#look into nocturnes dead skull eyes and tell me he never dreamed of being a bird in middle school

[activatebutterflyshield]

Fooling around with more fantastical designs for the Layered Earth.

Nocturne and Sonata here were normal people, once, but they got a little too cuddly with some particularly weird magic artifacts, and now they’re, uh, not quite Angels and not quite Prophets. Angels are defined by their still being human but not having proper Humanity, and prophets by their being beyond human while retaining their all important capital-H Humanity. These two are more like… if something wanted to be part of Humanity, picked two weird college kids to be their models, kinda-possessed-kinda-replaced-kinda-cloned said college students and now they’re weird leggy army birdie thingies with twice the dramatic dispositions, and three times the urge to sing a capella in many-part harmony, and four times the audacity to dress like that.

Edit to say please click for better quality why do the pixels always get murdered

Close ups under the cut

[datawyrms]

Irresistible

For PhicPhight! On Ao3

“Earth to clueless one, walking through walls isn’t something you should be doing right now!” Sam’s hiss made him notice the fact something had grabbed his wrist.

“Right, sorry!” He said it without thinking, eyes flicking to Tucker. His other friend looked just as concerned, great. “I don’t think I got enough sleep.”

“When do you ever, dude? You didn’t even sneak out last night.” Still, his more technically inclined friend released his wrist. “Something your parents working on keeping you up?”

“You know we’re fine if you crash in our rooms.” Sam was a little less gentle. “So do that instead of whatever sleepwalking this is.”

“No! Like, I don’t remember not being able to sleep or anything?” Not that it helped, he felt like he’d been awake all night thanks to the weird dreams. “I swear I’m not being a tough guy or whatever.” He rubbed at his forehead, privately wishing his fingers could just push away the fog of exhaustion instead of just making him more aware of how sluggish he felt.

“Maybe you should crash with one of us anyway? You don’t look good.” Tucker’s frown only made the half ghost grumble. “‘Course you never look as good as me, but lately? You’re pulling the two thirds ghost look.”

“Harhar.” He shrugged the suggestion off, even if he was pretty tempted. There wasn’t anything weird in the house that he noticed, and his parents weren’t being any more anti-ghost then usual. He probably slept in a weird position or something. “I don’t think weird underwater dreams are a Fentonworks exclusive.”

“Underwater?” Sam just looked puzzled. “From what? I can’t even remember the last time any of us went swimming.”

“How should I know?” He couldn’t even say it was like flying, because it wasn’t like one of those dreams at all. Too sluggish, none of the freedom he normally felt. “I’ll just nap in math class…”

It had been a joke, really. He didn’t actually mean to sleep in math class, but his desk was cool and his head felt so heavy that he couldn’t resist nodding off. He just wished it had helped more, the bell ringing just made him want to sink into the floor and stay there. Which would probably freak everyone out. Not a good idea. At least the stern talking to he earned for ‘being disrespectful’ went right over his head with it so hazy.

“Dude. Just skip if you’re gonna sleep all day.” Tucker was poking him in the face with a fork. Rude.

“I’m not gonna sleep all day. Relax.” The tines were annoying, but doing more than blindly pushing it away from him was beyond him for the moment.

“Spacing out all day isn’t any better.” Sam’s voice wasn’t a surprise, but the fact she wasn't telling Tucker to stop poking him in the face was.

“I’m not.”

“Tucker’s been poking you for five minutes.”

“Oh.” Really? Hadn’t felt like that. Maybe he had like a ghost cold?

“Just go hide out in the attic, you obviously need it.” The poking stopped, Tucker’s voice low as if he’d leaned closer.

“Can’t miss even more stuff guys…you know that.” Even if he really, really wanted to take that offer right now.

“Well here you’ll just get the teachers angry by snoozing through class. We’ll try and see what’s messing with you after school.”

“Nothing’s messing with me! I think.” His objection wasn’t great, but Sam didn’t seem up to argue with him about it anyway.

Tucker adjusted his hat, avoiding his eyes. “Kinda hope something is, you’re kinda freaking us out.”

Well, that didn’t feel good. He scratched at the back of his head, trying to ignore how his friends kept looking at him like some kind of wounded kitten. He was fine, really! “Well uh. See you after school?” He didn’t give them time to answer before stumbling away from the table to find somewhere quiet to vanish from. He sort of hoped being in his ghost form would have shaken some of his muddled need for sleep, but being colder just made the throbbing behind his eyes feel worse. Not enough to keep him from keeping invisible and slipping into Tucker’s attic, but enough that becoming human again actually made him feel a little less ragged.

It shouldn’t be this easy to huddle in the musty old chair and drop off in the middle of the day. The guilt for doing so alone should make him twist and struggle to get comfortable, but sleep welcomed him eagerly. A part of him worried Nocturn was afoot, but it wasn’t enough to keep him awake.

“You think his parents made something that makes ghosts go dormant or something?”

“Or drain all their energy?

He kind of wanted to ignore the voices and keep sleeping, but shook himself awake. He didn’t need this much sleep, he was fine. If they were here he’d been sleeping for hours already!

“Sleeping beauty awakes.”

Danny rolled his eyes at Tucker’s attempt to pretend they hadn’t been talking about him. “You better not have kissed me.”

“If you kept sleeping for another hour he totally would have.” Sam smirk only grew when Tucker let out an offended squawk.

“Under duress!”

“The meat stench on your breath could wake the dead, so it had to be you.”

“Not dead yet, thanks…” Even if he’d been feeling tired enough to be a corpse today. “Anyone notice?”

“Told Lancer you were sick. He bought it.” Tucker shrugged, tossing a thermos between his hands. “You were really out of it huh?”

“Wait, was there an attack?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” Sam snatched the thermos away, glaring at Tucker as she did so. “You stay here, we’ll check out your house.”

He’d just slept through a ghost attacking? Really? “No way, how would you explain why I’m not with you?”

“Easy. We’ll just say you are, they won’t notice.” The goth scoffed, already halfway to getting the attic door open. “If you can hide being a ghost, we can hide you not being there for an afternoon.”

She sort of had a point there. “Fine. You aren’t gonna find anything. If it was some new gadget I’d say so.”

He kind of hoped they’d prove him wrong, but the concerned and frustrated looks on their faces betrayed that there were no new plans or even an idea to what had gotten him ‘out of sorts’. It was probably just a one off thing anyway, he’d be fine. It wasn’t like his parents were bragging about a new discovery or anything. He probably wouldn’t be able to sleep since he spent so much of the day doing so, though he was still tired...he actually looked forward to dinner being over so he could snuggle under his blankets and look at the little glowing stick on stars of his ceiling before drifting off again.

Only the dream came back. A small, pitiful ghost underwater while something kept calling at him. It wasn’t warm or inviting, more like the command from someone respected. The wisp of a creature couldn’t really ignore it either, it was like a pulse that burrowed inside and thrummed until he responded. They weren’t asking for much. Just wanted him to go hunt ghosts. He always did that anyway, that part was easy.

He didn’t like how the commanding one grabbed him under the chin at his return, but couldn’t find it in him to struggle. They were stronger than he was, he was a subordinate not strong enough to challenge them. A pair, stronger and unknowable with how they’d speak in a language he didn’t understand. He could only watch, green eyes wide for any hint of anger, wanting to make himself smaller, but the creature was little more than a shadow to begin with. Hunt, bring them the prey they wanted, and they’d allow him to exist. A fair trade, really. His core trembled at the idea the clawed hands at his face could easily sink into his chest, he couldn’t risk angering them. Their red eyes saw everything, knew everything. He didn’t want to be around them, but that call was too strong. Those eyes lurked on every surface, a burning red that cut through the weight of the water that was everything as if it wasn’t even there. Their commands became a sort of second skin, but didn’t protect him from the beings deciding to come uncomfortably close, or clutch his thin limbs and take something before letting him slip back into undefined chaos again.

He preferred being told to hunt. Leaving other ghosts, the smaller ones, lesser than even the inkblot he was in the universe to be looked over and examined while he remained mostly untouched. Still wispy, mostly undefined outside of his eyes, unlike the remains of those who ‘earned’ the greater ones full attention. No time to rest, just going and going until they claimed he’d done enough.

Being dismissed wasn’t a free pass to do as he pleased though. It was still a command, something he had to obey lest they show him why they were in charge. To go in hiding, be unseen, do nothing until they wanted him to hunt again. That should be easy, simple, but it made his tail ache and his heart lurch. He didn’t only want to hunt, he wanted to do not-ghost things.

Yet the figures didn’t care what a weaker ghost wanted to do. They’d find out. He had to hide.

