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makeitagood0neao3 · 4 years ago

Text

Safe Inside

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 2,754

Warnings: Non/con. Explicit sexual content. Dark!Peter Parker AU. 18+ only!

The knock on your apartment door couldn't have come soon enough. After a long, tiring day working virtually, all you wanted was your take out, likely still warm from the restaurant downtown. Hair in a messy bun, long shirt covering a pair of shorts you padded to the door. Looking through the peephole, just to be safe. You couldn’t be too careful nowadays.

You opened the door to see your usual delivery guy standing before you, grey Supreme hoodie beneath a black coat, the hood pulled over his head. In his hand were the handles of a plastic bag as he balanced a soda on top of it.

“Greek delivery for a pretty lady in apartment 410?” He asked, barely able to contain his smile.

“Hey Pete,” you greeted, matching his energy. “I just Venmo’d you.”

“You better not have included a tip, Y/N.” Peter handed over the soda and bag before grabbing his phone from his pocket to check for the transaction. “I told you to stop tipping me.”

“I know you did,” you answered smuggly. “But you deserve a tip when you give me life by baklava.” He smiles back before peering into the apartment behind you. He was always doing that; checking, observing. You only ever ordered dinner for one, but that didn’t stop him from being curious. Not one to easily trust, you know the little world you built can be easily destroyed if you let the wrong person in.

He never asked if you were seeing someone or overstepped. The most flirting you had done with this younger man was to tell him that if he got straight A’s this semester at the university, you’d invite him inside for a drink.

“Yeah, yeah. I appreciate you. I gotta run, but I’ll text you.” He waved and made his way down the hall.

Using your foot to kick your door closed you locked it with your free hand and set the food down on the counter. Setting your Spotify playlist to shuffle on 80’s rock before digging in at your tiny dining room table that barely fits in your small apartment.

You met Peter on a whim. Never one to plan meals out in advance, you were often left to starve or eat cereal for dinner after working. Never one to leave your apartment when it was dark out, you settled for having dinner delivered. Peter was delivery guy on a food delivery app and learned your dinner routine and favorites quickly. Which was surprising, because you couldn’t possibly be the only person in Queens ordering take out every other night.

And he couldn’t be the only delivery guy around, but he somehow became your usual delivery guy and you, his regular. Usually one to get chips as a side at a nearby deli, you didn’t order any one evening. He messaged you No chips tonight?

It surprised you, but you brushed it off, telling him you were cutting back on junk food. He dropped off the meal at your door with a knock, but by the time you opened it, he was gone. Sitting at the top of the paper bag was a bag of your favorite chips.

Always one to drop off your food quickly and not stay to chat, you caught him one night to thank him and tip in cash. Since then, you two would talk in your doorway briefly, mostly keeping your friendship to text as you were both busy. After a year of limited in person social interaction, any casual conversation over your threshold was greatly accepted. One day soon you’d venture outside, but with the availability to have nearly everything delivered, you doubted that day would come soon. You just weren’t ready.

Soon you ditched the app and just text him when you wanted dinner and he dropped it off to you. The price for you didn’t change, but gave him some extra. You honestly didn’t know why he chose to deliver food; he was always dressed extremely nicely in name brand clothes and you later found out he has a lucrative position at Stark Industries.

Once you had asked him why he chose to do this, in the literal rain and snow, and he told you that it was something to do. He got bored often and it was better than sitting in a lab all night. He made it seem like he did this for several people, but you didn’t see how he had the time to.

In the middle of scrolling on your phone, there’s a slow delay in registering what you’re seeing. Shaking your head and blinking hard, the sensation didn’t go away. Your body seemed to relax as a deep buzz set in and your body movements sluggish. Bringing the fork up to your mouth for another bite, you missed completely, the rice pilaf dropping onto the table. You tried for another bite and this time succeeded.

Are you... high?

You tasted the mineral chalkiness before you noticed the white powder poorly mixed into your rice pilaf. Brain fuzzy, you tried to analyze the substance. Thinking it strange, you drank from your take out cup of soda to wash it down. It became harder to swallow each sip, but you had already finished half the meal.

A knock at your door echoes through the wood. Each footstep towards the door bounces between your ears. Struggling with the lock, you finally got it open, your legs almost numb and your arms heavy. On the other side of the threshold stands Peter, his hood over his head, eyes assessing you through his lashes as his head angles down.

“Pete?”

