobby, Eileen, whatever others they could find—but in the end all the arguments of who to involve and what good it would do were pointless; Chuck decided for them that it should be they three standing alone. It could be said that it was a mercy that Chuck brought so few to stand on his own side. Certainly, he could have raised a host of angels, demons, and monsters to back him. Instead he’d brought with him only Alistair, Abaddon, and Azazel, neglecting entirely the angels he seemed to have grown bored of long ago, in favor of an all-star grudge match. Still, Sam hadn’t been fooled into thinking the odds were any more favorable to them. And within the first minute of the fight, his judgment was proved right, as very quickly their best laid plans unraveled.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl and Sam watched as if in slow motion. Abaddon and Alistair were toying with Cas, who was bloodied and bruised. They circled like jackals as he desperately gripped his blade. Further away, Chuck had Jack in a similar position. Jack’s eyes glowed and he flung out an arm, but whatever he had attempted was nullified by Chuck, though not without effort. Jack looked tired and scared and every inch of Sam wanted to run and rescue the boy, as impossible as that might be.

Azazel wrapped a hand around Sam’s throat and lifted him from the ground. Sam made a desperate stab with the angel blade, but the demon caught his hand and flicked the weapon away. Sam struggled to draw in a breath. It was rare that Sam felt small, but staring into those yellow eyes he felt like a kid. A kid who’d grown up hunting and thought he knew everything there was to know about monsters. A kid who only really realized how out of his depth he was the first time he stared into those same yellow eyes. And just like when he was scared as a child, in that moment, all Sam wanted was his brother.

It was as if Azazel had read his mind. He grinned. “Oh, we’ve come a long way, Sammy. You and me, we were the start. And now we’re gonna be the end. I killed Grandpa. I killed Mommy. I killed Daddy. I killed Dean.” He paused for a moment to watch the rage and pain in Sam’s eyes. “And now, I’m gonna kill you, and put an end to the Winchester’s once and for all.”

He flung Sam to the ground, where he lay gasping for air. He wanted to stand, to fight back, but his body wasn’t listening to him. Before he could recover, Azazel clenched his fist and Sam felt knives in his gut. He heard the cries of pain and fear from Cas and Jack as they fought their losing battle, and he felt the cold weight of helplessness. The yellow gaze bored into his head. Sam closed his eyes. Desperately, illogically, he thought, “if only Dean had been here, we might have made it.”

An engine roared a heraldic cry. A sound as familiar as a friend’s voice. Across the field the two sides froze. The gleaming black Impala surged over the hill, like it had 10 years before. It looked like new. Not a dent. Not a scratch. No trace of the explosion which had destroyed it. It rolled gracefully toward the stunned combatants. In shock, they waited.

The door opened. The field was hushed, but from the car rolled the exultant chords of a rock song. He stepped out slowly, calmly. A silhouette against the raucous music. He was dressed in a suit, every inch of it jet black, perfectly tailored. On his finger he wore a ring with a white stone, and he casually twisted it, as if from old habit. He stood and surveyed the field as they all watched him.

Sam propped himself up on one elbow and cried, breathless with joy, “Dean, you’re alive!”

Dean turned and caught his brother’s eye. He gave a wry smile. “Not exactly.” He held out his hand, and in it, there materialized a tall, rugged scythe.

“Circumstances have changed.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Why can’t you send me back?”

“Sit down, Dean there’s a lot to go over.” Sulkily, Dean lowered himself back into the same chair he’d woken in moments before. Billie hesitated just a moment. “You’re right Dean. You are important. But not in the way you thought. Your role is no longer as a hunter.”

“As what then?”

“As Death.”

The anger that had been churning in Dean’s mind was snuffed out by the wave of shock and confusion. His mouth opened but he couldn’t make any words come out. Billie watched him gape, the gears of his mind practically visible. When it seemed that his eyes were focusing on her again, she continued.

“There are rules to everything Dean. Consequences and reactions that run deeper than any power you’ve seen. And one of those rules is this: if you kill Death, you become the next Death when you die.”

Dean floundered and found one idea to grasp on to. “But you’re Death. You said, when Death dies, the next reaper to die gets the job.”

Billie shrugged. “That was all you needed to know at the time. Think of me as an interim position. Five years is a long time to wait for a new cosmic power, and it could have been much longer.”

“This is crazy. I’m not Death! I can’t be. I’m not—I’m not-“

“The signs have been there for a long time. Much longer than five years.”

“So what you’re saying it was my- my destiny?” Dean scoffed, repelled by the thought.

“You might call it that. You’ve always had, shall we say, an interesting relationship with death.”

Dean started to protest but Billie cut him off with a wave of her hand. “From the time you were a child, you were surrounded by death. Your mother. The cases your father worked, the monsters you hunted. All the people you’ve lost since then.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. That’s the gig. The life. Ask any Hunter.”

“That’s because it’s only one piece in the puzzle, Dean. You’ve known death like no one else has. You know you should’ve died when you were 26? You were electrocuted, your heart damaged-“

“I remember. But I was healed. So?”

“You were healed, by a reaper. How many people do you think can say the same? That they were given life by an agent of death.”

“That preacher used the reaper to heal a lot of people.”

“Like I said, pieces of the puzzle. How many of those same people were supposed to die again later that year, killed by a powerful demon, but came back?” She went on before Dean could respond. “And then how many of them, would come back and work to save Reapers a few years later?”

Frustration bubbled in Dean’s chest as a hundred half-spun arguments about why none of that meant anything froze on the tip of his tongue.

But Billie pressed on without regard for him. “But that’s all small compared to the fact that you have died more times than anyone else. Everyone in your orbit picks that up a little bit. Sam, Cas, Jack, your mom… But no one matches your record. Gabriel saw to that with his little Mystery Spot game.”

“Yeah but those weren’t real-“

“Between Gabriel and the other angels and all their meddling, you’ve died a lot of times that you can’t remember, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t happen. And it means that you have the very rare distinction of having been sent to Heaven, Hell and Purgatory.”

Billie sat down on the edge of the table in front of Dean. Making him understand the full extent of his role in all this was so very, very important. “But all those are just precursors, Dean. Little warning signs. The old Death knew what they meant. That’s why he found it all so amusing. That’s why he let you summon him so many times. That’s why he trusted you with his ring when you first fought Lucifer.”

“If he knew, why wouldn’t he do something to stop it? Why would he hand me his scythe?”

“That larger picture I’ve talked about. It was always your destiny.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I am so tired of people telling me all these things that I’m supposed to do.”

“There have been a lot of prophecies about you, Dean. Most have come true. But there’s a difference between prophecies that someone tries to make happen by taking away your choices, and a fate that you are destined for, that can be predicted, just because of the very nature of who you are. No one forced you to do these things. The choices you made brought you here.”

“Well what if I don’t want it? What if I choose not to be Death?”

“You already are. The moment you died, you became Death. And there’s no going back, no being human again. If you want, you can choose not to do the job. But you’ve seen what happens when Death doesn’t do what he’s supposed to. That’s why the old Death gave you his ring for the day all those years ago. It was your apprenticeship. To make sure that when the time came, you’d do the job right.”

Billie’s voice had become uncharacteristically gentle, but now she straightened up, severe once more. “But there’s more to it than that. More you have to understand.”

Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well let’s get through it.”

“You set everything in motion 5 years ago when you killed Death. That’s when everything changed and all this went from being destiny to a reality. And you don’t understand the extent of the change that happened when it did. Before you were dealing with ancient and powerful things—Lilith, the archangels, the Mark of Cain—but that action brought the cosmic into play.”

“I killed Death, and that’s when Chuck and Amara showed up.”

“Exactly. And that’s why you and Amara shared a connection.”

“Amara’s connection to me was because I had had the Mark.”

“Lucifer also once had the Mark, and it didn’t stop Amara from torturing him, now did it? No, she didn’t realize it, but she was drawn to you because Darkness and Death are connected. But right now it’s Chuck’s role in this that matters. Amara didn’t realize the significance of what you’d done. But Chuck did. And since then you’ve had a target on your back. I only learned that recently, or I would have warned you.”

“A target? If Chuck wanted me dead he could kill me whenever he wanted.”

“That’s just it. He didn’t want you dead. Because he wanted to prevent you from becoming Death, and there are only a few ways to make that happen. When you trapped Michael, I brought you a book saying that the only way to stop Michael from destroying this world was to go into the Malak box.”

Dean nodded. “But I didn’t and the world is still standing. The book was wrong.”

“Because Chuck put it there, to manipulate you.”

“Because if I had gotten into the box, I would have spent an eternity trapped and possessed by Michael.”

“You would never die, and never become Death. And that wasn’t his only attempt to stop you. The Equalizer gun. A weapon powerful enough to kill a being like Chuck, or Amara, or even Jack, is so strong that if used on a human, it would obliterate their soul. If you had used the gun on Jack, you wouldn’t just have died. You would have been so completely destroyed that you could not become Death. The soul bomb you planned to use against Amara would have done the same thing.”

“But Chuck’s the one who took that out, if he wanted me destroyed why would he do that?”

Billie shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe that one wasn’t planned, and he hadn’t figured out what you were yet. Maybe he was feeling confident and was afraid of turning Amara against him again.”

Dean scowled. “But when I died, just now, it was the soul bomb. If that’s true I shouldn’t be here.”

Billie looked smug. “The soul bomb didn’t kill you. Lucky for us, Alistair was a little overzealous with that knife of yours. It probably wouldn’t have killed you first, except that I exploited a loophole and reaped you, just a little bit early. Tricky timing, pulling that off. You’re welcome.”

“Why does all this matter so much to him? What difference does it make?”

“Because, that first time you talked to him, Death told you something else. Something very important.”

The realization rolled over Dean like a thunderstorm. “He told me one day he’d reap God.”

“Which wasn’t exactly true. Death will do it, but not him. You Dean. You will reap God.”

The music shut off, leaving only the creak of the car door swinging shut. The demons fell back a few steps, unconsciously withdrawing from the aura of death which hung on Dean like the scent of a familiar place—from Dean it wasn’t ominous or evil, just potent, and quiet, and still. Chuck fidgeted, seeming as unsure of himself as his persona when they’d first met, when he’d been just a writer. And Dean… Dean fixed a cufflink, and then met the stares with a self-assured smile and lifted eyebrows.

The world bent around him like the tense crackle of dry air before an impending storm. Even as they recognized him, his friends realized that Dean was changed.

When he was younger Dean had worn authority the way he’d worn his father’s old leather jacket. As he’d grown into it, that same authority had been announced and demanded with every set jaw, every dark eye, every sharp word, as over and over again the world tried to deny him his due. But there could be no denying now. No question of Dean proving and reproving himself endlessly. Now authority sat naturally in the curve of his smile and the fire of his eyes. Now it draped his shoulders like a cloak and adorned his head like a crown. Now he held his head high like a king. Sam almost could have mistaken him for Michael, but the light in his smile, paired with the anger in his eyes—that was unmistakably Dean. For the first time, Sam truly understood the reason why his brother was the true vessel to the Prince of the Host.

Still, Sam knew Dean like his own breath and felt his presence like the beat of his own heart. So he felt deep in his soul the rightness of having his brother back and by his side. And though the man before him was indisputably different than anything he’d ever known his brother to be, in an odd way it was as if Dean was more himself than ever before.

“No. No no no no.” Chuck shook his head, a smile beginning to form. “This can’t be real. This is some sort of trick. You can’t be here. Dean can’t be here. I made sure of it. He’s gone.”

Dean shrugged and gave his scythe a twirl. “Well, I don’t want to point any fingers but…” he pulled a face and jerked his head in the direction of the demon trio. “You know what they say about good help.”

Rage and a trace of fear crossed Abaddon’s face. “That bomb-“

“Didn’t kill me. I died of a knife wound.”

The demons shifted uneasily, fully aware of the repercussions of that statement. Chuck’s eyes turned to steel, but he made no move. He only watched and waited for his enemy to make a move.

Sam scrambled to his feet as Dean strolled closer. Dean came alongside him. His eyes never left Chuck, but his voice dropped low and soft, no longer a king, but a boy checking on his kid brother. “You alright, Sammy?”

Sam nodded, a little breathless, a little overwhelmed by the sight of the brother he thought was gone. Dean nodded, at the same time checking in with both Cas and Jack via quick glances in each of their directions. “You’re gonna need something that can actually kill a Prince of Hell. Give me your blade.”

Sam held up the blade and Dean laid a hand on the silver metal. Instantly the blade turned stark black. “One kill,” Dean warned under his breath, already starting to move away from Sam. He circled around the edge of the field to where Cas was. Abaddon and Alistair had backed a few paces away, unwilling to move against the unexpected new enemy until a signal was given. Dean silently tapped Castiel’s weapon, turning it black as well. Unlike Sam, Cas could feel the grim import of the newly empowered weapon and suppressed a shudder. A weapon blessed by Death himself.

Dean had stopped his circling a few steps away from Cas, between his friend and the demons, directly across from Chuck. Tension crackled in the air, wrapping fingers around throats, and holding limbs locked in place. Like feral dogs they waited, hackles raised, teeth bared, legs stiff, but frozen in the moment before attack, each waiting for their respective alpha to make a move.

Chuck laughed bitterly. As Dean had set the stage, he’d been furiously trying to work out where his precautionary measures had gone astray. His hands went to his pockets and he bobbed his head. “This is Billie, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Just like the kid being back was Billie.”

“Turns out, Billie knows how to play the game pretty well.”

Chuck was growing huffy and agitated. “Let me guess, she told you some story about how this is your destiny. Become Death, reap me, yada yada yada.”

“That’s about the shape of it.”