Danny just felt exhausted. As if the dream had made him as tired as the ghost he was in that nightmare. Which couldn’t be true, he didn’t care about stronger ghosts and what they wanted. He’d fought the king of ghosts! He had a track record of flipping off authority when it suited him better. It didn’t push away the heavy weight in his head that only begged him to go back to sleep. Maybe he really was just sick.

Sick enough to get sent right back to bed by his mom when he slumped down for breakfast, her concern nice, but also discomforting. She held her hand at his forehead for a touch too long, seemed to stare into his eyes enough to make him want to avert them. Her gentle nudging to get some more sleep nearly had him bolting up the stairs. Like he had to go that moment. Rubbing at his temples didn’t dissuade the feeling, but the pressure lifted somewhat when he was back in bed and covered in blankets. Some stupid leftover feeling from that dream or something. He wasn’t hiding.

“Danny? You okay under there?” Jazz’s question just felt like a nail to his skull, and he hoped she could see the displeasure in his eyes as he poked out from under the blankets to glare at her.

“I might be if someone didn’t wake me up.” The sunlight peeking in from the windows only soured his mood, he should have closed the blinds.

“Well, someone’s grumpy.” Either she didn’t see his annoyance, or she was deliberately ignoring it. “Mom said you don’t have a fever, but you run pretty cold...do you want something for it?”

“It’s just a headache.”

“Sure, mister ‘I ignored a bone fracture’ is crippled by a headache. Not buying it.”

“That was meant to be a secret, who snitched?” His frustration just made him feel uncomfortably warm, they knew he hated it when Jazz fussed over that stuff. Maybe he should ignore their calls for a bit.

“No one did, I actually pay attention when you start favouring your left hand.” Her frown just made him want to duck back out of sight. “You sure you don’t need anything? Anything mom and dad wouldn’t think you need?”

For a smart person, Jazz could be incredibly unsubtle. “No. I’m just worn out, or something.” He didn’t feel like coughing or sneezing, or even the gurgling discomfort of an upset stomach. It couldn’t be that serious. “You’ll be late if you keep standing there.”

“Let us know if you think of anything!” She was already halfway down the hall while saying that, not getting to see how her brother rolled his eyes and ducked back under the blankets. Her biggest weakness, other obligations. Not that it would help after school. He’d be fine by then, probably. Just some peace and quiet and he’d be back to normal. Just like he said yesterday. Only for real this time. Positive thinking, or whatever.

He did feel a bit better now that it was quiet. Still tired, but his head wasn’t pounding as much as it was whenever someone insisted on talking to him.

He figured he’d just sleep, maybe play Doomed once he was more awake. Step one, sleeping had been going well, but Mom and Dad had other plans jeopardizing that. Since when did they listen to music while they worked? With enough base that he could feel it rattling his bones no less. Covering his ears couldn’t do much about that. Trying to ignore it, or hope they were just messing with something for a minute and it would stop wasn’t getting anywhere either. So why was he just hesitating up here? They probably didn’t even notice it was so loud, or forgot he was home sick. He shook his legs to try and wake them up after he wobbled with his first steps to the door. Maybe he could- no, there wasn’t any reason to just wait.

When had they gotten so many stairs anyway? Danny found himself gripping the railing as if he was seven again, worried about slipping as if he didn’t run down them two at a time normally. He hesitated at the bottom, eyes scanning the ground floor for a sign of the scientists. The awful noise didn’t seem much louder, but he felt every beat of it as his heart seemed to slip into sync. He didn’t want to risk more stairs, he was imagining things. He opened his mouth to speak, coughing instead over how dry it felt. Sleeping with his mouth open, duh. His second attempt went better, but was not as much of a shout as he planned it to be. “Mom? Dad? Can you turn it down?”

He waited. Nothing. It must be too loud for them to hear him over the din of that deafening pulse. Keeping one ear covered the boy edged to the lab’s staircase, staring down them as if he was looking from a mountaintop, a deadly drop. He so didn’t want to go down there, to go closer to whatever the heck it was. “Dad? Mom?” He called again, trying to ignore how his voice cracked at the question. He wasn’t scared of a staircase! His heart kept pounding in his ears, knuckles going white as he kept his hands in anxious fists. Everything told him to get back, to stay away, but couldn’t stand the noise. Besides, what if it was hurting them? Maybe that’s why they didn’t answer? Worry for them helped push back the seaping cold, heading down to the lab faster than he’d managed to get down from his room.

It was brightly lit, normal but cold. He could see them, hunched over a work desk and unharmed. The glare made his eyes hurt, pausing to rub at them. They seemed blurry, even though he wasn’t that far away. “Uh, Mom, Dad? Can you turn down whatever you’re working on? I can’t sleep.” He asked, unable to convince his legs to step a bit closer, feeling too tired to make any extra effort.

“Turn down what sweetie?” She turned to face him, making his blood try to turn to ice in his veins. She sounded right, said the right thing-but he was already trying to back up the stairs. Was she taller? “Sweetie? You look pale.”

“T-The noise.” The answer sputtered from him unbidden as he tried desperately to figure out what was wrong with-with-his mom? The echoed pounding told him no, it wasn’t, but who else could it be. “I can hear it upstairs.”

She approached with a too long stride, his own legs slipping in his blind step upwards. Pain from his elbow slamming into the edge of the staircase managed to rip through him even while everything else felt slow. She only quickened towards him as he cursed, trying to crabwalk backwards from the mother-that-was-not.

“Danny! Are you okay? Let me help you.” She grabbed him around the shoulders and he froze, a rabbit being watched by a hawk. She was too real, too solid, she could easily rip through him. “Maybe we should get you to the doctor honey, there’s isn’t anything on down here.”

Should he squirm away? She was lying about the sound, it kept pounding against him like a tide and he had no way to ride the wave clutched as he was. “There is, the thing over there-” He didn’t know what it was, but he could feel it, that it was over with the other figure, the one who hadn’t come to snag an intruder.

The hand on his forehead burned, but he couldn’t flinch away. “Sweetie, I think I’d know if your Dad was playing it.” The eyes bore into him, scanning him for any slight movement. “Jack, can you start the RV? I think we should take Danny to emergency.”

The other figure moved, massive, larger than he could imagine. It might hurt him, it might hurt his mom! “S-Stay back!” He yelled, a spark of energy finding its way to him. He couldn’t let his mom get attacked by whatever this was- no wonder she seemed strange, this thing was doing it.

“Well I gotta get up the stairs Danno! You don’t look good, you just wait there.” It was speaking as it came closer, but all it did was make the bile rise in his throat as it pretended to be his father. He squirmed free to stumble forward and block this thing from his mom, eyes burning green as he tried to shove past the exhaustion and fight.

“I said STAY BACK!”

The figure paused at his shriek and wild eyed fury, face unreadable. “Danny?” His voice was low, booming in a way that started to drain all his prior hope to fight the thing off. “Madds? I don’t think emergency can fix what he’s got.”

Claws sunk into his back, his neck aching at the speed used to look back at his mother, too long fingers tight on his shoulders and keeping hims still as he stared up and felt even smaller. “You don’t think he’s possessed?” She wasn’t talking to him, and that was a relief even as his heart tried to run off without him with how fast it wanted to go.

“Y-You did something to my mom.” The accusation made it easier to keep on his feet, but didn’t lessen her grip or stop the giant from approaching. “Take your noisemaker and get out!” If it was gone, it’d be fine, they’d be safe, he was sure of it.

“Danny, that’s your dad sweetie. Not a monster.” The voice was gentle, but he could feel how the arms shook, how she  increased the strength of her grip so he couldn’t pull away again. “You keep doing your best to fight that ghost off Danny, dad will help you.”

The larger figure grabbed the horrible silver device, the red gems adorning the horn’s buttons making him feel empty and helpless. “S-Stop it, you can’t let it use that mom!” He pleaded, but she didn’t release him, just pulled him closer to the smothering warmth. “Please, listen to me!” Of course she didn’t, controlled by that thing, twisted into thinking it was Dad, that it was quiet. Becoming intangible let him slip free, but he only managed two steps before the behemoth blew a long sustained note that made his skin vibrate and eyes swim. He crumpled to the cool floor, staring up at the monster in a silent horror. He couldn’t fight this thing- he’d been a fool to try and the red eyes promised retribution for his behaviour.