You feel his arms around you before the whoosh registers in your head. Blinking hard, you are lying on your back, limbs heavy. Some time must have passed, but you can’t be sure.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered from above you. “I think I gave you too much.”

Struggling to keep your eyes open, a shiver blankets your skin. You let out a whine when your tongue refuses to curl with your words. It lies heavy, your jaw loose as you slur out questions.

“Peter?” You try again. Your question is slurred and there’s a pitched whine to your voice.

“Shhh, this is for your own good.”

“Mmph” you mumble, unsure if you actually feel hurt right now at this moment. Your movements are heavy and slow, like running through water. Your back is against something soft that smells like your fabric softener. Your bed. When did you get here?

“I’ve wanted you for so long. Now I can finally have you.” His hands seem to be frantic as he pulls your shorts from your hips and down your thighs before discarding them. Is he frantic or is this normal speed? His coat is gone and he pulls his hoodie over his head, his shirt stuck inside it. He’s next to you a fraction of a moment later

His warm hands graze your hips as he pulls the oversized shirt off of you, the crack of static electricity sparking from your hair as it's pulled through the collar in your ears. His hand gently rests your head back down on the pillow. You whine again and try to cover your bare chest with your small hands. He notices and pulls them away.

“You’re so beautiful,” he reassures, mistaking your modesty for insecurity. He’s lying on top of you now, chest to chest. The heat of his bare skin as he presses into you, his hands tracing the shape of your waist and hips. He seems to be mesmerized.

“We can’t-” you want to scream, but even you aren’t sure your thoughts matched what came out of your mouth. Your hands try to push him off of you, but he’s too solid, too in control. When that doesn’t work, you slap his chest, but you don’t really feel the impact on your palm. You’re too numb. He grabs your wrist.

“I don’t use my hands to harm and you won’t either.” He says this firmly, eyes locked on yours, but follows up with, “Behave or I’ll have to tie you up so you don’t hurt yourself.” The latter comes out softer, more timid like the Peter you know.

His head dips down as he places sloppy, unpracticed open mouth kisses on your neck and shoulder. Quickly this turns into full sucking. You angle your chin to the side, scanning your nightstand for something, anything to help you. You eye a book, hardcover, heavy hand reaching up to grab for it. Maybe you can hit him hard enough to buy time.

Peter catches your movement and lets out an irritated, though shaky, sigh as it leaves his lips. “What did I say?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, silver device. He grabs both of your arms and places each palm on an iron bar on the headboard before a white, sticky, material shoots from it and seals your hands to it. You pull, but they don’t budge. He tosses it aside and slides down your body as you fight against your restraints.

The cool air brushes against you where your panties were. Vision unfocused, try to reconcile the split image of him and merge it into one. It’s dim in here, but it looks like he has your panties in his fingers as he tosses them aside. He lowers himself to his forearms, eyes never leaving your face. Or you think he’s looking at your face.

His nose brushes against your slit, tentatively, as you flinch. Your tongue is motionless in your mouth, but feels swollen, like it will suffocate you. All the things you want to say are being swallowed in your constricted throat.

His tongue pokes out as you manage to shake your head a fraction bit side to side. It probes your folds, uncertain. It takes him a few attempts, but he seems to find a technique he likes. The flat of his tongue swiping up as he breaks eye contact and his eyes roll back, indulged in the taste of you.

The sight of him enthralled in your most delicate region forces a squeak from you. His eyes snap open and his hands grip your hips a bit harder as he dives his mouth onto you. Seemingly encouraged by your noises and movements.

“You taste so good, baby.” He says, breathless, before he dives back in. Suddenly, his mouth finds your clit and he flicks his tongue against it hard. It’s too much pressure and it has you wriggling, brow furrowed.

He seems to notice this, because he modifies and begins sucking on your clit instead. A shock wave is sent through you, your hips angle up to meet his mouth eagerly. Taking this as a sign to continue, he inserts two fingers inside you, stretching your hole.

Quivering, you try to fight off the orgasm building, thighs clenching his head. He seems superhuman as his fingers never cease their rhythmic curling inside you and his mouth sucks the life from you. Whatever he gave you makes it impossible for you to take deep breaths and the orgasm that drenches your body in sweat steals the air from your lungs. He slows his motions as you ride his fingers and mouth before slowly removing both from you.

He seems proud of himself as he says, “I’ve always wanted to do that to you.” It’s almost endearing, but then you remember you’re drugged and bound.