“But you know that’s not how it works, Dean. I’m the author. Fate, destiny… they’re what I say they are. Every step you’ve taken, your entire life, has been because it’s the story I want for you. You really think Billie knows more than I do?”

“I think a soul bomb is a bit of an extreme way to try to kill one high school dropout armed with just a couple guns and a magic knife. I think that the old Death did a lot of things which didn’t make sense, but are starting to look like he knew a lot more than he let on. I think you looked real surprised, and real unhappy to see me get out of that car. I mean, it looks a whole lot like, you didn’t want me to be Death, but here I am. I’m Death. So yeah, I think maybe, you don’t get all the say in how this plays out.”

“You’ve always been good at talking big, Dean. And you’ve got the look down—the suit, the ring, the scythe. But we both know that deep down, nothing’s changed. You’re still just that same kid, too scared of losing his family to realize that he’s fighting a battle he can never win.”

Dean looked thoughtful, and for a moment his eyes strayed toward Sam. “Yeah. I am the same. Now let’s end this thing.”

They struck as branches of forked lightning. An explosion of violence and long-brewing hatred. Jack threw himself at Chuck before he could make any sort of move toward Dean, and Chuck’s attention and power were forced back onto his grandson. Azazel and Sam were at each other’s throats once more, each feeling a compulsive urge towards the resolution of that decades-long conflict between them. Abaddon’s move toward Cas was shadowed a moment later by Alistair, who no doubt hoped to see the enchanted blade’s single kill spent on the Knight before he made his play. But he had gone no more than a step when Dean appeared between him and the duel.

Dean closed the space between them and took pleasure in the demon’s reluctant retreat. Even something as old and as powerful as Alistair feared Death. Dean leaned in close, decades of anger broiling storm clouds in his eyes. Alistair sneered in the face of his former apprentice, but it was the bared teeth of a trapped animal. Dean’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “You were right. I do owe you. Let me pay you back.”

It was quick. Not the long, artfully orchestrated revenge he’d once dreamed of, but a contemptuous swatting of a fly. His ringed hand grabbed Alistair’s bare wrist, there was short sputter of light, and the demon was dead.

Cas’s attacks were revitalized. He matched Abaddon’s fury blow for blow. In every movement his long history as a soldier and a warrior were evident. More terrifying by far was the zealous conviction which had led him, for good or evil, so often before, all of it now bearing down on Abaddon. A knight of Hell, a soldier of Heaven, and a fearsome battle. But at last Cas’s blade found its mark and Abaddon died, frozen in the twisted fury which had defined her.

Sam’s struggle with Azazel was shorter. Sam was thrown but regained his feet in an instant, charging Azazel. No fatigue touched him. The hunt for that demon had defined his childhood and cast a pall over his adulthood. And now at the end Sam had no space left in him for any more words or mercy in that story. He simply ended it. When the knife drove home, Sam watched the yellow fade from the eyes with mute satisfaction.

But Dean saw little of either fight. The full weight of his attention lay on the fight in front of him.

Winds whipped up, creating a swirling vortex of clouds far above the heads of Chuck and Jack. Cas and Sam staggered in the maelstrom but it did little to touch Dean. He passed through it as through a mist. Bolts of lightning shot down from the sky, striking Jack, but with a ragged war cry and a flick of his hand, they vanished. His eyes glowed a brilliant gold and Chuck staggered as Jack thrust his hand forward. In that same moment, Dean pointed and at his insistence a chain appeared, invisible save for a colorless distortion where the light struck it, binding Chuck’s arm to the ground. Jack launched another attack and with a gesture Dean manifested another chain, binding Chuck’s other arm.

Slowly the chains pulled tighter, forcing Chuck to his knees. Still the torrent raged around them and both Dean and Jack bore the signs of strain. Sweat streaked Jack’s brow, and Dean’s hand trembled slightly as he held it, both of them breathed heavily. There was a blink and everything went quiet for the three of them. The storm formed around them like a wall, grey and swirling, pulsing with bursts of lightning, impossible to see through, yet silent, as if they had been sealed away from the rest of the world. When he spoke, Chuck’s voice was deceptively calm.

“You can’t do this, Dean. You know you can’t.”

“People have been telling me what I can’t do my whole life, and I always seem to be proving them wrong.”

“Even if you win, even if you do kill me, what then?”

“Sam and Cas go back to their lives, Jack takes over running things up above, and we finally start to fix this world you broke.”

“You really think that’s how this is gonna go?”

Before Dean or Jack could reply the wall of storm behind Chuck cleared, like a window or a projection, revealing a view of Sam and Cas, both crying out in agony though the sound did not reach inside the vortex. Blood ran from their mouths and they dropped to the ground, the grass beneath them staining red. Dean pried his eyes away from the grisly scene, unsure whether it was real or not.

“I end you and that ends.”

“It won’t be any better Dean. The world will still be broken. There will still be monsters, and evil and people making all the worst choices. Except, without me wanting a good story, who’s to say that the good guy wins sometimes? And what keeps you from your destiny? Sooner or later, your fate will catch up with you.”

All around Dean the storm lit up with images from his past. Sam’s body dropping into his arms in the ghost town at Cold Oak. Sam shot in the chest by Walt. Sam dragged away by a nest of vamps in the other universe. Sam half dead from enduring the Trials. Sam falling into the Cage. Sam shot. Sam stabbed. Sam clawed, and bitten, and bludgeoned. And flashing by among all of these were dozens of what he could only assume were alternate visions of the future-- each one of Sam dying. Some bloody, some desperate, some drenched in fear. In each one, Dean standing over the twisted, broken body of his brother, his own eyes empty of humanity. Echoing over it all were a dozen different voices from Dean’s past, each repeating some variant of the same prophecy: you’ll have to kill Sam.

Chuck spoke again, softly. “You’ll kill Sam. Jack will kill Cas. And your humanity will die with them and then the two of you will be alone. For eternity. But it doesn’t have to be that way. I can prevent that. I can change your fates. Let you two live the life you want with your family. I’m the only one who can change that.”

A note in his plea startled Dean from his stupor. He looked down at Chuck and thought how small he looked. Dean readjusted his hold on Chuck’s chains and took a half step closer, leaning in almost imperceptibly. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“You know, Chuck… I’ve been a hunter long enough to recognize a demon deal when I hear it.”

The feigned sympathy and mercy vanished from Chuck’s eyes, replaced by hate and fear.

Dean straightened up. His hold on Chuck’s chains was stronger now. His voice was bolder. “Maybe I do have a destiny. But if it it’s there, it is what it is because of who I am, and the choices I make. And I believe in who I am.”

With a sweeping motion of the arm, Dean summoned his scythe. For one moment more he hesitated. “Fate’s a funny thing. Maybe it will come true. I’ll be with Sam until the end. Maybe my fate is that one day I’ll reap him. Seems likely. After all, I am Death. Sooner or later, everyone dies at my hands. Even you.”

At Dean’s nod, Jack let loose a primal scream. A wave of golden energy burst from the boy’s outstretched arms. The wave collided with Chuck in the precise instant that Dean’s scythe pierced his chest. Light exploded throughout the ragged little Kansas cemetery, bringing down the wall of storm, spinning a blinding tapestry explosion of stark white and brilliant gold, with a black core. And then there was quiet.

They filled the bunker with people. Eileen and Jody and Donna and the girls and Bobby and Charlie and Garth and a dozen others, young and old. And they celebrated. Food, drinks, music, laughter, and a sense of victory more complete than anything they had known before.

Amid the old friends, Jack mingled as easily as he ever had. There was something sweet and simple and kind about the boy’s companionship that no amount of power could change. He was friend and son and younger brother to all of them despite his recent deification. All their eyes shone with pride as he recounted his ultimate battle. All of them knew, but none of them truly grasped what it meant for Jack. How could they comprehend trading jokes with the new ruler of the universe?

It was not the same case for Dean. They had all heard of his death months earlier, had all mourned, so they were overjoyed at his return. But like Sam, they all instantly sensed that he was changed. Far more changed than Jack was. Their ease grew with each passing moment, realizing that he was still Dean. His jokes were the same, his laugh as ready as ever, his smile just as warm. So before long, their time with him felt almost as natural as it had before. Almost.

There was still a barrier that they couldn’t surmount. A distance. Dean was no longer alive as he had been, and he belonged to another world now. He had become more, and in that there was a loss of that rough equality between them. The power, the understanding, the authority—they call suited Dean. But he had grown beyond an easy fit with his old life. So as the party wore on, Dean slipped into the kitchen on his own.

Sam found him there sometime later, a beer in his hand and an empty pie plate beside him. Dean looked up to greet him and smiled quietly. The muffled sounds of the party provided a soft backdrop. Sam sat down across from Dean. For a while neither spoke.

It was Sam who broke the quiet first. “It’s never gonna be the same is it?”

Dean shook his head. “No. But it’s good. Jack is the new God. He made Cas an archangel. Heaven’s in good hands. Rowena’s got Hell under her thumb. Things are maybe better than they’ve ever been for us. “

“But you’re not really back are you? You’re Death now. And you have to do that job. I feel like I’m losing you all over you again.”

“Come on, man. I’m not gone. Sure I won’t be here as much. You won’t see me every day. But you ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy. I’ll be around. As often as I can.”

“How often will that be?”

“Well, I’m not alone in it. I’ve got Billie helping me. With a partner, I figure it doesn’t have to be a 24/7 gig.”

“You still won’t be here. Not like before.”

“No.”

“It’s just that Jack and Cas are going to be in Heaven. You’ll be off… wherever Death goes.”

“I have a library.”

“Right. And I’m just wondering… what do I do all alone in this big empty bunker?”

“Well first of all, it’s not empty. You’ve got Eileen. And it only stays empty if you want it to. Come on, Sam, you know what you’re supposed to do.”

Sam scowled. “Ar-are you saying I should have kids?”

“No! I mean if you want to, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” He leaned in, confidentially, comfortably. “The Men of Letters, both British and American, the hunters from Apocalypse World, you’ve been dancing around this for years.”

“You think I should try it again.”

“An organization of hunters. Based out of here. Led by you.”

“I don’t know. It didn’t exactly turn out well before.”

“Yeah because ancient demons and rogue archangels were out to get us. But now. Now you have the world’s largest collection of lore. You have more experience than anyone. And your family is, hands down the most powerful family in the universe. It’s the perfect time, and you’re the perfect person to do it.”

The absolute faith conveyed in Dean’s voice was hard to stand against. Sam nodded slowly, his thoughts spinning with new possibilities. It was true; the thought had been with him for years. With the small push from Dean he could see it all falling into line. A nationwide network of hunters. Unified, organized, supported. Protecting each other, saving people. A brotherhood. “All the best of both hunters and the Men of Letters.”

“And with all of those salty hunters in there to help you? Trust me, half of the hunters in this country would sign on with you today if you asked. And hey, if anyone gives you any trouble, you just tell them that you raised God, and your big brother is Death.”

Sam laughed. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

“Ah. Speaking of that.” Dean reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Opening his hand he revealed three silver rings. The engraving on each one matched the markings on Dean’s ring, but they were simple bands, each without a stone. Dean plucked one out and set it on the table between him and Sam. “That one’s yours.”

“What is this?”

Dean returned the other two rings to his pocket and sat studying his own ring. “Think of this like a signet ring. Or whatever they were called. You’d have a king and if he gave his ring to someone it meant that that person was under his protection or it showed that the king trusted him with authority or both.”

Under Death’s protection. Sam lifted the ring off the table tentatively. “What does it do?”

“As long as you’re wearing it, you’re very hard to kill. Not immortal. It won’t hold up to something like the Colt or an archangel. But short of that…” Dean shrugged. “Ground rules: only you can take it off once you put it on. You’ll still age. You’ll still die one day. And it was made for you, so you’re the only one it works for. Giving it away won’t do anyone any good. So don’t even think about handing it off to the first person who makes puppy dog eyes at you.”

“How did you-“ Sam stammered. The ring felt cold and heavy in his hand.

“Billie helped me make them. But it uh- involves a lot of pulled strings and loopholes and making exceptions. So in light of the bigger picture of all things, it’s really something I can only pull off for these three rings.”

Sam glanced at the pocket the other two rings had gone into. “And those-“

“Require another trip to deliver them.”

Sam didn’t press. His eyes were locked back onto the ring in his hand. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Sammy, listen to me. The only way I can do this, the only way I can go off and do what I have to do, is if I know that I can still have your back. If I know that you’re safe. The rest of the universe comes second to making sure that my little brother is taken care of.”

Of course he meant it. Dean’s life had been a one long series of acts proving how much he would throw away to keep his brother safe. Sam slid the ring onto his finger, and Dean gave a relieved smile. He leaned back again, his task accomplished. “And I mean it Sam, you need me, you call. I’ll be there.”

They sat there for several hours more. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes trading stories. Sometimes dreaming of the future—Dean’s new role, Sam’s hunters, all the changes Jack and Cas would make to Heaven. The boundary Dean had felt between him and the friends in the other room was not there with Sam. Sam was no stranger to Death. They were just brothers.

So they sat with each other until some sixth sense told them the sun was beginning to rise, and Dean stood up to leave.

Sam trailed his brother outside. Baby sat waiting on the side of the road. Sam’s eyes traveled over the car fondly, before he scoffed slightly and smiled at Dean. “You know, Death’s supposed to have a pale horse.”

Dean grinned as he swung the door open and leaned on the roof. “Nobody’s touching my car.”

They lingered.

Sam shook himself. “Well. We’ve got work to do.”

Dean nodded. “See you soon, Sammy.”

He got into the car and started the engine, reveling in its familiar growl. The rocks crunched beneath the wheels as the car turned onto the open highway.