“Get out of my son right now, ghost.” It snarled, pointing directly at his crumpled form so he could not pretend to misunderstand. Yet he’d given an order he couldn’t follow. His core screeched in terror as his heart pounded, he couldn’t get out. Yet he had to, or this thing would devour him, shred him to nothing with nothing but sound. He could only try the closest he could get to ‘out’ of his own skin, shuddering as flesh melted to ectoplasm, trying not to scream as suit replaced skin. Not his normal transformation, this one was too slow- too confused by the order he couldn’t follow to make it an instantaneous change. He had to show he wasn’t wearing his human skin, show how completely he changed. Dying slowly, bit by bit  to be someone else. Not ‘his son’. His enemy. Green eyes stared back at the red ones as he panted, unsure if the monster was pleased.

It was furious, stepping forward as he shrank back and pulled his ghostly tail around himself. “I told you to get out.”

“I can’t.” He whimpered, wanting to look away but unable to.

Another voice behind him, the mom that wasn’t spoke. Yet he didn’t understand a word of it, too terrified by the being in front of him to even process it as language.

“Don’t lie to me Phantom. Get out of my son before we tear you out.”

His name made him flinch, gloved hands clutching at his head as the impossibility of that tore at his mind. “I’m not, I swear, I can’t get out of myself!” How could he not be in his son when he was his son? He had to find a way, his slowed but still pounding heart offering some idea.

“Don’t you dare pretend to be my son, ghost.”

He wanted to explain he wasn’t pretending, that he wasn’t disobeying on purpose but the massive thing had him by the collar of his jumpsuit, leaving him busy trying to breathe enough to speak. If he wasn’t a hybrid, then maybe the monster would be satisfied? He didn’t get much time to wonder before getting tossed in a containment cell. “I’m not pretending- the accident…” he mumbled, trying to make himself look smaller as if he could hide from the hateful eyes that way. They stared at him, spoke gibberish to one another as the previous exhaustion came back with a vengeance. Keeping still felt like the best idea. When the bigger one locked eyes with him and ordered that he sleep, he did.

Dreaming and waking became one and the same. He stayed in his cage unless ordered out. They kept asking him the impossible, until he tried to rip out his heart to ‘separate’ through death. They didn’t want their son harmed- didn’t see how separating was harm, but did not destroy him for that blunder. He hunted, brought them what they wanted. They kept watching as if expecting him to disobey, to slip his leash even as he practically groveled when they approached. He hoped Mom was okay, wherever she was. Maybe Jazz could rescue her from the monster with the cornet on spring break. A ghost couldn’t. A ghost simply obeyed.

Prompt: Danny hasn't been feeling himself, blacking out and having strange dreams. Unbeknownst to him, Freakshow's staff was not the only artifact that could control ghosts. Even worse, Jack and Maddie are the ones who get their hands on that object.

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part twelve Word count: ±2750 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part twelve summary: The only way to find out the truth about Laura, is to start digging even deeper. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​​​​​​. Thanks, girls! Gif credit: @demondetoxmanual​.

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     “Dead as a dodo,” the oldest of the Winchester brothers states over the phone, as he exits Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, Zoë by his side.      Before they drove to the hospital, the hunters dropped Sam off at the Shire residence, so that he could make sure the family wouldn’t get targeted. Laura has proven to be relentless, and they didn’t want to risk the family getting killed as well.

     “Laura attacked him while other people were around?” Sam, who is on the line with his brother, is clearly surprised.      “She didn’t. She waited until he went to the supply storage, alone,” Dean tells. “Same deal; beat up, broken neck.”      Sam cuts to the chase. “We have to figure this out fast. The only other people who may know something about Laura’s location is what’s left of the Shire family.”      “You got eyes?” Dean checks, knowing Sam is staking out the residence on Lake Front Lane.      “Yeah. So far so good.”      “Make sure he keeps them in sight at all costs. Use an excuse and get into the house if he has to,” Zoë suggests, only catching half of the conversation.

     Dean glances aside at the woman next to him. She has changed into a clean shirt, one that doesn’t have her own blood on it. Back at the Hampton Inn, she taped her right side, relieving some of the pressure from her aching ribs. After a quick touch up of her hair and make-up, one could barely tell she just got attacked by an angry spirit. Her walk is slightly stiff, but the bruising she suffered is sufficiently masked, her brown curls falling over the gash on her hairline, which she closed with butterfly stitches.

     With a groan she lowers herself in the front seat of the Impala, muttering ‘fuck’ under her breath when fractures send a sharp pain through her body.      Dean notices when he gets into the car as well, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead he puts his phone on speaker, now that the Impala provides them the safety to talk freely. “Zo says that when you lose sight of them, you better get inside. Tell them you’re insurance or somethin’.”

     “Will do. Did you guys manage to get Laura’s medical records?”      “We did. Let’s see what we have here.” The older Winchester pulls a folder from the inside of his leather coat. He opens it, about to leaf through the documents, when Zoë snatches it from his hands. “Hey!”      “Like you could make sense of what’s in here,” she scolds.

   She wets her finger and flips the page. A huff escapes her throat as she reads the file, shaking her head, disapproving. “1999, age four; skull fracture of the parietal, supposedly fell off her bike. 2001, age six; fracture of the left ulna. 2003, age eight, multiple fractures, right radius, she needed surgery for that. Same year, broken carpal bones, right wrist, this time it was the trampoline's fault. It goes on.”      “Fucking bastard…” Dean scoffs.      “And no one picked up on this?” Sam wonders.      “Perks of the dad being Chief of surgery.” Zoë holds an X-ray against the light. “Good news for us is that we should be able to determine now if it’s Laura in that grave or not. Especially her right arm, which was screwed back together.”

     “Only one way to find out. Looks like your gonna pay Linwood Cemetery another visit,” Dean says, turning the key in the ignition. The V8 engine comes to life with a roar, a song by The Kinks called ‘You Really Got Me’ playing on the local radio station.

     “You know you and Zo have to stick together, right?” Sam brings to mind.      “Say what?” Dean replies, puzzled, before he pulls away from the curb.      “He’s right.” Zoë backs up the younger Winchester’s statement, glancing at the driver next to her. “Laura kills everyone who stops her, but only if they are alone. We already know she’s after me, and now you shot her through the head, so I’m guessing you moved up her murder list.”      “Well that’s a comforting thought.” Dean breathes out, once realization sets in. “What about you, Sam?”      “I don’t think she’ll come after me. I never actually had contact with her, unlike you guys,” Sam explains.      “So basically, I’m stuck with her?” Dean nods his head at the young woman next to him, even though his brother can’t see it.      “Hey, still in the car,” Zoë snarls, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She then continues to correct herself, in her usual brazenness. “Excuse my French. I’m still in the ‘67 Chevrolet Impala.”

     Dean’s jaw clenches as he fights the urge to pull the gun from the glove compartment and shoot her. He’s getting pretty tired of her smartass comments.      “He has a point, though,” Sam intervenes. “Whatever happens, you two have to stick together, or it will be the end of you. The second one of you ends up alone…”      Sam leaves the rest of the words unsaid, because no one needs to hear them to understand. If Dean and Zoë get separated, they will die, and especially the huntress is not particularly happy about that matter.

     “Great. My lucky day,” Zoë mutters sarcastically, after which she looks away and watches the houses rush by.      “Do I have to remind you that I just saved your ass?” Dean recalls.      The huntress huffs, of course he has to bring that up. “I didn't need your--”      “Oh, come on! Don't start that bullshit with me,” the oldest Winchester counters, letting out a laugh. No way in hell she’s going to win this argument. “What were you planning to do exactly after Laura pinned you to the wall and was a second from snapping your neck, huh?”

     “Could you two stop bitching at each other for one fucking second?!”      Dean looks at the phone on the dashboard. For a moment there, he forgot Sam was still a part of this conversation. The younger Winchester clearly has had enough of their bickering and fighting, because it’s not often that the respectable sibling curses. The outburst helps, because both shut up instantly.

     “Thank you,” Sam sighs and continues on his theory. “Dean, you dig up that body, I’ll keep an eye on the Shires.”      The Impala comes to a stop before a traffic light, crossing cars not allowing Dean to run the stop sign. “What about Miss Congeniality over here?”      “She can’t dig. She broke her ribs.” Sam states, matter of factly.

     Zoë, who still had her arms crossed in front of her, now turns herself to watch the hunter’s reaction. The amusement that bubbles inside of her makes it impossible to suppress the wide smirk on her lips when she notices Dean translating the true meaning of Sam’s message. For once in her life, she is not going to disagree with Sam, because this is playing itself out beautifully.      “So, I’m gonna have to dig up a coffin while she stands there being pretty?!” he almost exclaims.      “Ah-uh.”      “I have no issues with that, whatsoever.” Zoë agrees, adding fuel to the fire.      “Of course you don’t, you--” Dean shuts himself up, biting his tongue before he says something he might regret. He’s only at an arm's length away from her, plus he’s driving his precious car. The huntress might be hurt, but she can still do some serious damage.      “Alright, Sammy. You stay put, and be careful, okay?” he presses. “Who knows what that mini poltergeist has up her sleeve.”      “I’ll be safe,” his younger brother promises. “You guys too, alright? See you in a bit.”