Stalking you like the prey you are, he crawls up your body and slides his pants and briefs off his hips. He’s already hard as you try to focus your vision on him. Unable to tell how thick he is, you wonder if it will hurt. Perhaps if he caused you pain, your body would snap and find the adrenaline you need to get away. You pull against the bars again, hoping to break free. In the very least, your head lulls side to side in protest.

“I didn’t bring a condom, but we don’t need to worry about that. I’ll always take care of you.” He says, his forearm resting next to your head while his other hand reaches down, lining himself up with you. He pushes forward, breaching your entrance. Removing his hand, it moves to cup your head in his hand, sound muffled as he presses his palm hard against your skull.

Unable to move your head as he cradles it, your eyes flutter, unable to make him out clearly. His eyes penetrate yours, his eyes a deeper brown than you noticed before. His lips are parted as he catches his breath.

He slowly pushes forward, inch by inch. Your wet channel stretches and forms to him as he slips inside you. Despite the heaviness in your limbs and numbing to your skin, you can feel how your body accommodates him. The feeling of him is amplified by his heavy breathing in your ear as he pulls back and slams back into you.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” You try to tune him out, the only thing you really focus on is the wet sound of your slick as he draws more from you. Your body operates on sensation alone and all you can feel is him. He finds a rhythm that seems inhumanly fast as his hips push yours into the mattress harder and harder.

He presses his chest against yours again and you can’t tell whose body temperature is higher. The desire within you builds. Fighting through the haze, you cry out, spine arching off the bed. The fabric is damp beneath your hips and you wish you could be embarrassed by it.

Both of your breaths grow louder, more frantic. On particular thrusts when he tilts his hips. the tick of his cock angles up to hit your g spot, you let out a moan. Encouraged by this, the corner of his mouth lifts into a cocky smile.

“Louder, baby.” He commands breathlessly, seeming to find his courage.

He lifts his chest from yours and kneels, his hands lifting your hips up with him, your ass no longer on the bed. Grabbing for your ankles, hooking your heels over his brawny shoulders, he slams back into you. His forearm wraps around your shins, holding them in place while his opposite fingers find your sensitive clit. Letting out breathless gasps, you can’t catch your breath or restrain your vocal cords. He continues plowing into you, fingers rubbing diagonally, frantically, against you.

“Come for me, Y/N. Soak my cock.” Something about this version of Peter, this feral side of the sweet delivery guy you thought you knew, makes you come again. Eyes rolling back, your lids closing as his hips become frantic. He squeezes your legs like a lifeline as he comes inside you, a loud grunt from above you.

He pulls out of you and lowers your hips to the bed. The euphoria sets in and your taught muscles relax into the bed. Leaning over you and he connects his nose with yours as he catches his breath. You’re both hot, a thin layer of sweat over your skin, but that could be from whatever he gave you. Your shoulders are stiff and you try to tug again on the headboard.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “those will dissolve soon.”

Abruptly, he gets up, wiping his cock against the inside of your panties, before he slips them back on and settles them on your hips. His come drips out of you and into the panties, keeping you wet and reminded of him. How did this happen? You never let anyone inside the safety of your home.

Moments pass as you process this. Faintly, you hear his feet on the carpet before he’s back in your room, sipping on the soda he brought you.

“Thirsty?” He asks and angles the straw to your mouth.

“My shoulders hurt,” you murmur out.

“Then next time don’t fight me. I think you understand that now, don’t you?”

Even without touching you, he is still inside of you. There is a faint pulsing from your clit that radiates down to the soles of your feet. Rhythmic and matches your pulse as you come down. Your arms and thighs goosebump from the chill in the air and you can feel the balloon in your head deflate. But you’re still unable to respond to him so you lie there, surrendering to his power over you.

#dark!peter parker #dark!peter x reader #peter parker #spider-man #inappropriate use of web slinger #dark fic

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anxiously-introverted · 5 years ago

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Can you write a a scene about Will first activating his powers and losing control and El and Mike ( Mike is there cuz it’s the holidays so they’re all visiting eatchother) and maybe Joyce idk and they have to snap him outta it and calm him down? What others powers/other stuff can he do with his electricity?

On top of being able to manipulate electricity, I also like the idea of Will having telepathic powers like El’s. However, instead of being able to enter the minds of people, Will is able to enter, and even control, the minds of the creatures from the Upside Down (such as the Demogorgon).