In a moment, Sam knew he would go back down into the bunker, back to Eileen and his friends, and he would begin the next chapter of his life. But for a while longer he stood and watched the Impala drive away, listening to the fading purr of the engine. And Dean watched Sam in the rearview mirror for as long as he could, even as he cranked the volume up and sang along as loud as he could to the music spilling out of the car and onto the never-ending road.

#supernatural #spn #spn fic #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #my writing

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talix18 · 5 years

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November 4

If I could go back in time and tell myself anything useful, #1 would be for gods sake please keep up with guitar lessons. #2 would be something about considering carefully the fact that you're going to live out a few more decades; continuing to blow up relationships will have you living them out mostly alone. #3 would be Absolutely Fill Out the Rhodes Scholarship application, idiot. I know you don't know yet that you want to travel but I promise that the experience you would have going to school overseas would be more than worth putting up with the weather. It's a problem that opportunity arises for some people when they're too young to appreciate it – at least it was a problem for me. So play guitar, sing, write, do all those things in front of people because it can just be fun, you know. Go to school far away. Sit still and let someone love you.

Because there is a distinct possibility that you will never meet someone who you know is The One. I'm pretty sure I thought I'd met The One two or three times. Nobody is going to fit all of your edges without rubbing uncomfortably in a few areas, whether it's their tendency to cut their hair too short or their inability to take on housekeeping duties when you're laid up or their families not being people you'd choose to hang out with. It's nice to have someone to hang out in sweatpants with; it's nice to have someone around who makes you laugh. Love is just as much about action as it is about emotion. It's not just something that happens to you; it's also something that you do.

But the reality is that I did meet someone I had those heart-flips over. We had that connection I'd always hoped to find. And life got in the way. He wasn't willing to make the changes he needed to in order to be with me and I wasn't willing to wait anymore. And I had the one that I was crazy about who just wasn't as crazy about me, and the one that I thought was the Universe actually working in my favor until the long-distance of it all got too much. Maybe I've had my chances.

I just want a life where I can honestly say “I wouldn't change a single second because it got me here.” Is that so much to ask?

Is it terrible if I don't eat anything except cauliflower crust veggie pizza? I mean, if I'm not overdoing the cheese and the veggies are fresh and the sauce doesn't have sugar in it – there's no reason that it's a “bad” idea, is there?

Saturday night I was at a meeting where a friend was celebrating nine years clean. She is hilarious and outgoing and incredibly smart, and she honestly believes that all Muslims are taught to throw acid in the faces of their women. This baffles me. I have this other friend – she's Jewish and also incredibly smart, and helped vote in the current administration because she's anti-reproductive rights. The administration that normalized being a Nazi in the 21st century. I just don't get it. And this is always going to limit the extent to which I'm going to trust someone – if you fundamentally believe that some humans are less deserving of compassion and dignity and self-determination, then I have to wonder what's going to happen if I fall into one of your less deserving categories.

Anyway, what I'm learning is that my mental health depends on being around people – on being part of a community – and I need to tell the truth about myself in safe places. So I'm at a meeting Saturday sharing about how my depression manifests, the specific example being that for most of the almost 15 years I've lived in this house, there has been a dresser drawer on my bedroom floor. It hasn't always been the same drawer – I've fixed at least two or three rails in the time I've owned these IKEA dressers. And it is entirely likely that I wouldn't have this problem if I didn't stuff the drawers beyond their recommended capacity. The point is that this is how I live: walking around the drawer on the floor. I am not going to consider my shit together until there are no drawers on the bedroom floor.

After the meeting, the woman next to me, who is a successful married adult with grown children, leaned over and said “I've never felt so close to you.” And that's what it's about, gang. Those moments when we tell the truth about how we live and other people recognize themselves in it. It's scary sometimes but, for me, it's necessary. And when I have more than one broken dresser drawer, I can ask for help getting rid of the things I don't need and taking the broken things to the dump. Then I can buy a new piece of clothing storage furniture, probably from IKEA, because I'm not made of money, and this one doesn't have drawers.

Last night I drove two hours to Philadelphia to see Fleetwood('s Heartbreakers House) Mac. You have to understand what Stevie Nicks means to me. Yes, I loved “Dreams” when I heard it the first time in someone's apartment in fifth grade where I was playing some version on Spin the Bottle for the first time. (Billy Schoonmaker, where are you now?) I loved the White Winged Dove song that I didn't know the name of until I saw a song I'd never heard of by Stevie on a jukebox and played it. And I remember a cartoon of someone literally dragging a heart behind them that was in the junior high newspaper. But The Moment I got it was when my mother's second husband, who played bass in an actual, playing out band, brought home Stevie's first solo album. I remember seeing her on the cover with white roses and gauzy clothes and a crystal ball and a tambourine and thinking “you mean life can look like that all the time?” My experience of gauzy clothes and crystal balls was limited to the Renaissance Festival that came to town every summer. I don't know why I took that album cover so literally – she could have been dressed that way specifically for those pictures – but in that moment I had permission to make my life look any way I wanted it to.

So Stevie, and by association Fleetwood Mac, have been part of my soul for most of my life, and I've been lucky enough to have seen her solo and with them several times. (Not on the Wild Heart tour, though! Not when Joe Walsh was her opener and Mom refused to sit through him and I was too young to go by myself. [Learning later that Stevie considers Joe the lost love of her life just makes it easier to carry that grudge.]) I've seen them minus Lindsay plus Billy Burnette & Rick Vito, with Lindsay Buckingham but minus Christine McVie (sorry I'm not sorry this is my preferred line-up), and now minus Lindsay plus Mike Campbell and Neil Finn.

I saw them in April and had All The Emotions. All of them. There were the general Stevie emotions, of course. Then there were the Tom Petty emotions, because I'd seen Campbell with Petty and the Heartbreakers the previous summer, on that last tour. Thank god. I don't even know what made me decide to go – I didn't take pictures or buy a shirt like I almost always do – but I was there, and then Tom died. And now Stevie, who adored him, and Mike, who was his musical partner, were on stage together without him.

Then there's Neil Finn, who was? Is? The frontman for Crowded House, who I also love. But more importantly, he was one of the favorites of my friend Andrea, who died of cancer far too young, who lived in Seattle and I made it a point to fly out for her 40th birthday. Who I flew out to sit in the hospital with in the last weeks of her life. Who I met on the Internet of all the ridiculousness, along with an entire group of Webpeeps who I've been lucky enough to ride roller coasters, celebrate weddings, and baptize babies with. Andrea loved Split Enz and Crowded House and made me listen to their catalog beyond “Something So Strong” and “Better Be Home Soon” and find the pop perfection there. There he was, sounding like he was doing Fleetwood Mac karaoke but also sounding like someone I love who is gone.

Not to mention the whole Stevie and Lindsay and will he ever be able to sing again after his throat was injured after his heart surgery and what the hell happened that Stevie decided this was finally a bridge too far to cross with him after everything else they've worked through. I love Stevie but not blindly, and I see Fleetwood Mac touring without two of their three main songwriters but not without her.

All. The. Emotions.

And I went with my grown adopted niece and Stevie sang about children getting older and I was weeping, as I do.

I had decided against buying a shirt, figuring I could make a more rational decision about what I wanted the next day and get it online. And learned to my horror that no, I couldn't, and then the crazy started. The crazy that said “Look! They're going to be in Philly Friday. Get a ticket to that show and buy what you want there. And if you go alone, you can get a more expensive single seat on Mike Campbell's side of the stage and be In It.” I don't remember how long I thought about it. I do know I ran it past my sister, who said she'd done equally as outrageous things, which gave me permission. My sister is one of the sanest people I know and is one of the lines I can never color outside of.

So I bought that Mike Campbell section ticket and reserved a place on the parking lot and vibrated through half a day at work looking forward to it. Until I happened to see something about them canceling the Boston show the night before and looked further and saw that the Philly show had to be postponed due a band member's illness. I was disproportionately devastated. Which is a thing with both addiction and depression – responding to things out of proportion with their actual importance. That disappointment led to a pretty steep downward spiral during which I actually called my sponsor and allowed her to talk me through the insanity maze.

It is recommended that one have a sponsor one trusts and get in the habit of talking to them regularly so that muscle will be exercised when you're feeling crazy or like using or whatever it may be. This is not my way. My traditional way of being a sponsee was crawling through whatever on my own and calling my sponsor to tell her about it afterward, and getting together with her just long enough to work whatever my next step was before my anniversary. Then my very smart Buddhist sponsor with 20 years clean relapsed, and everything changed.

#nanowrimo #f**k fifty

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theoceanthatdrownthemoon-chaldea · 5 years

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Nobu owned a Masamune, Kotegiri Masamune. One of her other sword was made by Masamune's student. From my memories of the list if sword she owned, no mention of Muramasa sword. As predecessor of Ieyasu Tokugawa, either Nobu didn't like Muramasa sword or find its value not worth possessing. Strange a demon king would prefer a divine sword and at the same time didn't get injured by it. She isn't a singular case though. Both X and Lion King are called demon king at some points but have divine/sacred weapons too. Even Salter's Excalibur doesn't change category from holy sword to demon sword. Maou Nobu used her sword to purify her enemies in one of her attack line. Artoria 'purified' Gilles' mental corruption with an Excalibur blast in Fate/Zero. As demon kings wielding holy (Masamune sword is considered holy and is part of Maou Nobu's sword as she once owned it) weapon for both 'good' and 'evil' purpose, there are currently only these two.

They really are partners, Nobu and Artoria.

I could interpret this as Muramasa's skills and crafts don't impress Nobu. Her sword doesn't have a definite name. While Muramasa signed his works, the majority of Masamune's sword isn't signed. This makes the contrast between a humble Masamune and a proud Muramasa. Maou Nobu's sword most likely purifies karma, resentment and fate per her claim of being enemies of gods, buddhas, all living beings and return everything to ashes. If she can achieve this feat then she really wouldn't need to care about Muramasa swords. Furthermore, the amalgamation of her swords is similar to the process of crafting Tsumugari Muramasa but requires significantly fewer blades. Maybe it's more fair to say Maou Nobu purifies by combining her power and her swords, a different method with the same result. Normally it could be a boastful claim but Nobu proved the futile of reliance on buddhas' protection as well as authority in life with brute force. Adding to that is her Maou form being something not entirely human anymore, a deity with human root. Since it's like that, she doesn't need a special sword to cut Buddhism concept. I still feel the presence of Masamune swords in her collection helped and if it ever goes up against a Muramasa, it'd always win. Not only Masamune preceded Muramasa, the legend that dictated the latter to be the former's inferior and in one version sentenced Muramasa to death ensures Muramasa's loss.

If Muramasa is Shirou's ancestor then he and his origin are bad to Artoria on a conceptual level. Masamune swords were created to repel Mongolian invaders and Artoria spent her life defending her country from invasion. Murasama swords' curse is rooted in their fame during the period of civil war. Specifically Muramasa swords were favored by the Tokugawa while being instruments in many of their loss and accidents. Artoria was betrayed and wounded by one of her knight, abandoned by many. Masamune is supposed to be holy while Muramasa cut indiscriminately. Artoria decapitated El Melloi with Excalibur in Fate/Zero to end his suffering. She took on the burden to kill a doomed man in agony and was greatly angered by the circumstance. More on point is her chivalry and ideal - opposing the strong for the weak. The heaviest offender would be trying to separate her from her ideals, dreams and wishes. Muramasa wants a sword that cut fate. It sounds nice but to sum it up it would works similar to Shiki's eyes. Termination of hatred and enmity could give ground for peaceful cooperation but the things that give cause to that enmity won't vanish from history. Even if it does, how many other things will vanish along with it? It's easy for outsiders to tell two fighting parties to stop. Who really reap benefits from this enmity severance? The 'winners'. This forced peace idea is twisted. Shimosa is a special case and normally pressuring people into giving up their feelings for the sake of the mass is cruel. I doubt it's a coincidence a line of his chant is ‘Unjust death meet here’ (In original JP, the kanji means untimely or unnatural death so it’s unjust because the death happened unlike how fate intended). What happened after one is separated from their fate? Cease to exist? Separated from their karma? It would work similar to how Buddha’s NP works, a.k.a. forcibly ‘save’ people from suffering/continued existence for this particular incarnation. If they haven’t attained enlightenment, could they reach anywhere? Or it would be considered fortunate for them to even get back in Samsara?. Kannon actually is the Boddhisattva most famous for choosing to remain on Earth to save people from their karma in a different method than this ‘cutting’. Again if Muramasa can cut karma, where does it go? Something imbalance to the world will happen.

The blade Muramasa gave Musashi is a demonic one but she sensed a divine aura from it when she first saw it. Musashi admitted to be unable to really appraise the sword and Demon isn’t far behind Divine in Fate so her assessment doesn’t hold against Muramasa’s. Since both named Muramasa blades brute forced the severance, they aren’t qualified to be divine swords. Who is there to tell Muramasa that his skills haven’t reached the divine realm yet? Confidence can fast track to self-bias. None of the line in the chant confirmed that he has forged a sword capable of severing the things he targets. His limit still stops at demonic sword.

In Shimosa, we killed 7 Orochis and 1 Shuten Doji. Tsumugari was found in one of Orochi’s tail AFTER it was killed. It has 8 heads. By killing 7 bunrei of Orochi and 1 direct descendant of it was a downscale recreation of legend. It depends on whether Shujen is considered a better or inferior representation of Orochi when compared to the bunrei. Nonetheless, not exactly 8 ‘heads’ were slain but similar enough to allow an imitation of Tsumugari to be summoned. If ‘Satan’ didn’t play Amakusa then the gods and the World certainly did. Saved for one, all the shinto priests who glimpsed of the real Kusanagi (Ame no Murakumo, Tsumugari no Tachi and Kusanagi no Tsurugi are names for the same sword) died not long after. Muramasa was right about using that sword not as a god killed him but the real reason could tie more to that real life curse than the punishment for using divine construct. Beside him, no one else see the sword so none of them died and he didn’t have any reason to elaborate on that.