     The sun is about to sink behind the horizon and golden hour is upon them. The heavens are colored in a dark shade of blue, gradually turning lighter in the west, where apricot and merigold fire up the sky. It’s getting chilly, autumn bringing down the temperatures at dusk. Nocturnal animals come to life, a barn owl hooting in the distance. The cemetery’s gates closed an hour ago, offering the hunters the peace and quiet needed to stay undetected.

     This time it’s not the huntress who is shuffling dirt. In fact, she’s casually sitting on the tombstone next to Laura’s, her legs crossed like the lady that she is, watching Dean do all the hard work. While filing her nails, Zoë cannot help but admire the scenery, and it’s not the pretty sunset. The Winchester in her company is working his way into the ground, scooping dirt over his shoulder with steady amounts. He shed his jacket and his grey shirt is clinging to his clammy torso, perspiration shimmering on his exposed skin. Muscles roll beneath the fabric of the thin tee and his biceps flex with every motion, a glimpse of a tattoo peeking from under the right sleeve. The huntress might want to bite his head off most of the time, but even she has to admit; Dean’s is easy on the eyes.

     “Like what you see?” Dean grins mischievously, having noticed her appreciating looks.      Zoë isn’t at all thrown off balance by his remark, however. “Really? You objectify women all the fucking time, and you’re calling me out?”      “Touché,” he chuckles, not slowing down for a second. “Just sayin’, the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid.”      Zoë scoffs, finding his assumption entertaining. “Keep on dreaming, Casanova. I’m more likely to die before ending up between the sheets with you.”

     “Well…” Dean swings more ground out of the hole, groaning at the increasing ache in his left shoulder. His eyes are still mischievous, and so is the smirk on his lips. “Let’s get that mini poltergeist off your tail, and we’ll talk again.”      Zoë rolls her eyes. This arrogant prick doesn’t know when to stop, does he?      “Like I said; keep on dreaming. Now what the hell is taking you so long?” she judges. “It’s only six feet and the ground is already loose.”      “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe if you hadn't put a bullet in my shoulder two days ago, I’d dig a little faster!” Dean snaps, glaring at the person who has been giving him orders all day.      “Don’t be such a baby. It didn’t even hit the joint,” Zoë scoffs, blowing the dusty residue from her fingertips. “Now would you hurry it up? I have places to be.”

     Gritting his teeth, the hunter dumps another load of soil on the grass besides the grave. I swear to God, one of these days a spirit will be the last of her worries.      “Maybe if you had paid attention when you fucking lit the kid in the first place, you could’ve left town hours ago.”      “Maybe if your brother hadn’t distracted me, I would have. But you asshats tend to ruin other people's cases,” Zoë counters, rapidly.      “Hey, we are just trying to help! Do I have to remind you who’s doing the actual dirty work here?” Dean pauses his actions. “Why don’t you get off your throne of thorns, princess. I’m nearly there.”

     Zoë cocks back her head back; did he just call her ‘princess’? Her eyes shoot flames at the intolerable guy, her mouth opening to send back a remark, when the metal shovel collides with the wooden casket. The hollow sound catches Zoë’s attention and she gets up. “Fucking finally.”

     Dean hoists himself out of the hole, making room to lift up the lid and exposing the remains. He was going to offer the huntress a hand to get into the grave, but he can’t be bothered now; she can figure out how to lower herself if she’s being such a bitch. She doesn’t ask either, and sits down on the edge, sliding down with a grunt. The older Winchester watches her descent, the light of her flashlight shimmering on his features as she turns it on and places it on the corner of the coffin.

     “How are we supposed to tell if this is Laura or not? You already burned her bones to crisp,” Dean wonders, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.      “Because they aren’t burned to crisp. A salt and burn doesn’t actually destroy them like an oven would when cremated,” the huntress explains wisely, pulling on a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and putting them on as she crouches down.

     “So what’s the crime scene telling you, Horatio?” Dean wonders, shining his flashlight down on the skeleton.      Zoë doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she clears the burned clothing and half deteriorated skin and muscle tissue from the right arm of the girl in the coffin. She rubs her thumb over the radius bone, swiping away the ash and grime. There are no signs of a healed break, nor has the arm ever been screwed and bolted back together.      “This isn’t Laura,” she knows.      “Well, shit,” Dean responds, staggered. “If this ain’t her, then where the hell is she?”      “Good question.” Zoë rises again, going over the clues they have gathered so far. “Let’s head to the Shire house, get back to Sam. We gotta figure this out, fast.”

     The two hunters pack up, Dean hauling the dirt back into the grave while Zoë gathers his jacket and the torches. It takes him less longer than digging the hole in the first place, even though he has to bite through the pain. Not wanting to let Zoë know and give him a reason to scold him again, he keeps his mouth shut.

     Thirty minutes later, the driver of the Chevrolet settles down on the front seat, closing the door behind him. “Where to?”      Zoë has already pulled her laptop out, studying the map of Paragould on the screen. “Highway 412 up west, right on Reynolds Road, and then take left on Reynolds Park Road.”      Dean guides the Chevrolet back onto the street, focused on traffic while the passenger takes in the moving world outside the window. The sinking sun sends an orange glow through the Impala, reflecting on the polished hood of the classic car. They are losing light, they are losing time.

     When the driver glances aside briefly, he detects the pondering frown knitted between Zoë’s eyebrows.      “Do you happen to see any bright ideas in that thousand mile stare?” he wonders.      “We can’t split up, so we have to find Laura’s body and figure out how she relocates with the information we already have,” she says, thinking out loud.      Dean brainstorms. “Maybe the way she relocates is a clue on itself.”

     Zoë lets the air fall from her lips while thinking about that, trying to make sense of it all. “She can jump houses, but stays in a certain area. The principal’s home, the hospital, the Dawlson’s house, they are not far from each other, but what connects them?”      “When you saw her, she was wet through, right? That has to mean something,” the older Winchester brother contemplates.      “Yeah, but doesn’t make any sense. We know she didn’t drown,” she ponders, glancing aside at the driver as he turns on Reynolds Park Road.      “What if it has something to do with the cover up of her cause of death and not with her death itself?” Dean brings to mind.

     Suddenly, it clicks. Her eyes grow wide as she straightens herself, her eyes now locked on what’s in front of her. The Reynolds Park Lake comes into view, the last of the evening light reflecting on the surface. It seems peaceful and quiet at this hour, but it becomes very clear to her that these waters hold a dark secret.      “The lake…” she huffs. “The park lake has a water purification system. It provides water to the town.”      Dean follows her gaze. It only takes a second before the penny drops. “So that’s how she travels.”

     It all makes sense now. Why Sam’s vision showed the sprinklers when he saw Taylor Dawlson get attacked. Why the faucets in Zoë’s hotel room opened right before she manifested. She’s not six feet in the ground, she’s six feet under water.      “Little Laura took a swim,” Zoë realizes.

     Stunned that they actually managed to crack the case, she glances aside at the green-eyed hunter, who shares a knowing look with her, a small smirk playing on his lips. They finally know what happened, before and after the girl’s death. All they have to do now is find the remains so they can put the spirit to rest, and who knows, maybe Zoë will make that deadline after all.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page). 

Read chapter thirteen here

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Trail (Part 5)

Since it has been a while. https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143391?view_full_work=true

This chapter deals with mothman because I’m going through a phase. 

A warning… the voice echos in her mind.

The stretch of road before them is long and damp from a rain that had fallen before they had made it into the area. Azula cranks the windows down and lets a breeze waft through the car. It is a particularly hot night and it had been an even hotter morning. Zhao and Sokka--Sokka especially-had complained about it all day. Azula herself found it rather nice, especially when thinking back to their more frigid endeavors. She imagines that Zuko is enjoying the weather too. 

He peers into the rearview mirror and she sees a faint little smile. There are so many crickets out tonight that she can hear them even over the wind and the car engine. 

“We need some tunes.” Sokka suggests. 

“I rather like the night noise.” Azula disagrees. 

“We’re on a cryptid hunt, we should get some Johnny Cash and Deadman’s Bones. The Doors?” 

Azula rolls her eyes. 

“Come on. Riders on the storm, into this house we’re born.”

“Please stop yer singin’ laddy.” Zhao grumbles. “I’m with the lass, crickets are fine.” 