Here’s the scene I was picturing! Please be aware, Lonnie is a jerk with homophobic views in this and the kids like to swear. Hope you enjoy!

“Why is it that every time something seems to go wrong here nowadays, it’s because of you?” Lonnie snarled, hand twisted into the fabric of Will’s shirt as he cornered his son against the brick wall of the local convenience store. It was cold, wind nipping harshly at Will’s skin as he stared up at his father with wide eyes.

The past few days had been going so well for him. The Party had already had several hangouts and movie nights, trying to spend as much time as possible together before Will and El had to return to their new home in New Mexico. So far, it almost felt as if things hadn’t really changed. Sure, Will still felt that particular pang of hurt when he saw Mike and El showing each other affection. Yeah, there came a certain sting when he heard about how some kid at their school was so great at Dungeons and Dragons, yet the group never wanted to play when Will had been suggesting it. Maybe he did still feel left out when everyone talked relationships while he knew he could never discuss the feelings he had without the others being disgusted.

Perhaps there was still a lot of pains that still rattled him, but the small flashes of happiness with his best friends that made up for it. For the most part, at least.

Yesterday, though, there was a sudden change in the mood. Lonnie Byers had blown into town like a glowering tumbleweed, the news of what happened during the summer making its way back to him after a long delay.

His unstable son, after going in and out of a lab that was eventually shut down permanently, had also been involved in a huge incident at the mall which resulted in it being destroyed. There was gossip of Russians and the disappearance of the chief of police.

He insisted that he would’ve come sooner to see Will, if only Joyce had given him their new address. He told Will he’d been so worried, that he didn’t know what to think when he’d gotten random bills from the lab and the hospital. He assured that had he’d known everything that had been happening, he would’ve been here. But, he said, he was here now.

He said he wanted to know what was going on.

He said he wanted to help.

Will felt like a fool for believing him.

“It wasn’t bad enough that you had to be a dirty little queer,” Lonnie said with curled lips, as if the taste of bile came up with the word. “But now I’ve got people around here sayin’ my kid was moved to a looney bin outta state, locked up with the other bleeding hearts and crazies. You have any idea how goddamn humiliating it is to have the town freak as my son?”

Tears stung at Will’s eyes, though he refused to let them fall. He tried blinking them away, hazel eyes clearing up the blur minimally as he tried to retort, “Why do you care? You don’t even live here anymore! I don’t even live here anymore!” He was shaking, he was struggling. He felt like he was in a cage with a lock that was on the verge of breaking.

“Oh, so it’s fine to turn your family into a fucking joke?!” Lonnie snapped. “Not to mention all the damn bills that keep flooding in from the hospital. You have any idea how much money-“

“All you care about is money!” Will cut in angrily, fear and frustration coming out in a rage that had been smothered and repressed for as long as he could remember. His chest felt like it was burning, his head feeling weightless and as if a boulder rested on it all at once. The building resentment paced in his mind like a tiger in an enclosure two sizes too small. “I know about how you tried to sue Sattler after the funeral! I know you only cared about making some quick money before ditching mom and Jonathan all over again!”

For a brief instant, there was shock on Lonnie’s face. He had never heard his son, embarrassingly weak and shamefully reserved Will, speak to him with such venom. If he weren’t so pissed, he may have felt proud. Instead, Lonnie hatefully shot back, “That money would’ve done us a hell of a lot more good than what you’ve been doing! Meltdown after meltdown, disaster after disaster, not once have you ever dealt with any of this like a man! That money wouldn’t have ruined this family’s reputation, and it wouldn’t have dragged us to the brink of debt!”

Hotter, hotter, hotter, there may as well have been lava in his veins. Will felt more and more tears gathering in his eyes, hatred for himself and the man in front of him strangling his heart with barbed wire. There were so many things he wanted to scream. It wasn’t his fault the Demogorgon came after him; it wasn’t his fault the Mind Flayer haunted him every day until eventually robbing him of his autonomy; it wasn’t his fault Billy and the others were possessed, nor were the deaths or the destruction of StarCourt his fault. He didn’t want any of it to happened, he didn’t mean for any of it to happen. All he wanted was to forget, to move on, to start a new chapter-

“It would’ve been better for everyone if you just stayed dead!”

A tear broke free, gliding down his cheek. The lock on the cage broke and Will raged.

In the Wheeler’s basement, Mike looked at the clock hanging on the wall for the fifth time within the hour. His worry and agitation was palpable, setting the other Party members on edge. El rested a gentle hand on the other’s arm, commenting, “I’m sure he’s alright, Mike.”