That took my wandering from topic but from what I’ve seen, Muramasa, his craft, his lineage (Shirou) are tied to swords beyond realm of human but not yet reached the divine. His obsession which possibly is his origin of sword and his ideal of swords combined represent an end. There’s no mean for rebuilding or creation after that end in his ideal ultimate sword. He’s just one that obsessed with pursuit of perfecting his crafts and skills. Like swords, he is both necessary and unnecessary given the circumstance. Artoria didn’t know the value of Avalon but ultimately it would deny her an end she deserved. Masamune sword obey the will of its wielder just as Artoria understands the values of things outside combat prowess. What Muramasa stands for isn’t vital to Artoria.

Artoria’s protection from Morgan, her understanding of different values, her acceptance of the inevitable, her stubbornness keep Excalibur from becoming a demonic sword. Arondight, Excalibur’s sister sword was turned into a demon sword because of its owner’s grudge. He was raised by the Fairy of the Lake yet her protection couldn’t prevent either his madness or the blade’s corruption. Either Artoria’s mental fortitude or Morgan’s protection prevent Excalibur from corrupting. Or maybe Morgan’s evil is akin to the white Lion King’s idea of saving of humanity.

I’m trying to say that Nobu and Artoria have many things in common and due to their similar special circumstances can develop a bond and relationship on understanding and empathy.

#fgo #nobutoria #nobunaga x artoria

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saltisnacks · 6 years

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My open letter to DreamWorks

To DreamWorks Animation, LLC.,

You forgot your audience. Plain and simple. We are an eclectic group of individuals that came together to form your fan base. And, you left most of us devastated and hurting.

That’s blatantly reflected in the Rotten Tomato score of 8% for season eight. There is a petition of over 28.5k signatures on change.org, and it’s still climbing.

This show is listed at TV-Y7. You could have fooled me. You showed a melting corpse to children. That's horrifying beyond words. There are no believable excuses for that. None. Children too young to understand the concept of death should not be exposed to this, and it left parents scrambling to make excuses. It never should have been sent to air. Period. Shame on you.

How Lotor is treated sends a bad message.

• Victims of abuse don’t get their redemption.

• Victims of abuse can't escape from it.

• Victims of abuse are doomed to repeat the cycle.

• Victims of abuse don't find love and their happy ending.

But, his parents can get their forgiveness for destroying the universe for 10,000 years of genocide and death.

Hunk, the gentle giant, is also betrayed in character. Throughout the series he was shown to be a brilliant engineer. And, he loses that growth to become a glorified chef. That was never his passion. That was a hobby.

Lance loses Allura. Then he loses his drive. He gives up being a pilot to become a farmer and a motivational speaker. He’s left with a reminder of what he has lost on his face.

Coran loses Allura, too. The person he had sworn to protect. And, he didn’t even get to say goodbye in the end.

Keith started off alone until Shiro takes him under his wing. Then, he finds friendship and family in the other paladins and Coran. He reunites with his mother. Only to lose all of that in season eight. His friendship with Shiro erased. He's alone during ‘Launch Date.’ The wolf does not count. Krolia wasn’t even there.

I’ve seen parents commenting that their child(ren) are afraid to tell their friends they love them because of the erasure of Keith and Shiro's close bond. If you say anything, you’ll lose that friend. What a message for children.

By the way, why was he sensitive to quintessence? There’s a plot hole. I know a show with limited episodes can’t cover all plotlines. However, there are too many that leave the show hanging. Among the few are:

• Who made the cave drawings?

• Why was Honerva interested enough in Shiro to clone him?

• What were the clones for anyway?

• Shiro's family.

• Shiro and the white lion.

• Keith's Galra traits.

• What did Matt see in the cell?

• Lance’s sword.

• Keith's wolf.

• What were the marks on Lance's face, except a tragic daily reminder of what he's lost?

There are so many more.

And now to Allura.

She was a w.o.c. with a strong personality. A wonderfully written main character that was latched onto by the fandom. The heart of Voltron. However, she is turned into a self-sacrificing trope who consistently loses.

• She loses her home world.

• She loses her father's AI.

• She loses the Castle of Lions.

• She loses her crown for Shiro.

• And ultimately, she loses her life.

Again, parents were left grasping for explanations for this. Did you think of the children watching this show at all? There has not been a main character p.o.c. movie or show with a happy ending geared for children since "The Princess and the Frog," and that was released in 2009. That I'm aware of anyway, because those types of stories are still shadowed and avoided by the entertainment industry.

You made Honerva too powerful. It would have been believable for her alone to be able to fix the damage she caused. Or, the lions could have done something. Allura did not have to make that sacrifice. There were other options, but you chose this one for the tragedy aspect.

The fanfiction rewrites started the very night season eight was released.

Fans should not have to fix a show. That is not how it’s supposed to work. Granted not everyone can be happy with how a show ends, but this ending was atrocious.

You turned season eight into a story of loss. Almost every character loses something by the end. This was not a show where tragedy should have reigned. It was about family, love, and the bonds of friendship that overcame any obstacle. The show forgot that and left us stunned.

And finally to Shiro.

Every aspect you built up of this character was obliterated in season eight. As soon as he was acknowledged as being a gay man, you sought to destroy him in every way possible.

His PTSD was ignored. That is not something that disappears overnight. Especially since it was shown previously to affect him. The chanting in that arena should have sent him running or trembling in terror. My uncle, to this day, still has issues with fireworks and loud noises due to Vietnam.

His disability. You took his prosthesis from something amazing to a joke. He fought Sendak in a hard battle, trading blow for blow. He uses a gun against Zethrid during “The Grudge.” He previously takes hit after hit only to be knocked down by one punch in season 8. With the way Shiro was written, he would have continued to serve, but instead you imply that he retires. I guess disabled veterans don’t matter to you either.

His relationships with the other characters. All we got were barking orders and “Paladins.” Homosexual men can have relationships with heterosexual males. There was no cause for this except blatant homophobia. It was completely erased, especially the one with Keith.

The beautifully written partnership that was a backbone of the entire series. That was admitted could be taken platonically or romantically. He would have fought to save Keith, no question, but you left him frozen with the Pikachu meme face. You don’t write something so profound like that only for it to disappear into nowhere.

Then you try to cover yourselves for the Adam fiasco by tacking on that ending. Just no.

Shiro was already a wonderful representative for the LGTBQ community. He didn’t need to get married to be happy. Especially to an unnamed in the series (only in closed captioning and audio description for the blind) character who doesn’t even have a consistent appearance in the entire season. That doesn’t even have more than five lines, and even those appear edited and added due to found evidence in the subtitles. We were promised that there wouldn't be a shoved in relationship just for the sake of romance, and yet, here we are.

The edits are obvious. Glaring. You tried to erase his sexuality, but then tried to fix those erasures. It was done horribly.

And now the fandom is sinking even further into the mire you landed it in. In order to “fix it,” fans are writing stories of divorce, adultery, and infidelity. That makes Voltron even worse.

You gave into the antis. You didn’t show them that threats don’t succeed. You validated them. Now they'll turn around and destroy something else they sink their teeth into because they think and know they can.

However, the final strike to Voltron was the recent treatment of its voice actors. You left them alone without a statement to face angry upset fans. That was beyond cruel. Beyond understanding. They did not deserve that. Shame on you again.

This is hurting your brand. This is damaging your reputation. You are losing fans and followers daily. I feel sorry for Netflix and HotTopic because this was not their fault.

You can fix this. All of this. All you need to do is say something. Do something. Even if it is quietly removing the epilogue (which we know you can do since you fixed the Adam audio error) and leave it open ended.

Let us hope Allura can return somehow.

You may remain silent, but we won't be.

This is my letter, but the chance of it remaining unread and deleted are high. At least I have it off my chest and planted at your feet.

#voltron #vld #dreamworks #allura #lance #hunk #coran #keith #lotor #takashi shirogane

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yrpspiritsintheshadows · 5 years

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In All the Waves

The day had come.

As much as they didn’t want it to… It was time.

Hideki was up first, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, mostly to distract himself. His mind kept jumping back to it every time he heard a whisper brush past his ear or a phantom hand ruffled his hair.

They knew…

They knew that it was time.

Deep breaths… Deep breaths…

They have to pass on.

Staying here, isn’t good for them.

Not unless they become Remembered but even then, they’d be limited.

So, he did the thing he knew best - he prepared the offerings to make when they completed the rituals. To ensure his parents had something to take with them where they were going.

Hikaru was still asleep, the boy exhausted from the night prior.

Their first therapy sessions had gone as well as they could have expected.

It was crazy figuring out what times worked best. Having us there together wasn’t helpful.

It had been decided Hikaru would have his sessions three times a month in the mornings while Hideki’s were in the afternoon.

“Hm… Okaa-san always liked smoked salmon in her rice balls… Do we got some?” Hideki hummed in thought before rummaging through the cabinets.

It was still strange, he would admit. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he was at first just tearing through them, but he was getting more comfortable.

“You lookin for this?”

Hideki jumped, yelping as he smacked his head right on the cabinet he was kneeling in front of.

“YOWCH!” He looked to see Ken, standing behind him, holding a packet in his hands. The little boy’s eyes were wide, giving him a bewildered look.

“Are you okay?” Ken asked, tilting his head. “That looked like it hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah, m’fine.” He rubbed his head, wincing, before taking what Ken had, looking it over. “Yup, this’ll do.”

“That’s for offering for the dead, right?” Ken huddled up to his side, peering over the counter. “Can I help?”

“Sure, Kenny. Let’s get you a step stool though… You ever do a ritual like this?”

Ken shook his head.

“I do protection stuff. Great grandma is teachin’ me how to read tarot cards… but I’ve never passed a soul on.” He frowned. “... Are you sure it’s what you guys want though?”

Hideki sighed heavily, going back to work.

“If I had to be honest, no. I’m still not sure… But it’s not the same. Feeling their presence, randomly hearing whispers or seeing them randomly as apparitions…” Hideki sighed, lowering his gaze. “I don’t want that for them. That’s just existing.”

Ken laid a hand on his arm.

“I’ll help Daddy and them cross them over then.”

Hideki smiled softly.

“Thanks, Otouto.”

“Hee?”

oooooo

Hikaru, was exhausted when he was eventually roused to get ready.

He had barely slept, tossing and turning all night.

Memories of the last few weeks trying to creep into his mind.

“Do we got the shells?”

“Yup.”

“The altar tile?”

“Yup.”

“Dad’s spear?”

“Yup. And Mom’s…” Hideki looked down at the item in his hand.

It was a comb. There was no use for Aika to have it in the sea. It was for pure jewelry. For when she was out and about on land. It was adorned with seashells and sea glass, that shimmered in the light. Even now, he could see it clear as day in his mind’s eye.

Hikaru smiled, taking the comb, fixing it into his twin’s hair.

“You’re always gentle, trying to take care of everyone.” He chuckled. “You’re a lot like Okaa-san. So, you should wear it. Least, for her.”

“I really am huh?” Hideki felt the jewelry, chuckling a little. “I’m tired like her too.”

“I think we’re both gonna be tired for awhile, Bro.” Hikaru held his arm out to him as Hideki huddled up to him.

They were on the beach now. The team, Carmen, Ken… Everyone was here.

Hikaru held his twin close to him, nuzzling a little.

“You know, you actually pull off that comb.”

“Heh, maybe…” Hideki pulled back, sighing heavily, offering his sibling a hand. “You ready?”

“No.” Hikaru took it, following him to where the rest were waiting. “I’m not ready at all.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

Eiji looked to them, concern in his eyes.

“Holding up alright?”

The twins shook their heads. They looked down at the water that was coming up from the tide.

This was the beach they had last been with their parents on. Eiji had offered to make the trek to any other beach or pier in Geistville or beyond… but the twins had other plans in mind.

This was the last time we were all together and a normal family.

This is the best place to say goodbye.

“We will be.” Hikaru spoke up, picking up his father’s spear, a weapon crafted from driftwood, carved and polished until smooth. The handle was wrapped in old rope, from a net Daisuke had freed himself from as a teenager. The end was made up of a stone he had sharpened and carved until it was a deadly weapon.

He hadn’t taken it that day.

“It is yours now.” A voice whispered in his ear as the boy gripped the weapon tighter.

He used the blunt end of the spear to draw a large circle in the sand, large enough for all to stand in it. Hideki followed behind him, laying seashells Aika had collected all her life into the pattern of a star.

Eiji and Ken followed, drawing a circle of salt into the grooves in the sand.

“Alright, everyone, stand in a circle.” Eiji spoke up, lighting a few candles set into mason jars in the center of the circle. Hideki stepped up beside him, setting down his food offerings as well.

Hikaru was the last, setting his father’s spear into the ground so it stood, pointing to the sky.

There’s no going back.

Eiji lit a leaf of sage, moving it around the circle.

It’s time.

“My circle of protection, only that which is in the light can enter. Only that which is in the light can enter…” He stopped beside Carmen, taking her hand into his. “Only that which is in the light can enter.”

Hikaru and Hideki squeezed each other’s hands.

Hideki closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard.

“I call to my mother, Aika Kishimoto. A woman who put her family first, no matter what. Who always had an open heart and a full plate to anyone who needed her.” Hideki’s voice cracked, his shoulders shaking. “I love you, Mom. I thank you for saving my life that day… I thank you for bringing me and Hikaru into this world. As… As your son, I now ask to release you from it.”