“Come on, every good monster hunt needs a good soundtrack.”

“We’re not even on a hunt right now.”  Azula replies. “We’re just driving. Sometimes you just drive on forested roads because that’s where the GPS takes you.” 

Katara stifles a laugh. 

“Where’s our next turn?” Zuko asks. 

Katara peers down at the map. “It’s coming up soon. At the next intersection, turn right.”

Azula watches moths, mosquitoes, and fireflies flit in and out of the headlights. A light mist swirls along the road where the puddles are the thickest. She leans out of the window and snaps a few photographs.

“Azula, what did I tell you about doing that!?”

“Relax Zuzu, you aren’t driving that fast.” 

“What if a bird comes by?”

Azula rolls her eyes. “Brids aren’t nocturnal, dumdum.”

“Fine. What if a bat or an owl comes by?” 

“Then I’ll have a nice photo.” Azula slips fully into the car once again. “Besides, it’s a nice night. If it were up to me, we’d park this car and take a little stroll.”

“Have ye no fear, lass?” 

Azula smirks, “not an ounce. Why? Are you afraid, Zhao?”

“It is night, we are in an unfamiliar forest, and it is misty. Of course I’m scared.” 

Azula rolls her eyes. “Yes well the car is running just fine, the weather is wonderful, and, if you shut your mouth, you can hear crickets and owls and all sorts of night sounds.” He only blinks at her. “It would be so noisy if a predator was around.”

“Turn!” Katara abruptly exclaims. 

Zuko jolts and jerks the wheel. 

“Ah shite!” Zhao shouts as the car fishtails. 

Katara grips the armrest as Sokka lets out a hollar of excitement. “I used to go do doughnuts on the gravel road until dad stopped me.” He declares as though that will help Zuko any. Azula clutches her camera protectively. 

Zuko turns the wheel a few times until he gets the car under control. “Good thing you weren’t leaning out of the window.” He declares. 

“Shut up, Zuzu.” She grumbles and folds her arms and slouches back into the car seat. 

“Are we oot of the forest yet?” Zhao asks. 

Katara looks at the map, “not for a while, Zhao.” 

“My legs are getting tired.” Sokka frowns and folds his arms across his chest. “Like, I’m starting to get that annoying tingly feeling.” 

“We can pull over.” Azula shrugs. “There’s a rest area over there.”  She points to a small recreation area with only a single and dim lamppost. Zuko rolls the car to a stop but doesn’t unlock the door. 

“I don’t know, it’s kind of eerie.” 

Azula unlocks the car door and wanders out. The place looks ancient; there is a single log building that she assumes is a bathroom. This has two smaller and even dimmer lights above each door. Creeping ivy has taken to climbing over the logs and spilling out from between them. The sidewalk leading up to is cracked with age; grasses and dandelions poke up from between the cracks. 

The sound of crickets grows in volume as Azula makes her way over to one of six wooden picnic benches. Out in the open, she can hear the croak of tree frogs and the buzz of other insects. The wood of the bench is damp when she sits upon it. She notices tufts of moss creeping up and down it. There is more graffiti than moss though; mostly just names with years and initials in hearts. Azula traces her finger over a particularly deep etching as she watches a moth ram itself into the streetlight. “Are you guys coming?” She asks. 

Katara and Sokka exchange a look before Sokka emerges from the car. Azula looks to the left at the sound of a creak. The wind has taken to gently tossing a swing back and forth. The thing looks as ancient as the picnic table. The slide next to it is made of rusting metal. Azula wanders over to it and wraps her fingers around the chain of the rocking swing. 

“Can you guys just get back in the car?” Zuko asks. He seems to shudder after his request.

Azula rolls her eyes. She supposes that she can go back to the car, but while she is out and about she photographs the park. She crouches down to tuck her camera back into its case. Something heavy and oppressive befalls her and she halts her fumbling to look at the treeline. It is not like it usually is, the crickets still chirp and the frogs still croak. The fireflies still glimmer on and off as if they aren’t sensing the same energy that she does. She scans the treeline more intensely and a chill vibrates through her soul. She squits and slowly rises to her feet. 

She can’t tell if the creature is perched in a tree or if its head simply reaches that high. Whatever it is, it stands pillar still and observes her with a ruby gaze. She as as transfixed as she is disquieted. 

She knows that she should go back to the car, but she finds herself curiously drawn to this being. She puts less thought into it than she should--really she puts no thought at all into edging closer to the treeline.  

“Azula!” Zuko shouts. His voice cuts through the mesmerized haze in her mind and she jolts. In a flicker, a sense of ominousness replaces the enchantment. She backs away with just as much slowness. If it is one of the weres, then she is in rather deep and running will only draw more attention. But she has never known the weres to be so compelling. 

The creature leaps off of the trees and fans out wings so black that she can’t tell if they are feathered, furred, or leathery. She can tell that they are huge, perhaps ten feet or so. It makes no sound as it descends and Azula’s stomach turns. 

Zuko slams on the horn, a long and loud bleat but the creature is undeterred. It is as focused on her as she had been on it. 

She whips her head around to flash a longing stare at the car, they are all yelling for her. Things that she can’t quite catch under the sound of flapping wings. The being eclipses her view of the car entirely. 

It can take her so easily. 

It towers far above her. She fully acknowledges that, that isn’t saying much. But it would tower of Zhao as well and the man has a good six feet and then some on him. 

And yet, Azula isn’t afraid. 

She doesn’t feel particularly pleasant either. 

She realizes that she doesn’t feel anything at all, save for faintly curious. She wonders if the creature is curious as well. But no. She can see in its deep rose-hued eyes that it knows. It has a wisdom older than perhaps the park itself. 

I want to show you something. Its voice slides into her head. She doesn’t block it out, though instincts tell her to throw up as many mental walls as she can. I will show you something. There is a very brief flash of images. This time she does erect her walls.

It speaks again, this time its communication is external. “No harm.” It is a raspy whisper, a stark contrast to the deep and smooth voice in her had. 

What it instills within her this time is neither a voice nor an image but a feeling of soothing. Something warm. Something akin to brushing her cheek against something fuzzy and gentle. Something like when her mother used to wrap she and Zuko into a blanket and coo them to sleep.

She will give it a chance. 

It wraps its wings around her. 

Distantly she hears a shout and a few pops. 

Very close she hears a shriek of pain. It breaks her stupor once more. She sees the gun poised and ready. “Zhao, no!” She hollers. She hears another pop. This time the creature flees, but not without her. Zuko shouts for her but she doesn’t resist. 

It has knowledge and she has a curiosity.  

Azula isn’t sure how far it takes her. She watches pines roll by green ash and river birch roll by, sees the mist churning and swirling like a grey-washed river. The night air is still pleasantly warm on her cheeks.  The entity comes to a clearing, it sets her down onto the forest floor and perches itself in the branches. 

Now the other forest creatures know.

Now it is dead silent. 

Silent except for that deep, silky voice. Let me show you.

Azula nods, she wants to see. “Trust.” It says out loud. It reaches a clawed hand out and brushes it tentatively over her hair. A sense of deeper soothing ripples over her. Trust, it repeats. And her head seems to split. A deep pounding cracks her skull and she falls to the floor. 

She is in her bedroom--her childhood bedroom--staring at the tinkling mobile. A tiny topez dragon, a citrine phoenix, and a ruby monkey. At the center is a little dream catcher. It sways and bobs in a breeze that isn’t natural. From somewhere she can hear a music box. It should be comforting. It has the atmosphere of something cozy and yet the shadows furl and unfurl in ways that make her feel queasy. 

She notices that she is bleeding, but she can’t tell from where.

Maybe it isn’t actually hers. Maybe she just has blood on her. 

She tries to sit up but her body remains paralyzed as though a weight is being pressed upon her. She can’t scream. Neither can she blink. The shadow unravels further before thickening into something more solid. 

Something more palpable and putrid. 

It is slick and oily and it plops onto the floor with a wet slosh. 

Azula’s shout is locked within her throat. Her world goes black but she still has her eyes wide open. When the blackness clears she can see Zuko, his figure ringed by a halo of silver-blue moonlight. 

But he is wrong, all wrong. His eyes are a such a shade of black, to the likes that she has never seen. He opens his mouth in a silent scream and that oily sludge comes pouring out. Out and out until it pools around the bed. Until it rises to the height of the mattress. 

Zuko’s face flickers between his own and another. Something masklike; smooth and silver but oddly akin to a liquid. It shifts and simmers. Every now and again an eye or a mouth or a nose emerges on the surface. It is a different one with each flicker. 