There was no prepared or set ritual. Just what felt right.

Warmth spread around the twins shoulders in a ghostly embrace. The scent of vanilla mixing with the sea spray that blew around them.

The candles flickered.

For the others, all they saw was the same shadow of a woman…

For Hikaru and Hideki… They only saw her when the boys opened their eyes. Her black hair flowing in the eternal wind, the comb Hideki now wore, in her hair, a ghostly copy. Her eyes shining with warmth and love…

No longer a drowned corpse.

No longer having to bear the grudge against her murderers.

Ken looked from the woman to the twins, smiling innocently.

“Your mommy’s really pretty.”

“Yeah…” Hikaru’s voice cracked as he wiped at his eyes. “She really is.”

Hideki squeezed his hand tightly, giving him a nod.

Hikaru sighed shakily.

It was his turn.

“I call, to my father, Daisuke Kishimoto. The finest hunter you could’ve ever hoped to meet. A man whom many would’ve considered unstoppable but no one would’ve guessed, that same man would stay up late tinkering with me on robots and little toys.” Hikaru smiled a little. “I thank you for all the gifts you gave me. For all the knowledge I’ll pass on to my children… I thank you for protecting me from harm when I was captured and alone. But now, I release you from your duty. I release you to Mom, to go with her.”

The team looked around them as the wind picked up again. There was no scents… but a strong presence around them. Strength that seemed to command even the wind to quiet after a moment.

The candles flickered before a man’s shadow joined Aika’s… as Daisuke’s spirit manifested before his children.

His short, messy hair blew around him as he took Aika’s hands, a warm gaze in his brown eyes. He touched his forehead to her, a silent chuckle escaping him.

No longer trapped.

No longer bound.

“Mother, Father….” The twins spoke at once. “We love you. We hope you find light.”

“We hope you find rest… and may you be greeted by our ancestors.”

Aika and Daisuke shifted their gaze to their sons, smiling warmly. The candles below them flickering.

“We love you.”

This time, everyone heard it.

Their energy so powerful and strong, enough to manifest their voices without machines.

“We love you forever. Take care of each other.”

Their gaze flickered to Eiji and Carmen, as to them, the shadows moved closer.

“Take care of our children.”

Carmen nodded, her voice catching in her throat. She understood how important that request was.

“I will.”

“We will… Together.” Eiji squeezed her hand tightly.

Hideki and Hikaru couldn’t tear their gazes away.

“Goodbye.”

Aika and Daisuke gave their children one last smile, turning away as they floated away from the circle, flickering away as the candles blew out, a powerful wave rolling in, washing part of the circle away.

As the circle closed and the energy faded away, the twins looked to each other.

Tears were running down their faces.

“We’re gonna be okay.” Hikaru hugged Hideki tightly. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

“Forever.” Hideki returned the embrace.

Ken hugged onto his new brothers.

“Is this okay?”

Hikaru laughed a little, wiping at his eyes, scooping him up onto his shoulders.

“Oh, come here you!”

“Eeep!”

Eiji and Carmen walked over to them, bringing their arms around the boys.

“You did great.” Eiji murmured. “I am so proud of you both. Of all of you.”

“That was beautiful.” Carmen wiped at her eyes.

Hideki and Hikaru exchanged a warm look, huddling close.

This is exactly what they would’ve wanted.

We got a crazy aunt, two weird uncles, a little brother who’ll need us to guide him… and parents to have our backs.

Hikaru looked out at the sea.

We’re gonna be okay.

#spirits in the shadows #Hideki Kishimoto #Hikaru Kishimoto #Eiji Miyamoto #Carmen Miyamoto #ken miyamoto #original characters #original writing #Original Work #paranormal #paranormal writing #Paranormal/family #Supernatural/family #family #writeblr #storm arashi #yellow rose productions

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inky-imagines · 6 years

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Tea-ee’s OC special

With this, I’ve completed all the OC specials, sort of.

There’s still one more, but the person never sent the info I need so I haven’t been able to write it. I could just ask them for it, but it’s been a while, and I think I bothered them enough at the time (AKA, I’m a asocial coward who doesn’t like messaging people).

Anyhoo, this one’s for @tea-ee. Sorry it took so long. I hope you enjoy! ^^

TW: Mentions of death and violence

The attack had been brutal. All battles were, he knew that, but this kind of mindless destruction hadn’t been seen in centuries.

People milled around the shattered guard, careful not to tread on the innumerable injured member lined up on the floor. Ewelein and her team were working overtime to accommodate the many, many hurt member who’d been caught in the initial blast. Working so hard to keep anyone from joining those who’d passed.

Ezarel looked away from the sight, focusing on the slow drip of his burette. It was calming on the worst of days. The regular drops falling into the beaker, filling it slowly with vibrant colours gave him time to think. To breathe.

Now it felt like choking.

He can still remember the first explosion. How people were literally thrown through the air from the force. The bloody battle that had followed after. He’d gained new scars in that fight. Nothing to be proud about; he’d almost lost his life after all.

But those hadn’t been the worse part of the attack. No. It was the aftermath.

Names were called, people searched for. Some answered back, a few were found. Most were not.

They searched, and they saved and they hoped, but no. They’d lost more than they could’ve ever imagined in less than an hour.

The entire Eldaryan guard brought to its knees by a small group of people and some explosives.

“Pathetic.” He hissed, fist curling against the table.

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Ez.” You stood in the destroyed doorway of his lab, a cheeky smile on your face. “You can’t help it.”

He snorted, turning back to the equipment, both appreciating the sudden company and wishing you’d leave him be. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“You technically did though.” Sauntering in, you appraised the damaged lab with a raised eyebrow. “Damn, they really trashed the place, didn’t they?”

“It’s still functional. Unlike other areas.” He could feel your body heat as you stood beside him but refused to meet your gaze, choosing to continue watching the steady drips.

“Barely.” A hand delicately landed on his shoulder. At the lack of reaction, you gripped it more firmly – more reassuringly. “You hanging in there?”

He shrugged half-heartedly. “Doing better than the others.”

“The others are barely keeping their shit together.” You retort. “They’re not the best measuring stick.”

“They’re the only one I have.” He finally looked at you, forcing a half-assed smile. “And you? I heard you were pretty close to the initial blast.”

“As you can see,” You gesture to your bandages and gauzes. “I got off pretty lightly all things considered.” He nodded in agreement, returning to the apparatus once more.

Truthfully, he wasn’t strong enough for social interaction. Heavy guilt constantly weighed him down. Questions and scenarios of how he could’ve prevented all of haunted him. The past day’s events had left him lifeless; it was a miracle he was even able to work when all he wanted to do was to collapse and never wake up.

At the same time, he needed the closeness. Needed someone, something, to pull him from the whirlwind inside his head. Needed to be reminded that not everything was lost.

And you seemed to understand that, taking a seat beside him and quietly looking through the forensic results of what little evidence they’d collected. For hours, you both just sat there, in perfect quiet, the only sounds breaking the temporary peace were the sounds of rustling papers or an occasional cough from the floor below.

For the first time in what felt like years, Ezarel was at peace.

“Hey, Ez?” He glanced at you questioningly. “What’s that?”

You gestured to the brightly-coloured bottle in his hands, the finished product of his hours of titration.

“Analyser. Concentrated.” Seeing your mystified look, he explained. “We use it to [analyse and track something based on what we’ve found on the crime scene.”

“Huh. Didn’t know you guys had forensic science too.” You crossed your legs, the documents in your hands placed neatly on top. “Didn’t Nevra say there was no trace at the site though? What’s the point of that?”

“Anything leaves a trace, Y/N. It’s just a matter of finding it.” He tucked the potion on his belt, collecting a few more drafts from the table and gesturing for you to do the same.

The bottles are suspiciously examined, but you load them into your arms, following him out the door. “You've found something?”

“I suspect something. I need the analyser to confirm it.” Down the stairs he went, you jogging to keep up with his long strides.

“And what,” You ask, pausing to watch Ezarel hand the concoctions to the medical staff and injured. “Do you suspect?”

He didn’t answer for a while, continuing to pass out the medicine before pulling you to a quiet corner. “I think,” He stopped, swallowing. “I think we have a traitor amongst us.”

Your reaction wasn’t at all what he expected. Surprise, fear maybe even disbelief. But he got… nothing. Nothing at all. It was like someone had swiped you clean of everything that made you human, leaving a cold robotic shell in your place.

“Y/N?” At the sound of your name you shook your head, expression and life returning to your features but it was too late. A small pit of dread settled in his stomach.

“Sorry, sorry. You surprised me so much I zoned out for a moment.” You said, scratching your cheek. Your expression goes from bashful to serious as you return to the topic at hand. “Didn’t we deal with the traitor already? Leiftan’s gone and there’s no one else with a motive, right?”

Muttering how it’s just a theory and you should keep it yourself for now, he slunk away. He didn’t want to consider it, even hypothetically, but your reaction…

“Damn.” He growled, fingers raking through his blue locks. “They’re a suspect too.”

Logic was a bitch. It was unforgiving, cold and indifferent. No matter how you look at something – in the end, no matter how you wanted – objectively, the truth never changed.

Usually, he loved that. But now it made him sick.

No matter how he spun it, looked at it, broke it down and build it up, the conclusion never changed: you were the traitor.

You were the one on guard duty that night. The closest to the blast, but relatively unharmed all things considering. You had the motive, you had the skills. You didn’t have an alibi beyond your own word.

“Damn it!” The desk shook from of the force of his punch, it’s trembling slowly steadying even as his breathing did not.

He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t.

You were so kind, so sweet. Even with the wrongs they’d done to you, he couldn’t imagine you resort to such senseless violence.

And the others wouldn’t either. Even if the circumstantial evidence screamed that you were a danger to the guard, nobody else would believe him. He’d need physical proof of your betrayal before e could talk to anyone else about this.

But where could he find his proof? What would he do if he didn’t find anything?

A steadying breath. “One step at a time, Ezarel.”

The obvious place to search was the blast site, a small alcove on your patrol route. It was less of an alcove now and more of a gaping hole in the wall.

There hadn’t been enough time to properly fill the void, so the hole had a few strips of flimsy tape ‘covering’ it that did nothing to block out the chill of the night.

Almost as if it was cursed, people avoided the area, some going as far as taking a longer route just be saved the walk past the painful reminder of their loss.

The lack of people and chill of the night air made the entire area far creepier than it should, and for a moment, Ezarel considered leaving the investigation until tomorrow.

But this couldn’t wait.

At first, it seemed the place was barren of anything useful. Some shrapnel here and there, a little-dried blood the clean-up crew that missed. Nothing he could use. Then he saw it.

Your knife. A once beautiful silver blade he and Valkyon had taken great pains to craft for your last birthday, now it lay on the ground blackened. And lying next to it…

“Flint.” This was worse than he thought. Before this point, he’d thought your role would be limited to a mole of sorts. The worst you could’ve done was the rest of the attackers in. But this…

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” His blood froze. Behind him, you approached. You moved too quickly for him to react, to quickly for him to comprehend what you’d done until he spied the blood-soaked blade in your hand.

He collapsed, a hand pressed against the wound in his stomach.

“_-____....” You appraised him with that same cold, robotic look from before. The blood staining your hands didn’t seem to bother you at all.

You both stared at each other, one with the pain of betrayal, the other with nothing at all.

“Why- why would you do this?” The question is spat out with his blood, the words are dripping with pain.

“The stabbing or the betrayal? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure they’re both pretty self-explanatory.” You turn away, bending to pick up your knife. A shadow of melancholy crossed your features as you stare at it, turning it in your hands.

“You betrayed us! Why?”

“Of all the- Are you serious?” You laughed – a bitter, harsh bark that sounded so wrong from your mouth – clenching the knife so hard he could see rivulets of blood run the blade. “The potion? All the times you’ve used me as bait? The way you leave me to pick up the pieces every time you’ve finished ruining my life?“

“Your grudge is against us: the captains. You shouldn’t have gotten innocents involved.” He just has to keep you talking. With such copious amounts of blood spilt, there’s no doubt Nevra would find him soon; he just survives until then.

Your face crumples so suddenly, he’s taken back. “I didn’t want to… all those people…” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but there’s a wet glint in your eyes. You square your shoulders, eyes narrowing. “I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“God, you sound like a bad action flick.” You snort, kneeling beside him. Let’s make something clear: I didn’t want this. Or for all those people get hurt. But-“ Gone is the soft, almost apologetic look, replaced with bitterness and anger. “If it means you suffer, even a little, I’d do it all over again. You understand? You people took everything from me. I’m repaying the favour.”

He tried to speak, to protest, but something blocks the words. He could only stare into your hateful gaze with dread. This person you’ve become… he’s afraid. Of what you can do. Of what you will do.

“_____.” You both turn to see Ashkore, standing just outside the hole, arms crossed. “We’re leaving.”

“You-! You’ve been working with him?”

“Obviously. We share an interest in your demise.”

“You’ll never get away with this.” He managed past the pain and dread. His defiance only amused you though; a giggle just as acrid as the last escaping your lips.

“I think you’ll find I currently am.” You push yourself up, standing tall over his vulnerable body. A foot is raised, and he flinched. “Don’t worry, Ez. Nevra’ll here pretty soon I’m sure. You won’t die today.” You smiled radiating pure malice. “You don’t deserve the luxury. Goodbye.”

Then your foot came down and his world turned black.