Finally Azula can cry out. But no one can help her.

The slime has reached her feet.

She finds herself laying on the forest floor, a cold sweat glistens on her face. She is shaking. A figure still looms over her; tall, muscular, winged, and imposing. “A warning.” It speaks. She can’t bring herself to move. 

She opens her mouth to speak. 

Go home. The voice eases into her mind. But she doesn’t know where home is anymore. For the longest time home has been the RV that she and Zuko have parked in a rented lot back in their home city. The one they’d grown up in has long been foreclosed. 

Maybe it hears her thoughts. No, it definitely does. Or perhaps it just knows. Knows in the same way that it foresaw the collapse of the Silver Bridge. It projects another image into her mind. She is sitting in a living room--she knows, somehow, that it is in Scottland, that it is Zhao’s home--watching TV. Zuko is next to her snoring. The atmosphere is inviting. The Scottsman enters the room and declares that they will be going to the loch, that Nessie would like to see her again. Azula swallows, the idea of seeing Nessie again isn’t so bad. You need to go home. It says again. 

And once more her head seems to fracture. She lays in that dark room again. This time it is in a state of disarray and the sludge gathers in inky splotches around the room. She only sees Zuko’s pitch black gaze and his mouth agape in that grotesque silent scream. The last droplets of ooze dribble down his chin.

[waynedunlaptheorgandonor]

i hate myself and this show so i wrote this. ep 915 spoilers.

a field to lay down your grief

~1k words

caryl

She didn't attend her daughter's funeral. “Why?” she'd asked, and the look she gave him when he said, “'Cause that's your little girl,” is seared in his brain forever.

There are a lot of things that have made themselves at home in his memory like unwelcome house guests. Most of them bloody. Most of them violent. But the ones that aren't are the ones that hurt the most.

It's not Sophia's ambling walk or vacant eyes that gut him, but instead the way he can never forget how it felt to feel the sobs rattle through her body as he held her back with an arm across her chest. He can still smell the air that day, thick with walker rot and hay in a barn full of the dead. Sometimes, even years and years later, when his dreams are at their worst, he hears the word “Sophia,” being wailed like a prayer being broken.

She does attend her son's funeral, because she's the Queen, and people have been lost, and that's what queens do, isn't it? They celebrate when the people celebrate, and mourn when they mourn.

He sees her stock still by her husband, not holding him for support. For all the times Daryl has been called guarded, he finds it funny how many miss the thick iron bars and the deep moat dug around her; an isolation fit for a queen.

Siddiq's words, though wracked with emotion, sound like nothing but empty syllables being thrown into the abyss. How many funerals has Daryl attended? From the time he sat on a pew in a church his family never prayed at, mourning his mother who cremated herself, to right now, where he keeps his usual distance from the crowd? There are only so many ways grief can be manifested into words; after a while it becomes meaningless.

Still, the crowd weeps—some of them his friends, some of them strangers—but Carol doesn't weep. There are tears on her face, her mouth turned down, but she does not weep. With his back a latticework of scar tissue, Daryl knows what it means to keep one's deepest wounds unseen.

Siddiq continues to punctuate the air with words that mean nothing, and she continues to listen, and he continues to watch her hide in plain sight.

He's so tired of funerals.

He's so tired.

*

Long after the sun goes down, he waits for her by the gate. There is no prearranged rendezvous, but he knows, with the same certainty he feels when he aims his bow and hits his target, that she'll come.

She approaches him, her footsteps deft, but no match for Daryl's hunter's ears. Her husband is fast asleep, his grief dragging him under. But for her—for them—grief is a stimulant. It's a feeling that demands an action. She stands beside him and looks at him with expectation. He nods his head towards the exit.

They head out with no direction, unstable and aimless like walkers, except that Daryl is never truly lost. His sense of direction is as involuntary as his breath. He could never be a wanderer because he always knows where he is, even when he wants to pretend he's somewhere else.

They don't talk; don't have to. Language has always been strange between them. The first time he ever noticed her—like, properly noticed her—she was driving a pickaxe through her husband's skull, and he didn't need her to speak to him, because she heard her clear as day:

“Love and hate can be so intertwined it's crazy,” she'd told him without saying a word. “These blows to his brain should feel like freedom, so why am I still chained?”

Sometime later he said the same thing to her, only it came out, “Merle never done anything like that his whole life.” But she'd understood.

He's learned that every once in a great while you come across a soul so similar to yours that the rules of communication cease to matter.

In their silence on the stretch of uneven terrain through the woods, Carol tells him, “I stood in the doorway of his room for an hour today. It was as childless as a barren womb, and I hate that this emptiness isn't unfamiliar, just perennial.”

In response he says wordlessly, “I tried so hard to keep you from seeing him, but I know it wouldn't have mattered. The sight of the trauma is the picture in the picture book, but it's the words, the story, that stays with you.”

He tells her that he's sorry.

She says that she forgives him.

The only sound between them is the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath their feet, and the rustling of the nocturnal animals starting out their day.

They walk until the soles of their feet hurt, not that they notice. They've both walked longer with worse injuries more times than they can count. They have a destination, it's just that they won't know it until they find it.

There's a break in the treeline that gives way to a clearing. He holds a branch back like a gentleman holding open a car door, and she steps over rocks and dirt and patches of grass, and once she's through he follows.

Her breath is sharp. His hand finds her lower back, holding her in support. That's the thing about her bars and moats—he’s the only one allowed inside them.

The moon's not quite full but it's bright, and the sky is clear and brimming with stars. The lights from so far away illuminate the clearing, and in their sudden sight they see a couple dozen white roses in an expansive bloom that goes all the way into the shadows across the way.

They don't touch them or pick them, as though they're sacred. They just look—hand on her back, silent tears in both of their eyes—and take in the Earth's memorial designed specifically for them.

No amount of flowers will ever be enough, but this field of roses asks them to lay down some of their grief; it's too heavy, it tells them, let me lighten the load.

She rests her head on his shoulder and breathes out her pain.

She says, out loud this time, “I miss him.”

It means so much more than that.

His response is just as loaded. He eulogizes her son he kept safe for her until he couldn't; the dead daughter he said he'd save and didn't. He holds her close and, with deep, desperate love, he says it all in two words.

“I know.”

They continue to watch the Cherokee roses shine in the moonlight.

A funeral fit for a queen.

[aliceslantern]

Nocturnal Memory, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 31 and Epilogue

[Summary:  Dying takes a lot out of you, it's true, but when Demyx wakes up for the first time since his fight with Sora nothing's right. His memories are fragmented and he's missing his true name. And he's not the only one. An incomprehensible mystery and an inevitable war make him question what, exactly, he would do to become whole, and reclaim the music lost to him.

On FF.net/on AO3

This story is now complete.]

"…We used to do things the old-fashioned way," Braig said conversationally. "But you remember Larxene. Things got out of hand, fast. Nobody we're questioning is good to us dead. Now, I don't mind a mess, but it's hard to get a stain out of white tile. Doesn't improve morale during questioning. So they sent Vexen to work in his labs. How do we get what we want while still making sure our victim stays young and pretty? This was the answer."

Demyx didn't know how long it had been, but it must have been hours, because now a creeping fatigue was blotting out the remnants of the pain. And he was so thirsty. The air was so dry in here; it was like it was sucking the moisture right out of him. A headache dimly pounded in the back of his skull. It took him a while to realize Braig was no longer holding him down. He propped himself up. His elbows were shaking too much to take his weight.

"Your job was to come here and lie, right?" Braig began. He was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, like he was about to join a drum circle. "Was any of what they fed you completely true?"

Again he was struggling against his own tongue. The pain was fading, but the rest of the effects remained like glue. He grit his teeth. He would just have to stay quiet. He could do that. It was the easy way out.

Braig sighed. "What do you really owe these people? All they did was lie to you. You tell me now, you might be able to help them, in the long run."

Demyx didn't want to believe him.

He took out the needle again. "It's a yes or no question, Demyx."

His name made him jump.

"Wouldn't you like to know your name? And the truth? We don't have to keep playing like this. It could be easy. No more nasty man. Let's go back to being friends." Demyx saw the fresh vial and his eyes watered. "Tell me."

He looked away. His mind was racing.

"If you think one CC hurt, I don't think you'll like two," Braig said.

One felt like nothing compared to two. He didn't think he was physically capable of holding this much pain. It spread out through him like water, shredding every cell and locking every muscle into a spasm. It gnawed his organs. For the first time, he felt something jabbing into his heart and his hand went to his chest automatically.

"It'll just keep pushing you from here," he said. "The effects don't wear off after two CCs. Your heart's already pretty damaged. You probably can't take three. Why risk it?"

The committee said they wouldn't blame him if he ended up speaking. Was it his fault if he were physically unable to lie? Even if he survived this, the beginning, what would this Organization tell him? They couldn't trust him. They knew why he was here now. There had to be some way to salvage this. But he couldn't think with his head pounding.

The agony continued for an indefinite and infinite amount of time. Every breath felt like fire. He'd bitten the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. His mind was muddled and everything was blurry. All the while the ache around his heart deepened. He tried to keep his mouth shut, but the truth left him alongside a jagged noise. "No."

Braig digested this. "Man, you guys were stupid," he said. "How desperate do you have to be? They just don't want to fight. Now tell me the truth. With all that you know, do you think that the committee has any chance of surviving this?"

Another struggle, another answer. "No."

"How much of coming here was a quick way to bite it? You don't have to answer that."

His vision was swimming. Thin, brittle tears ran down his face. He gagged on the pain.

"So they sent you here to get information on us because they have none," Braig continued. "Now, Demyx. What do you remember? Do you remember anything? Think hard. Be a good little boy. What do you remember before the Organization?"

He trembled and spat more blood. "There was a desert, and…" It was taking all of his strength to form complete sentences. "You turned me. You turned me twice."

"Not the word I'd use, but more or less on the nose," Braig said. "You were from a real shithole. That place made some pretty good Heartless though, I won't lie. All the people who hurt you… they're Heartless. And what happened to you? Your will somehow pulled you through, whole, as a child." Braig leaned down next to him. "What do you remember from when you woke up?"

"…When I…" He could barely comprehend just what Braig was saying. Fog and pain seeped through him in equal parts.

"After you fought Sora."

A pulse of pain shot through his chest. "…I… It was dark… and… it rained…" He hadn't really been conscious until Ienzo began bandaging his wounds that day long ago. "I saw… your face… You said something." The pain in his chest surged and he fought hard against the words. "You told me to…" Blackness washed over his mind. When he came to he could feel his heart racing. "Kill…"

"Kill who? Sorry. Whom."

He hiccupped. Sweat oozed out of every pore. "Leon?"

"Well. That's what was supposed to happen," Braig said. "You got your foot in the door with the committee. It would have been great; complete destruction of Sora's entire support system. And it would have made him distrust the rest of the old Organization instantly. But it didn't work. Why didn't it work?"

The question was directed at him. "I don't know, I…" He felt sick. He'd never even had so much as a negative thought about Leon. Not to mention, how it would make the other members of the committee feel…

Braig seized his collar. "Tell me."

"I don't know! I swear!"

"I think you do. I think, in your heart of hearts, you know the answer." Braig chuckled. "Nothing pisses me off more when people I trust lie. Wouldn't you agree?" He took out the syringe again.

"No!" His voice was hoarse. Braig crumpled the space around Demyx again and he collapsed.

"If this won't get you to tell the truth, nothing will," Braig said. This time, the needle pierced his spine. "You better hope you live through it first."

Every bit of him imploded. Brightness throttled his cells, eating though his extremities before concentrating on his organs. It slithered into his heart, melding with the faint fracture lines he could really feel for the first time.

"Something healed you enough so we couldn't use you," Braig said. "I see it in your eyes now. It was… the girl." He shook his head. "For fuck's sake. You converts to good are all the same. That shit's really good and inside you now, isn't it?" He nudged Demyx's leg.

The pain seemed distant at this point, leaving behind a drowning numbness that was slowly creeping over him. Only the piercing in his heart remained. He forced his fingers into a fist. Pushed through the thinning fog in his head. Braig hadn't seen the need to give him a second dose to anesthetize his powers.

"What are you—" Braig asked, but before he could so much as react Demyx snapped the largest blood vessel he could find in Braig's brain. He hit the ground.

The corridor took the rest of his strength and then some, and for a few minutes he was sure he was going to keel over in the realm of darkness. The pain in his heart tightened around his throat. His hands touched the smooth stone outside the corridor and he fell in a heap. It was hard to breathe, so he didn't try. He shut his eyes. Maybe sleep wouldn't be so bad.

EPILOGUE--Waking up. Again.

Cold and numb and white.

Cold and numb and white and pain and breath—

Binding a consciousness takes time. It took him a while to even realize that time existed and was passing. It must have been, because the white gave way to gray and then black, then gray then white again.

After a while, color. After that, dreams.

When he was a kid sometimes he and his mother would leave the village and head towards the horizon. She would pack a lunch, always the same rice balls, seasoned with jasmine. They would walk until the dry grasses of the plains gave way to total sand. One day, she reached down into this sand and dug for close to a minute. She held up something round and white. "Look, little fish." That was her name for him, because when she was pregnant she could feel him flopping in her belly like a fish. "You know what this is?"

He touched it. It was ridged, and smooth, about the size of his thumb.

"It's a seashell," she said. "Long ago, all this used to be an ocean. But the spirits were angry with humans, for their violence and their cruelty, and they took the ocean away with a song. They say if you listen well on a windy night, you can still hear that sound on the breeze." She smiled. "It's a story. But this is something that's true. You love music, little fish. Sometimes I swore you'd bring the ocean back. Remember this song for me."

She sang something low and soft and simple in a language he did not understand. It shook him to the core, bringing tears to his eyes.

"My mother gave it to me, now I give it to you," she said. "When you think of it, that's me loving you."

He slept for a long time.

He didn't wake up all at once, but in pieces. His body was a sprawling, aching thing that needed to be taken care of. A heart that beat. Lungs that needed air. Also, the fact that he existed was sort of boggling.

The memories took their time arriving. The years and pain came boiling in, but he was at a safe distance from it. The more things came, the more he was aware he was missing part of the puzzle. A lot of parts, actually. There were whole expanses unaccounted for, gaping in his mind.

Who was he? There was no name, only that slight numbness, a pinch in the chest. There was the alias, the fake name, the one he'd clung to for so long. It was tight and didn't fit. He waited a while but the rest of it never showed up, and he knew he'd have to wake up for good. So he did.

This room was blue, not white. A soft bed. Tubes stuck in his hands. Dank, damp, frigid air. He tried to sit up, only to immediately feel every muscle complain. The second try was a little more successful. Someone had put him in a linen nightshirt and it was coarse against his skin.

He asked himself the question mostly because he had to. Was he dead?

He hurt too much to be dead, but his luck was rotten enough that it was hard to be sure.

Something wasn't adding up.

He stretched. He could tell he'd lost a lot of time. Weeks, maybe longer; he was borderline atrophied. He could see the veins in his forearms. He'd lost more weight. How was this possible? How was he here?

He took a deep breath. Something like a strange laugh came out of his throat.

A door he hadn't previously noticed opened and in came Ienzo.

"Yes," Ienzo said. "Luxord said you would wake up one of these days. Demyx."

He shivered and tried to speak, but he was too hoarse.

"I'm sure you must have a lot of questions." Ienzo approached him and checked his pulse with a cold hand. "Your vitals are already so much more stable."

He swallowed in an attempt to get more moisture into his mouth. "H-how—"

"About three months," Ienzo said. "It's the tail end of December. Xehanort is dead. You, on the other hand, are very much alive."

Demyx shook his head. He couldn't believe this. It was a dream, a hallucination, something—

"For quite a few weeks we weren't sure you would make it," Ienzo said. He sat at the foot of the bed. "A living body, but a lack of consciousness—we figured your heart had shattered. But when I tried to reach your mind, your consciousness was repairing itself, albeit very slowly. Do you follow?"

He nodded. The cold in the room was incredible. Ienzo helped him tuck the blanket around his shoulders.

"Things started to make sense to me," Ienzo said. "Your lack of memories. Your instability. These were the same things Even and Dilan experienced the first few days after their reformation. And I realized something crucial. Your reformation was never tampered with because it was never fully allowed to happen in the first place. They were able to stop it, somehow. What you've experienced these past few months—that was the real reformation, triggered by an apparent cessation of life. Perhaps Lea and the others knew this, or figured it was possible, which is why they pushed so hard for you to go on the mission. But if that's the case they did a very good job keeping it from me."

When Demyx didn't respond, he continued.

"The damage done to your Nobody's growing heart was irreversibly woven into your psyche. It's healed, but it's left behind scars, so to speak. You might still have trouble recalling things. I'm sorry. But the good news is that you will be healthy."

It was hard to process this. This room was so painfully bright.

"Do you understand me? Demyx? Of course this must be all so very overwhelming."

He nodded. He was feeling dizzy now. Ienzo took his hand. "Yuffie?"

"Yuffie's alive and well and very worried about you."