#eldarya #eldarya oc special #sorta #no oc was specified so...#angst

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diveronaevents · 6 years

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The days and nights that follow the Trial come and go not unlike the trial itself-- strangely, and without a true sense of closure, any hint of justice lost to the currents beneath the Castelvecchio. The verdict on Alvise’s murder remains murky and Celeste remains hidden behind Capulet walls, her status largely unknown to the Montagues except for what slivers of truth her captors are willing to parcel out in their mercy. Violence continues, unfettered and everblooming, each day bringing rising casualties and minor destruction, each day there’s new smoke on the horizon, new ash littering the cobblestone streets. The Witches remain silent and unseen, absent from their usual posts at their properties, unfamiliar faces wordlessly taking their place.

The more superstitious of Veronans in the know must surely wonder what the price of a witch’s bruised ego is. Would they take their guests’ insolence in stride? Had the city lost its sentinels of centuries to their own pride and exasperation? Had a breaking point finally been reached? “Nonsense,” their more secular counterpoints scoff, “Not every silence is ominous.”

But the avid reader might have already learned that circumstances are not so simple, and something as tricky as fate is not so easily brushed off by mortals who fancy themselves gods. Luck and tragedy have a way of walking in tandem, one striking after the other, one wearing the other’s face while speaking in their own voice. If there was luck to be had, it would come bearing tragedy’s likeness.

There was only a light drizzle at first. Citizens walked with a quicker step, lifting their newspapers above their heads; most continued on in their business, as most would. But the drizzle quickened into a brisk pouring; doors closed shut, tables were taken in from outside; still, no one had any reason to be worried— and why would they? The weather has been sunny in Verona for months, a blessing upon the tenuous peace that had been so lasting. But every peace lasts only for so long.

It began with the whipping winds, the gales strong enough to shake windows and tear plants from their roots; debris flew, striking the shingles off rooftops, colliding with ancient monuments and shattering window panes. Then, the lightning. One great bolt, the thunder so deafening one would wonder if the gods themselves bore a grudge against Verona. All at once, darkness blankets the city. No power, no lights, all as evening arrives, the secondary player to the storm, indifferent to the destruction wrought.

But just as some may think a reprieve has finally come with the shadows, the flood begins. The Adige rises before anyone can beg for its mercy, filling the streets with rapidly moving water, first to the height of one’s ankles— then to their waists. The masses desperately make their way to higher ground, racing to cathedral rooftops, the very top of Lamberti Tower, anywhere to be shielded from the rain above and the rushing current below. It seems as if no one is safe in Verona, and certainly not either of the two most notorious families.

MERCUTIO and CELIA were in the middle of a skirmish on Capulet territory with MACBETH and PARIS when the storm struck. The four are forced to seek refuge in the The Dark Lady. The Capulets attempt to bar the Montagues out to strand them, but the Montagues manage to force their way in, enraged and hungry for blood. The power goes out— a dangerous game of cat and mouse ensues.

Elsewhere, VOLUMNIA encounters ANTONY in peril— the adviser was in the Gardens of the Twelfth Night Museum when a tree collapsed onto one of the standing statues, the fallen marble pinning him underneath. Not long after, BENVOLIO arrives, having heard the commotion from inside, and helps ANTONY regain the upper hand— only to earn the adviser’s ire against the Capulets manifested in a punch straight to his jaw.

CORDELIA and TITANIA, meanwhile, find themselves stranded on Montague territory in the midst of rising waters. Wading through, they find refuge in the first building they can find— the library of Montague headquarters. HAMLET and SEBASTIAN are waiting for them and take the opportunity to either separate the two or use one to get the other to talk about Alvise.

GONERIL, having accompanied ANTONY to the museum thinking CRESSIDA could have been hidden there, split up with the adviser to investigate the offices on the lower level. She runs into ROSALINE, who is prepping the museum for the storm, and the Capulet immediately goes on the offensive, to the soldier’s delight.

BIANCA, having been tasked with integrating herself in Montague contacts, finds herself in To Tame A Soup the hour the storm strikes. As the patrons realize the severity of the storm and begin to panic, she attempts to leave before the situation worsens. ROMEO spots BIANCA and gives chase— she realizes she can play dumb or own up and risk the consequences or explain herself by giving the appearance of a genuine interest in the soup kitchen and possibly gaining the Montague’s mercy as the storm worsens around them.

TYBALT, having left Measure by Measure not long before the storm hit, resorts to breaking into an abandoned building to reach safety, only to injure himself in the process, catching his skin on the broken glass. NICK BOTTOM, already having sought refuge inside, spots the Capulet and can’t help but taunt and provoke him into a fight, wanting to see if even the Tiger has limits. It’s broken up quickly when the water reaches inside and they’re forced to climb to the roof and find safety.

REGAN, having been sent to investigate Measure by Measure, finds herself and the rest of the fight club patrons plunged into darkness. Chaos erupts among the fighters laden with adrenaline, and there’s no clear way out in the confusion and dark. BRUTUS emerges, having recognized the Capulet, and is torn between throwing REGAN into the middle of it all or helping her gain control and command over the situation.

LAVINIA and LADY MACBETH are out near Montague territory when the storm strikes, LADY MACBETH intent on toughening up LAVINIA. They run across a stranded Montague who, having nearly been caught by the floodwater, scaled up to the rooftop of the Two Gentlemen. A rookie, they are, having just joined the Montagues as a drug runner, they tearfully confess. It’s too late to turn back from the filth of this life, Lavinia— this is war. However, a sudden appearance by CLEOPATRA puts a halt to their plans, and she steps in front of the Montague rookie, intent on making it clear that the Capulets’ antics stop here. Another target upon which to set our crosshairs, LADY MACBETH reminds LAVINIA.

At the Lamberti Tower, OPHELIA and IMOGEN have met to discuss the aftermath of Alvise’s death for a possible story to go to the press. As chance would have it, HIPPOLYTA was in the right place at the right time, catching sight of them meeting at the foot of the tower. As the storm worsens, she follows them up, suspecting them of working against the Capulets— she ambushes them both, emerging with her gun drawn, and grabs IMOGEN. OPHELIA, in all her grief and anger, refuses to let the situation spiral out of control. A shot rings out.

CELIA, following her skirmish, is crossing a treacherous path back to Montague headquarters when she finds VIOLA helping pull an injured Capulet free from flood waters. The Capulet recovers, only to pull a blade out at the sight of CELIA, lethal and full of newfound adrenaline. CELIA only has a split second to gather her bearings and ready herself for a fight; VIOLA realizes the situation needs to be diffused before anything worse comes from it.

JULIET is alerted to a massive crash in the area of Capulet headquarters where CRESSIDA is being held hostage. The wall had been partially damaged in the storm, enough for Montague to slip through, leaving the space she had once occupied empty. The heiress frantically runs out of the headquarters and runs into PORTIA who, sensing something is amiss, corners JULIET and demands answers.

HORATIO finds himself caught in a rapid current and barely has enough energy to stay afloat and breathe. He tries desperately to cling to whatever he can find, but to no avail. As the water takes him towards Capulet territory, MIRANDA, having found some higher ground, spots him and hurriedly goes to save him. Grabbing him, she is suddenly pitted against nature, and by sheer force manages to pull him to safety, the both of them exhausted beyond belief. Relief comes in the form of HELENUS, who was in the middle of conducting mass when the storm struck.

CRESSIDA, having not escaped very far In the storm due to a sprained ankle, runs into EDMUND who admonishes her attempt at escape. However, they catch the attention of FORTINBRAS who recognizes his chance to win Damiano’s favor. The Capulet draws his gun at FORTINBRAS, but is shot at before he can, a bullet grazing his wrist and causing him to drop his gun. PUCK emerges, balancing the scales for his offense against BEATRICE, and allowing FORTINBRAS and CRESSIDA to escape.

OVERVIEW: Welcome to the third scene of act one, dear friends and roleplayers! A terrible, ominous, almost supernatural storm has gripped Verona, and our Montagues and Capulets and in-betweens are caught right in the middle of it. Many muses were performing their daily duties when the storm struck, and now find themselves in precarious situations— please feel free to play out any of the above scenarios out on the dash! And just because your muse is in one location doesn’t mean they can’t be anywhere else before or immediately after the storm, which takes place on September 29th. Please date threads anytime from September 29th to October 9th, with the storm starting to affect Verona at 4:45PM on September 29th. As always, feel free to write any of your previous threads as well.

We also hope you all enjoyed FORTINBRAS and HELENUS’ introductions— their bios will be released in the next few days, so keep an eye out for them! We purposefully tried to keep their involvement to a minimum or at least made it possible for muses who have interactions with them to write threads prior to or following their involvement.

Thank you all for your wonderful activity, and we hope you enjoy this plot drop!

#literate rp #bio rp #crime rp #mafia rp #lsrpg #act 1 scene 3 #event: storm #date: september 29

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strangebedfellows-blog · 6 years

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15 - ghirahim, 3 - vaati, 6 - romani

15. what is your character afraid of? ( GHIRAHIM )

Being useless to Demise, first and foremost, and it’s so straightforward and obvious I don’t feel much need to elaborate.

Being confined to his sword form for any reason other than active service of Demise, both because it leads directly to the above ( can’t find him or further his interests very much like that, can he ), and because he never goes into any kind of stasis as I imagine Fi does; he’s aware and conscious the entire time, and to be an aware entity that’s grown somewhat accustomed to autonomy in at least the ‘have a body and can control it’ sense, then forced back into an exceptionally powerful stick isn’t exactly pampering on the psyche.

On a related note, he somewhat fears just how independent he’s grown. He’s supposed to be Fi, But Edgier, and he’s clearly grown beyond that to an extent I’ve yet to precisely determine. While spending so much time manifest was mostly to do with finding and resurrecting Demise, he did develop something of a taste for his status, having underlings, getting his own reaction out of people, so on and so forth, and he wasn’t specifically intended to have that. While it’s part and parcel for his position in life and the story, he does foster some personal grudge against Hylia because he was effectively made by her, and made to be a tool. ( And if he was made by her, does this mean she planted the capacity for individual development he’s displayed? What kind of horribly cruel thing would make an inanimate object animate, and give it enough awareness to consider that inglorious position at length? Is he rebelling against his nature by having those brief flashes of discontent, or is he simply supposed to feel it and be stuck with it for – as she would have it – eternity, more or less? Things That Keep Him Up At Night. )

Hylia’s whole cyclical time schtick, period. He finds it maddening. Genuine support of Demise isn’t too difficult even without his built-in bias when it means a fixed end to any given unpleasant thing, as opposed to a guarantee that it’ll be back again, and again, and again, ad infinitum.

3. what was the worst thing in your character’s life? ( VAATI )

The natural, core, soul-deep appreciation and admiration Minish have for humans. He definitely felt it differently - more intensely, more possessively, more enviously - than other Minish, and it was that way since childhood. It’s not the result, I feel, of some miscellaneous ‘bad seed’ factor or innate darkness in him. He’s of a race that just can’t get enough of people, and the fact of the matter is that people aren’t going to be fantastic role models all the time. Even most of the time. I definitely think there’s a certain widespread idealism amongst Minish ( ESPECIALLY ones still residing in their realm as opposed to those living right in humans’ homes, and the young ) about how good the average person is. I imagine they retain the fondness lifelong because as they age it refines to a more specific appreciation of good-hearted and intentioned individuals, and triumphs of the spirit, and all that lovely stuff. But young Minish have yet to really feel out that difference, and consequently it’s just this blinding devotion to an entire people that might not necessarily deserve it. When I say young I mean the majority, really. Look at Ezlo and the cap - that thing could have gone to anybody, and that’s not?? Good??Even if he intended it to go to someone he’d deem pure like Zelda, there’s no shortage of evidence the Hyrulean royal family’s pulled some truly grim, heinous stuff, so there’s not exactly any way to standard-measure purity of intent in that universe. And this is all the guy Vaati was learning from. But I digress.

It definitely turned him against himself, in a big way. A lot of dissatisfaction with himself for just being Minish, and all the limits that came with it - not the least of which was limited means of interactivity with people, in terms of ‘stuck in the wrong realm’ and ‘only kids could see me even if I got through’. It’s telling that his immediate go-to with the cap was to A) be human, B) be strong, something he learned via long observation to be the thing that would get him farthest with the most people. ( His intentions were more than just ‘make a lot of friends’ mind, don’t mistake all of this for my saying his goals were anything particularly wholesome, as they definitely weren’t even before one factors in how askew his perception and place on the matter of humanity was. )

I got real away from myself and kind of lost my point, but - being Minish, and appreciating humans in a way that wasn’t mirrored in anyone around him, for reasons that people ought not be appreciated. That genuine admiration is what drove him to make just about every progressively worse decision, I think.

6. what is your character reluctant to tell people? ( ROMANI )

- Any significant amount about Them, especially if this hypothetical person is an adult. She’s always dismissed despite how seriously she can present the issue, and there’s a lingering fear they’ll bring it up to Cremia - who is overworked enough and doesn’t need the extra worry.

- How hard running the ranch is, with just the two of them. They’re tough girls, rest assured, and they’re not miserable by any means, but they’re definitely not in the most robust shape as a business and it’s certainly taking up a lot of the time they could be spending on other youthful pursuits. They are young, to be tasked with full responsibility of something demanding like they’ve been. It’s not out of pride per se, but they don’t need pity and don’t want to feed into the gossiping interests of any of Clock Town’s more catty residents.

- Much about the Kafei situation, to anyone she doesn’t trust a great deal. It’s a sore spot, and despite not completely grasping the kind of hurt Cremia’s feeling, she’s protective of her sister and doesn’t need anybody rubbing salt in the wound.

- Exactly how much she misses her father, both because she just doesn’t like doing what could be perceived by harsher types as whining, and because - there’s a running theme here - it might turn around and make Cremia feel like she’s performing badly as a guardian, or otherwise just upset her via reminder.