"This can't be real," he whispered.

"I assure you it is," Ienzo said.

His eyes watered. These emotions seemed even bigger and even harder to keep track of. Ienzo hugged him, solid and warm, while he cried.

It was clear that this recovery would take longer than all the rest. Not just physically—though that in itself was staggering—but emotionally. Most of his memories were still gone, but less so than before. Old ones, awful ones, would stab him while he slept; and considering how weak he was, he slept upwards of twelve hours a day. There was no sedative that could keep the dreams at bay.

Even and Ienzo took to counseling him. At first sharing such traumatic things with them made it even worse, because there was the added humiliation of having to describe it. But sometimes Ienzo would walk with him through the memories, talk him through it, and while the pain was still awful, at least he knew he was justified in how he felt.

They didn't let him see Yuffie until two days after he woke up, because they were concerned about him getting too overwhelmed at once. But when she did come, he barely saw her before she was pulling him into her arms. "You came back," she said. She was shaking all over. "You really did."

He breathed in her warm, slightly salty smell, and let himself be relieved for the first time that he'd survived.

It took weeks, then months. He had to put back on the weight he'd lost in the coma, then go through physical therapy to try and get some of his strength back. Yuffie was with him most of the time, and so were Ienzo and the others. After about a month he could manage most things on his own, even if walking the length of the town still tired him.

But he wouldn't find out what really happened with Xehanort until nearly spring. The battle had happened after all, but under different circumstances. There was no thirteen darknesses versus seven lights. Mostly, it turns out, because one of the darknesses had already been killed in action.

"It was you all along," Lea told him. He was looking haggard and tired still, but Demyx could sense the relief weighing heavily on him. "So it wasn't in vain. Luxord. That bastard. When you killed Braig… you set the whole thing off. We started picking them off, one by one, like Sora did with us in the Organization. So when we finally faced Xehanort… it was tough, but it was easier than it would have been."

"He was right about some things," Demyx said. It was snowing in town today, a late winter snow, and it caught in the wool of their hats and scarves. "I did die. Even said I was technically dead for ten minutes, and that's when they found me. But then the reformation started. I was actually a Nobody the whole time." He shook his head. "If somebody had told me that all I had to do to get fixed was to get myself killed, I probably would have done it a long time ago."

Lea laughed. "Believe it or not, you did your part in saving the world. Congrats. How does it feel?"

"Unreal," Demyx said.

"Yeah. You've got me there." Lea took out a cigarette and lit it.

"Ienzo said they might actually try that, with the others. A controlled way to heal them, as well. We'll actually all be okay. I can't believe it."

"I know. No more Heartless. Soon, no more Nobodies. The darkness probably won't rise to the same degree again, at least, not for a while. We're… free. As free as we can be, anyway. Thing is… what do we do now?"

"Whatever we want," Demyx said.

When spring came he was just about healthy. Without Heartless, the committee could actually turn towards improving the town fully. Of course, every now and again they'd find a pureblood they'd missed, but all the artificial types had been destroyed or vanished. Soon, there would be no more than the natural kinds, and hopefully none of those would be created in Radiant Garden.

The committee work gave him something to look forward to, even when his mind would torment him with the memories. Especially now that he was fully a part of it. He helped Aerith build an irrigation system for the new gardens. When he was stronger, he started helping Yuffie, Leon, and Cid with the construction.

"I thought of a project you might be good for," Leon said one April afternoon when they finished their work for the day. "Now that the infrastructure's getting up to speed, we can start thinking long term. We used to have such a rich artistic history. It was something Ansem the Wise was very proud of. I was thinking maybe you could go around and talk to people, get them to tell you Radiant Garden's legends. Or to sing you the folk songs, so you can write them down. It's your history now, too. What do you say?"

How could he say no?

When summer came, he'd been in Radiant Garden a year. Despite the horrible dryness, it was peaceful.

He spent most of these nights with Yuffie. Walking, mostly, now that it was safe to.

"I forgot how much I missed being out at night," she said. She breathed deeply. "It's so quiet. And calm."

"I thought you were an agent of chaos," he teased.

"Oh, I absolutely am," she said. "Still, sometimes I like peace and quiet. Now that I have time to think about stuff."

"What do you think about?" Now that they had all this time, they were learning so much about each other. He realized that she had a thoughtful, tender side she usually kept guarded, though he had no idea why.

"I've been thinking long term," she said. "About the town. I get so excited about what we can do that I can't sleep. But then, you know, eventually it'll be nice again, like how it used to be. Then what do I do? I don't know who I am without the committee. I'm not like you. I'm not an artist, I don't have anything I'm really passionate about. The only other thing I'm good at is fighting, and that's almost completely useless now."

"Well, you can learn," he said.

"I didn't think I ever would be able to," she said. "That's the thing."

He kissed her hand. "We can do it together."

Towards the end of August Ienzo volunteered himself to be the first one to purposefully trigger the reformation, or "re-reformation" as Demyx was calling it.

"It's almost completely certain that I'll pull through, but still I'm… hesitant," Ienzo told him the night before. Demyx realized that all their recent confidence in one another had resulted in something genuine; without meaning to, Ienzo had become his best friend.

"Well, yeah, I would be too," Demyx said. "It's kind of a big deal."

"Even said it will be painless. He'll put me to sleep, then trigger an overdose with opiates. And then… well, hopefully things will go according to plan. It has to be me first, before the others. We need to know this works." He nodded to himself, but he looked terrified.

"I'll wait for you," Demyx said.

Ienzo smiled. "If somebody had told me, back when I was in the Organization, how things would turn out, I wouldn't have believed them. It's simply impossible."

"Tell me about it," Demyx said.

And he was there for all of it. He was with Ienzo when Even injected the drugs. He was there when Ienzo's heart stopped, when he stopped breathing.

Even had so far been cool and collected, but sweat was beading along his forehead. "It takes minutes. Minutes," he muttered to himself.

Demyx couldn't help but worry too. It seemed to go against the grain, killing yourself to be alive. Seeing Ienzo there, motionless, brought tears to his eyes.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Even quite suddenly left the room. Demyx took Ienzo's hand.

"Come on," he said. "Please."

Demyx sat there, numb, for a long time. It was just taking a while, that was all. Any minute now and it would kick in and everything would be fine. He wouldn't let himself cry because there was no reason to. Ienzo's skin was still warm, he kept telling himself that.

He must have fallen asleep because he woke with a jolt, his neck at a harsh angle. The body next to him was breathing sharply and harshly and Demyx's fear gave way to relief.

Days passed, then weeks. Unlike when he had been going through it, there was no way to monitor Ienzo's progress, just to keep him alive long enough for him to wake up. Demyx hadn't realized how much work it took, weeks of tubes and bags and medicines and vitals and needles. After a while he asked Even to teach him. Sometimes Demyx would read to Ienzo, or play him songs. He hoped that it helped.

Ienzo woke up in October, disoriented and pale but whole.

"Welcome back," Demyx said tiredly.

"Demyx," Ienzo said hoarsely. "Have you been here the whole time?" He spoke slowly, with difficulty. "I thought I heard music. I figured it was a memory."

"It's not right for us to struggle along alone," Demyx repeated.

He wasn't quite sure he would ever believe that this was real. He was rebuilding his life; the town was rebuilding, too. Every day he was learning more what it meant to be human, to grow, to create. While now and again the pain would come unbidden, he knew it would pass, that he would be fine.

Well into that second year, he and Yuffie sat at the overlook, leaning into one another on a blanket. There were more than just ruins here now. The gardens had once just been for food, but now flowers were starting to grow again.

"So Even was fine?" Yuffie asked.

"Yes, he's recovering now," Demyx said. "He's the last one. It's all over. Finally. You know, it's kind of weird. Some days I actually miss that. Must be the sadomasochist in me."

"Tell me you're not actually into that."

He flinched. "Oh, god, no."

"Sucks. It'd be kind of hot."

He rolled his eyes. "No, I miss the traveling," he said. "Theoretically, I could still do it, but I'm not ready to try the corridors. That darkness scares the shit out of me."

"Maybe someday we could do it together," she said. "You know, I'd actually like to get out there and see what this has all been about." She sat up suddenly and snapped her fingers. "I think I figured out what I want to be when I grow up."

"What's that?"

"I was already thinking about opening a shop in the marketplace. What if we found cool things out in the world, and brought them back here? People'd love it. It'd really shake things up."

"You know, that doesn't sound too bad," he said.

"So what do you say? In a few months, or so, we go out there?"

"I'd say it's a deal," he said.

She kissed him softly, and there they sat, thinking about what could come next.