#ordonraised #A STRONG APPETITE FOR BLOODSHED ( ghirahim : headcanon )#WICKEDNESS IN THE HEARTS OF MAN ( vaati : headcanon )#SEE YOU LATER LITTLE HERO ( romani : headcanon )#you are the Realest of mpvs and I hate how much I love these morons #excluding Romani who is a tiny lively arrow-pelting angel

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daebakinc · 7 years

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We Make the Kingdom - Pt 15

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Pairing: Yongguk x OC Genre: Fantasy, with Angst and Smut to come Summary: After a vampire attack leaves you almost dead, you are rescued by a group of werelions, powers long thought to be extinct. Upon discovering the same magic flows in your blood, you join their fight against encroaching vampires and another, very human monster, to save the kingdom. A/N: I’m really sorry this is late when I promised it’d be posted this weekend! This chapter is just so dense and so important I couldn’t mess it up. Sorry again for the delay! Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 , 8, 9(M), 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16(M), 17, 18, Final

Himchan and the others only ever gave you the barest details of their time in the Capitol. Yongguk would never speak of it. You only asked once. The deep scars inflicted by whip and brand that cover his back in defiance of your were healing abilities told you enough to not press the issue.

The tale is far worse than you could have imagined.

Unsurprisingly, each band of weres elect their alphas to tell their stories before Lady Kim and the State Council. They make a contrasting trio as they stand side by side on the vacant dais. Hyunwoo in his pristine royal uniform that strains against his broad chest, and Yongguk and Junmyeon in torn common clothes that seem to barely restrain the wild animals still prowling behind their eyes. Yongguk taps his fingers against his thigh in impatience at losing time that could be spent preparing for Lamia’s arrival, but he has studied the law. He knows if it is to go in the right direction, it cannot always do so in haste, like an old man with failing vision trying to locate the correct book from his library.

Junmyeon begins after sharing questioning looks at his taciturn counterparts. Yongguk and Hyunwoo add their voices only to offer particulars that Junmyeon forgot or did not personally undergo. There is very little the king did not subject them to. Your hearts twists and your hands curl into trembling fists. How can Junmyeon so calmly describe each time they were beaten, each time they were forced to watch each other punished, each time they were subjected to inhumane acts designed to break their spirits? Your sole consolation is observing faces of the counselors grow darker with anger and disgust.

Junmyeon breaks off after telling of Yifan’s murder to steady the quiver in his voice and for the second time, Hyunwoo looks at him.

Hyunwoo keeps his voice low, but the chamber was designed to carry sound. “We did not betray Yifan,” he says. Although there is no change of expression on his face, something in his voice begs for the other alpha to believe him. “Yifan came to us and we concealed him in our barracks, but a patrol found him when he was with his mother. The king made us to watch him be tortured and killed. To the end, Yifan did reveal that we helped him. We will always be thankful for his courage.”

Junmyeon nods after recovering from surprise and quickly begins speaking again, but not before exchanging a look of what appears to be the beginning of understanding. Yongguk keeps his eyes on the alpha bear, considering his unflinching gaze. Instinctively, you know Hyunwoo is telling the truth. You hope Yongguk can sense the same. A blood grudge long held is difficult to abandon, but if ever one needs to be reconciled, it is the one that divides the weres.

Your attention wanes as the patches of sun slide across the wooden floors and your feet start to ache. You notice Lady Kim motion a servant over and whisper something in his ear. Automatically cautious, you follow him with your eyes until he ducks behind a tapestry, temporarily distracted from the alphas. A few minutes later, the servant reappears with several others, bearing stools that they set out before you. The first servant helps Hyosung onto the foremost seat.

He then approaches you, consciously oblivious to the dozens of scowls shooting in his direction. “My lady, your chair.” He motions to the stool just behind Hyosung and extends his hand to you.

Jongup swipes your uncertain hand out of reach of the servant. “I will take her, thank you,” he growls, sounding anything but grateful.

When you gratefully sit down and look at the dais again, Yongguk’s eyes are on you. You smile faintly, half to assure him everything is fine and half to encourage him. To the Council, he undoubtedly seems nobly stoic, but they misread his discomfort at being the focus of so many gazes. At least his time before the Council is nearly complete as Junmyeon is now on Lamia’s infiltration of the palace and her bargain with the king.

Lady Kim stands after his voice dissipates from the air, hoarse now that he is finished with his narration. “Thank you, Sir Kim. You have given this Council much to contemplate and discuss. It is distressing that such events and loss of life have been ongoing within the kingdom under our very noses for so long. I swear the crimes against you all will be fully and diligently investigated when there is time, which I know we do not currently possess. Goddess willing, we will. Before we progress, I have one question for you, Sir weres: How did you know this apparition was the Queen Lamia aside from her word?”

“Only one of us has personally encountered her aside from this instance,” Junmyeon admits tentatively, glancing at Yongguk.

“Who?”

Yongguk catches your eye and raises an eyebrow. He knows you aren’t particularly at ease here, so he will not expose you without your leave. You give your permission with a nod. These officials need to hear a first-hand account of Lamia to prove yourselves.

Yongguk takes over from Junmyeon with a shuffle forward. “It was one of my lions. Lamia knew what she was when her vampires attacked the village and tried to turn her. Thankfully, her were-blood is strong and Lamia’s test did not succeed.”

You keep your eyes on Yongguk as you feel many gazes turn toward you, the only woman in the midst of the male weres. Trying your hardest not to fidget under their scrutiny as you are painfully aware of your ragged state. Muddied boots, dirt stained pants hem, hair loose in disarray, while they sit without a seam out of place.

“Rise, lady lioness, please,” Lady Kim says. How these Capitol people keep their careful masks to conceal their thoughts is beyond you. “Your name?”

“Ness.”

“And your family name?”

You almost casually shrug before you catch yourself. Clasping your hands to limit your impulse to move as you speak, you reply, “None. I have no memories of my life before Lamia massacred my village. Even the name I go by is not truly my own; the other lions gave it to me.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” the older woman responds politely. You actually believe she means it from the way she meets your eyes. “Can you tell us what occurred on that night or would you prefer a companion of yours to?”

“No one speaks for me but myself, Grand Minister.”

A glimmer of respect comes into Lady Kim’s eyes. “Proceed then.”

You tell them everything you remember and more. Sometimes your words tumble together when you let yourself look away from the calm attentiveness of Lady Kim’s face and into the sea of officials, but for the most part, you speak well. You speak of the chaos of the raid, the screams and the blood and the destruction. You speak of Lamia’s paralyzing power, her poisonous beauty and her contempt for human life. You speak of your discovery of her name in the annals of the weres who came before you, their warnings and false victory.

By the time your mind is empty of more to say, your tongue is heavy and your cloth belt wrinkled more than before from your fingers knotting in it. You sink back down on to your stool in relief that your part is done when Lady Kim gestures for you to do so.

She remains silent, gazing out the window but clearly noticing none of the clouds and birds outside them. The other council members talk amongst themselves in hushed tones. If you tried, you could listen, but you do not. The excitement and strain of the day gnawing at your remaining reserves of strength, already depleted by lack of sleep and food. Adrenaline only lasts but for so long. The bears remain erect in their seats, ever the alert guardians, but many of the wolves and lions’ shoulders and eyes sag under the same weight as yours. Only pride and the need to listen keeps you all upright.

Lady Kim stands again, bringing all voices to a hush with her simple movement. With her bearing, she could have been an empress in another life. “Fellow council members, I believe we can agree by all that has been demonstrated thus far that the Princess spoke the truth. The vampires have returned, but so have their mortal enemies and our saviors of old, the weres. They stand before and have given witness. Do any still doubt their claims’ legitimacy?”

No one raises a hand.

“Acknowledged. We are now at war, councilors. We are short on time, but it will be a short war. We will live, or we will perish. We all know our history. There is no surrender with these creatures. There is no mercy.

“We will send for our generals and advisors immediately, but it will take time to gather everyone. When they arrive, we will begin planning our defense. Meanwhile,” Lady Kim turns her keen eyes to the floor where you all sit, “Princess Hyosung, we will listen to your testimony. Some piece of information your spies gathered may prove invaluable. However, I believe the weres could use a short reprieve before we continue to seek their guidance. I assume there are rooms we may provide for them to rest and refresh themselves?”

“Yes. Of course.” The princess immediately stands, already beckoning a servant forward. “I believe the vacant apartments near my compound will suffice. I will send for them to be prepared. They should be ready by the time the weres arrive.”

Yongguk shakes his head. “I would prefer to remain here, Your Majesty.”

Hyunwoo and Junmyeon nod in agreement, causing a rumble of consensus from the weres. Regardless of animal form, you are united in this: where your alphas go, you go. When they stay, you stay, regardless of how you feel.

“Go.” Yongguk steps down from the dais to speak to you all without projecting his voice. “Himchan, you may stay if you wish, but the rest of you, go to the princess’ apartments. You will need all your strength, mental and physical, when it comes time to prepare and fight. Recuperate while you can so you are of the utmost use,” he says when you all begin talking over each other in protest.

A few steps away, Junmyeon and Hyunwoo are also surrounded by their men, whispering, arguing, while the Council waits.

“We can rest when you do. We do not want to miss anything,” Youngjae counters instantly.

“Or leave you alone,” you add. On the surface, the danger may have temporarily been eliminated, but like a sudden thunderstorm in the summer, it could return without warning.

“I will report all the proceedings back to you later,” Yongguk promises, raising his hands to stop your words, “and I will be safe. The king cannot summon anyone from wherever the bears are holding him, and magical harm is impossible. I will come as soon as the princess is done. Go. Please.”

You share a look with the others. Ultimately, none of you can deny Yongguk anything for your love and devotion to him. So, with reluctance, you all submit to his wish.

When the maid slides open the door of polished wood and paper so fresh you can still smell the pulp it came from and bows aside, you cannot cross the threshold.

“This cannot be mine,” you murmur. You look at the servant, sure the poor woman made a mistake. She’s been sending you so many curious looks, maybe she took a wrong turn after she showed the other lions to theirs one hall down. Word of what conspired in the council chamber has no doubt reached every corner of this palace.

“It is, my lady,” the servant replies demurely. “The Princess Hyosung specifically chose it for you and your lord. Is it not satisfactory? I can find another that is more to your taste if you so wish.”

“It is not… unsatisfactory. It is just much more than I am used to.” You don’t correct her on your lack of title or Yongguk being your ‘lord.’ The room demands too much of your attention to do so.

Wooden paneling, the tranquil ashy brown of camphor, covers three of the walls with one holding a single, wide window that is latched tight against winter’s chill. The fourth wall is plaster and covered with a painting of a plum tree in full bloom, its limbs graceful despite their dark gnarled bark and surrounded by sunrise-kissed blossoms that flutter and pirouette on the invisible wind the unknown artist captured forever. A vase of chrysanthemums warms the room with their spicy scent, as if trying to soften the priceless sumptuousness.

Each piece of furniture is a perfect melding of simplicity and luxury, plain lines embellished with embedded gold and silver cut into elaborate shapes. Calligraphy of a courtly poem flow down the wheat-colored silk of a folding screen that offers its privacy in the corner. The thick burgundy silk blankets on the low bed in the center of the room, its bedposts carved into opening rosebuds, barely cover the overstuffed mattress.

Your shared bedroom at the keep seems like a beggar’s derelict hovel, but you suddenly wish you were there rather than here. You don’t dare step in the room for fear of sullying it with your grubbiness.

“The Princess insisted esteemed guests such as yourselves receive only the best.” The maid gives you another look over before offering, “May I bring you fresh clothes, my lady? And perhaps warm water for a bath.”

Eagerness flutters in your stomach. To let water steep your bones in heat and to wear clothes not stiff with days of wear sound like a dream. The heated floor tickles your feet in invitation to step inside and finally lower your guard. Most of the way. “If it isn’t too much trouble…”

“Right away, my lady. I will return shortly.”

It is a wonder that such humble items as soap and fresh clothes can make a person feel human again. Yet the ones you used were anything but. The soap was smooth and heavily scented with perfume, and the fine, cool silk skirt and jacket that brush your skin is so supple it makes your modest cotton clothes feel rough in comparison.

Your fingers trace the meticulously embroidered suns on the blanket. It’s finer work, more expensive material, than any you would have ever encountered in your lifetime if your life had continued without interruption. But you are not one to linger on such things. You return your eyes to the door. The jewels a maid stuck in your hair tinkle against their gold pins when you move your head.

The servants have come and gone, their tongues silent but for asking after your needs even though their eyes search for hundreds of answers to share amongst the servant halls. They left a generous bowl of fruit and a hot pot of tea on the long delicate table that sits in front of the bed, but you are waiting for Yongguk before you touch it, even though your stomach grumbles in displeasure at your choice. But the steam has long stopped lazily drifting towards the ceiling and no one else has knocked at your door. Not even the other lions have appeared.

They are safe, you can feel that. Better than safe. Though the underlying tension of waiting to act still trickles through each of you, there is also a peaceful restfulness you have not felt since leaving the keep. The calm before the breaking of the storm.

A soft rap on your door brings your thoughts back.

“Come in,” you call as you stand, thinking it is the servant again or maybe one of your friends come to look in on you. You step back in surprise when instead three of the bears step inside. You identify the tallest in the back as one of the bears from the Cage. His sleeves do not quite hide the healing pink skin at his wrists from the shackles.

Although none have Hyunwoo’s bulk, they still carry the same intimidating air of strength that’s synonymous with the bears. Yet they are the picture of subdued. Their hands are clasped politely in front of them, their shoulders slightly hunched forward, eyes not quite meeting yours. You could almost call them shy.

Unsure of their errand, you slowly say, “I’m sorry, but Yongguk is still with the princess.”

The one from the Cage elbows the bear in front. You recognize him as the bear who had been behind you on the way to the dungeon, who had so regretted being the cause for his friends’ sentence in the Cage. “We know. We came with the intention of calling on you, my lady.”

“Is it true you survived a bite from the queen vampire herself?” the instigator blurts out.

“Seokwon, your manners! I’m sorry,” the first bear says to you. “He’s still young and we have not interacted with many people outside of our group since we came to the Capitol.”

“And we’ve never seen a female were before,” the other adds, openly examining you, but his gaze holds none of the king’s leering, only innocent interest.

“Minkyun!”

Instead of taking offense, you chuckle. These three almost remind you of Himchan with Junhong and Daehyun with their interplay, immediately warming you to them. “I’m very sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I am very much like any other woman in the kingdom.”

“Except you’re a lion and can fight,” Seokwon says.

“I do apologize, Lady Ness.” Their spokesman sends a glare at the others. “We should have introduced ourselves open our entry. I am Kwangji. This is Choi Seokwon and this is Park Minkyun.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Recalling dusty etiquette to save you from your uncertainty of what to do next, you gesture to the set table. “Would you like to join me? The tea is cold, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Kwangji says, bowing slightly at the waist. The others mimic him before Minkyun rushes to the wall to grab the sitting pillows that lean there.

“I prefer Ness, please,” you tell them. “I am not a lady. Oh, thank you.” You smile at Minkyun when he places a pillow in front of you first. The smile he sends you back is blinding.

“Ness then.” Kwangji settles on the pillow Minkyun brought him. When you reach for the pot to pour, he quickly slides his hands beneath yours. “Please, allow me. You must still be tired from your journey.”

“I am rested enough,” you object, but he is already pouring the tea. You notice Minkyun eyeing an apple, so you take it and pass it to him. You pass persimmons to the others. “You have undergone as much as us. I am glad you are recovering from your time in the Cage, Seokwon.”

Seokwon’s fingers don’t pause picking off the persimmons’ leaves, but a wave of guilt passes over Kwangji’s face that he quickly squelches.

“I have been inside for longer,” Seokwon says as if it is nothing. “This time wasn’t so bad. The Princess snuck us food every day. I thought it was just because she felt sorry for us. Who knew Changkyun was her spy.”

“No one. That the point of a spy.” Minkyun laughs and shoves Seokwon’s shoulder. From your seat, you can tell that playful push would have sent a normal person skidding across the room, but Seokwon barely rocks in place. He looks to you again. “Are you as strong as the other lions? The king didn’t allow us to mix when we trained, but we got to watch sometimes. Jongup was so strong I think he could defeat one of us with very little trouble, wasn’t he, Kwangji?”

“They would all be formidable opponents,” his friend replies. “We are lucky to not be their enemies.”

You accept a cup of tea from Kwangji. “Jongup is even stronger now and certainly our best warrior. I’m not quite as powerful, but I am faster, which is of great use against vampires because I can follow their movements more accurately while I am a lioness. I can pounce and shift to drive a stake through their heart whereas the others generally have to shift back and forth more to wear down the vampire before going for their heart. We can kill them by beheading them with our bites, but vampire blood tastes horrible. Like ashes and rancid meat, so we prefer not to.”

Minkyun chokes on his mouthful of apple when he tries to speak without swallowing. Kwangji pounds his back and the instant he can breathe, he uses his first gulp of air to say, “We read each of the reports Yongguk sent. Hoseok stole them after the king read them, but what’s it really like fighting vampires? Are they really that fast and wild? We’ve only practiced on each other.”

Your smile fades a fraction of a degree. Not because of his questions, but because of the revelation that dawns on you. These men, all the bears, are untested against vampires. The wolves and lions have years of skirmishes to aid them in the upcoming battle, but the bears, none. Their strength is obviously formidable, but will that be enough to see them through?

You realize your guests are waiting for your reply, Kwangji concealing his enthusiasm better than the others. Your worries can wait until they can be properly addressed. Now is not the time for such dark thoughts when a flood of them loom just out of sight. Reviving your smile, you take a sip of tea and deliberately relax into your pillow for a very lengthy conversation.

The opening door’s thud against the wall that interrupts your conversation causes all of you to jump. For the first time you notice your shadows lying thick on the floor. You were previously too deep in conversation to notice that lanterns now provide your light instead of the sun. Yongguk stills in the doorway as a servant moves out of sight. His mouth holds a dark frown and his eyes thunder, but his mind is not here. Princess Hyosung must have revealed more troubling information on the king’s treachery. The bears hurriedly climb to their feet. Seokwon and Minkyun imperceptibly shift closer to Kwangji, suddenly nervous eyes glancing between the two of you as if Yongguk will strike them for being in your room.

“Sir Bang,” Kwangji greets respectfully, bowing again while Seokwon and Minkyun follow suite.

Yongguk blinks at them before inclining his head in acknowledgement. “You are Hyunwoo’s weres?”

“Yes, my lord. We will take our leave so we do not disturb you.” Kwangji turns to you. “Thank you for sparing time to speak with us. Excuse us, my la- Ness.”

“Of course.” You smile at them again. They were nothing but charming and polite during your time with them. You can easily see them becoming your friends, and friends with the other weres if they can discard their misplaced bitterness. “Goodbye.”

Once the door closes, you round on Yongguk with a glare. “There was no need to scare them like that, Yongguk. They were just curious about us.”

Your words seem to bring Yongguk back to himself. He looks at the door that just closed behind the bears. “I apologize. I did not do it on purpose.”

Because you know it is true, you do not comment further. Instead, you step around the table to move closer to him. “What did the princess say?”

“I will tell you everything later. She has invited us to dinner with her within the hour.” His mouth pushes upwards in a small smile as he turns to you. “And Himchan told me I am not allowed to go as I currently appear under any condition. They are bringing a bath and some new clothes for me.”

“Good.” Glad that the lines on his forehead are temporarily banished, you jokingly warn, “Just be careful. I had to repeatedly fight off the maids who brought mine. They wanted to put makeup of all things on me. They only relented when I let them arrange my hair.”

Yongguk looks at you again, finally seeing you for the first time since he opened the door. His face softens further as his eyes seem to absorb every bit of you. He closes the small distance between you, rests his hands on your shoulders, and kisses your forehead. “You are so beautiful, my love.”

Your cheeks heat at the comment and you bury your face in his neck. He could call you that every day for a hundred years and it would still make your heart jump every time. “I feel ridiculous. It’s these clothes.”

“No. You could wear a ragged rice sack and still be the most gorgeous woman in the entire kingdom to me.”

Another knock on the door interrupts your reply, but you do not mind. In this case as in many others, Himchan is correct. Before Yongguk goes anywhere, he is in need of a bath.

Your hand tightens around Yongguk’s in anticipation as a servant leads you further into the princess’ compound to her banquet hall. A wave of greetings and approving calls from your friends come the instant you round the last corner. Each looks princely in new clothes and scrubbed faces, weariness’ grip banished to the very edges of their faces. The bears hover in the back, though not completely separate, and you notice some of them exchanging small words with a few of the wolves. Yixing and Minhyuk are even laughing at some joke between the two.

Dressed in a new morning glory pink gown, Princess Hyosung smiles at the both of you. “Welcome, friends. I presume your clothes and lodgings are more than acceptable?” Hyosung asks. Her barely masked worry scours any doubt her words are sincere. “If there is anything not to your taste, you need only tell me.”

“I believe we are all more than well satisfied, Princess,” Junmyeon replies, not turning around to see the wave of agreeing nods. “Thank you.”

“I’m still hungry,” you catch Daehyun mutter.

The princess’ hearing is better than you give her credit for. “I will remedy that soon, Master Jung. I have called for a feast to help you all regain your strength.” As she turns to the doors and grasps the handles, she adds, “I did invite a few additional guests to join us, but I do not think you will be opposed.”

Hyosung leaves no time to reply, flinging open the doors. The room beyond is smaller, cozier, than the Council chamber, with six large tables laden with overflowing platters of every kind of food imaginable and two open fires providing light and warmth against the night’s chill that tries to creep through the walls. A large group of older, well-dressed men and women huddle near the tables’ feet, murmuring amongst themselves.

The rest of the weres go stiff like dogs catching a scent. The other group’s voices trail off as its members turn and stare back, faces freezing in shock. You glance between the two, trying to understand the sudden change when a woman breaks from the crowd.

Arms outstretched and cheeks wet, she runs straight for Junhong. He catches her up in his arms and buries his face in her shoulder, tears wracking his whole body as he hunches over the woman. As if a spell is broken, the two groups come together like two waves, crashing and scattering, happy exclamations and sobs equally resounding against the walls. Yongguk drops your hand and vanishes among the crowd so swiftly you hardly have time to notice he’s gone.

Suddenly, you see the similarities in their faces, their bodies, their mannerisms. These are your friends’ families. You cannot blame Yongguk for abandoning you. He hasn’t seen his parents in five years, has barely had word of their well-being.

As you watch the reunions, you shrink back into the threshold, into the shadows. Happy though you are for your friends, you have the immediate feeling that you do not belong. You do not have a family who was waiting for you, worrying about you, to now cover your face in kissed and clasp you close to their hearts. The abrupt stab of loneliness drives your feet backwards. You should leave your friends to reconnect with their families in their own private world. You are out of place. There may still be some food left in your room to bribe your growling stomach with.

You turn to escape, but someone grabs your elbow. It’s Hyosung.

“Where are you going, Lady Ness?” she asks, genuinely concerned. “If you left something in your room, I can have it fetched for you.”

Your mind scrambles for some reasonable excuse. “I-”

“Ness? Ness! Come here,” Yongguk pushes his way through the throng to you, the widest smile you’ve ever seen on his face even though the rims of his eyes are red and the wet paths of tears still mark his cheeks. He holds out his hand excitedly. “I want you to meet my parents.”

“But wouldn’t you-”

Yongguk does not give you time to finish, dragging you into the room with its warmth and tearful laughter.

His parents had followed him and wait on the edge of the throng, but you would have recognized them instantly. Yongguk inherited most of his features from his mother, but there are echoes of his father’s face in his and their bearing is the same.

Yongguk doesn’t release your hand when he comes to a stop in front of them, “Father, Mother, may I present my partner, Ness.”

“It is an honor to meet you.” You bow your head and attempt to curtsy, but Yongguk’s mother catches you by the shoulders and hugs you to her.

“Thank you for looking after our son,” she whispers in your ear. She pulls away with a smile, her eyes not missing the way Yongguk son clasps your hand so tightly and watches for their approval of you as anxiously as you.

“You are mistaken. It is he who cared for me; I owe him my life many times over,” you are quick to tell them. “I should thank you for raising such an admirable son.”

“We could only train the flowers, it is the quality of the seeds that determines the bloom,” his father answers, but the pride he takes in Yongguk is obvious.

Yongguk’s face suddenly falls in somberness. He is thinking of the siblings his parents are probably expecting to appear soon. You squeeze his hand in support. You understand his reluctance to crush their hope and ruin a golden meeting, but there is no possible manner to avoid it.

“Has the princess told you about… about-”

He stops to clear his throat to press on, but his mother reaches out for his other hand. Her smile becomes sad as she softly says, “We know. We knew a long time ago.”

“How?” Yongguk asks, stunned.

She gestures to the other parents. “We began asking questions when none of you returned in the first two years after you were taken. The king explained your studies were almost through and he would send a ship to bring you all home, but when the time came, he told us the ship capsized in a storm. No survivors. We mourned for you all as lost without even being able to properly bury your bodies.” Two tears trickle from the corners of her eyes as she touches Yongguk’s cheek. “But the Goddess gave us back one child. We must be thankful for each small blessing.”

Yongguk closes his eyes with a shaky sigh. Like his father, he holds back his tears. Opening his eyes again, he cautiously asks, “And you know what I- we are?”

Both of his parents nod.

“The Princess told us everything when she brought us here yesterday,” his father says. He suddenly appears older with regret at failing to protect his children years ago. “We would have done anything to spare you if we had known why the king called us to the Capitol.”

Again, Yongguk hesitates, and while his question does not surprise you, it breaks your heart nonetheless. “You are not afraid of me? … Disgusted?”

“My son, we will always be proud of you. To have a were in our family is a great distinction, and one who has comported himself so admirably in service of the greater good is the greatest honor to our family.”

You can feel some of the burdens fall from Yongguk’s body like a heavy pack he’s carried for the past five years. His parents’ unconditional acceptance graces him with a long-denied peace he probably never realized he sought, one not even your love could provide.

“Honored guests,” Hyosung’s voice unexpectedly rises above the hum of conversation, waiting to have everyone’s attention before continuing, “please, take your seats. Alphas and your esteemed families, please grace my table and sit with me.”

They do as she asks, but people continue to move between the tables as if unable to sit still in the face of such a fortunate occasion. The other lions find you as well, introducing their parents to you and Yongguk. The swirl of faces and voices overwhelms you, as does the staggering affection your friends’ parents offer you solely based on their sons’ love of you. They know next to nothing about you, but they accept as readily as if you were a daughter.

You do not speak unless spoken to while you eat, preferring to simply observe. Your mouth molds into a soft smile as you watch mothers constantly touching their child with tender hands, showering them with the love and company they were denied for years, fathers clapping their sons on the back with pride and slipping the choice pieces of food onto their plates.

These are families. A connection of love and loyalty that finds light and joy in darkness and tragedy and endures all hardships through the shared strength of its members. You may have lost your birth family, but the lions became your new family. Then the wolves. Now, by extension, their families have become yours, as will the bears.

This is what you will fight for in one day. A fight you cannot and will not lose.

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Kingdom Map, The Keep Map, Weres scale, Were Guide

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