“They should’ve come back by now,” the teen insisted, his brown eyes flicking worriedly to hers. “Something must have happened.”

“He’s just out with his dad, Mike. What could happen?” Max asked, looking up with a raised brow from where she was playing cards with Dustin and Lucas.

Mike shook his head, “You don’t know his dad, Max. He’s… He’s a major asshole. He’s been a dick to Will since elementary school.”

“He’s right,” Lucas said, his lips twisting into a frown as memories came to mind. “He would yell at him, call him all sorts of names. And that was just what he did in front of us.”

El’s face pinched into a look of concern at the information. She knew Lonnie was a sore subject for the Byers family, but she thought perhaps it was just the bitter aftertaste of a bad fight or the awkward hurt that had settled after the divorce. Asking questions wasn’t really an option, she felt as though it wasn’t her place to go digging into old wounds. Not to mention that Will had seemed off for what seemed like days, perhaps even weeks, now.

She now wishes she had learned more about her new family.

Mike stood with a hardened expression and said, “I’m going to go find him.”

“I’ll come with you,” El said, coming up from her spot on the couch as well.

“Do you need us to come with you?” Dustin asked, his head popping up from where he was laying on the floor.

“We should be fine. We’ll radio you if we need help, but stay here in case my mom asks where I am,” Mike said, putting one of the radios into his sweatshirt’s pocket. With that, he and El made their way up the stairs and out of the house.

The sky was overcast with flashes of blue.

No words would be sufficient to describe the way Mike felt as he took in the scene before him. Lonnie lay on the ground, clutching his upper arm as he stared with petrified eyes at Will. His skin looked burned, almost charred, as if struck with a bolt of unbridled energy.

And Will…

Screams of anguish, rage, heartbreak; the cries of one who’s been broken one too many times cut through the air like a razor. His eyes were alight with electric energy, his irises turned dark despite the flashes of neon blue crackling out of them and emanating from the rest of his body as if he were an overpowered battery. The very air around had turned to static, almost burning with the intensity.

One by one, shop windows began to rattle, crack, and break. Street lights flashed in bursts of blinding light, the hum of constant electricity humming through them like a chorus. The sky above them rumbled, almost gurgling on the blue energy being blasted into and out of it. Veins of blue and black danced along Will’s body, a sickening tango of power intermingled with overwhelming grief.

Lonnie screamed, “Fucking monster! He’s a fucking monster!”

Another bolt shot out at Lonnie, but he managed to roll out of the way just in time for it to strike and scorch the ground beside him. The man yelped as he accidentally put pressure onto his injury, his legs scrambling to get him up onto his feet.

El could relate all too well to the scene in front of her. The lack of control, the surge of emotions, feeling as though you had all the power in the world and yet none at all. She looked at Will screaming, sobbing, breaking, and saw herself. She could see the steady stream of crimson pouring from his nose, pouring like a faucet as his body poured his very soul into the outburst around him. It was so familiar, she could almost feel the blood on her own lip.

Willing her voice to be steady, she called out, “Will! It’s me! It’s Eleven!” Screaming broke into choppy outbursts before stopping, as if an old engine were struggling to stop. The scratch and catch in Will’s throat could be heard from where the pair stood. Mike snapped himself from his reverie, following El’s lead, “Will, it’s Mike! Listen, it’s-“

“Do not say it’s going to be okay!” Will rasped, heat and venom seeping through the hurt. “Nothing’s okay now and nothing’s ever going to be fucking okay!” There was a pulse of more intense energy, as if a second kick jolted within the brunette and poured out as even more strands of tangled lightning.

“Will, please, what’s going on? You can tell us. We want to help you!” El continued, brow furrowed as she watched the boy struggle. “But first, you have to calm down!”

“Calm down? Calm down?!” The enraged teen demanded, electricity crackling. “I’ve been told to calm down for the past three years! And it never. Fucking. Helps!” Two more bolts shot out, one striking the brick wall behind him, another striking a lamp post and shattering the bulb with the surge.

“Then tell us what will help!” Mike pleaded, taking a small step forward. “Tell us what you need, Will!”

“It-it,” Will struggled, gripping his hair tightly with white knuckles. “Why do you care? Just-Just stop pretending! Stop acting like I matter to you!”

El shifted toward Will, her hands lowered and body language open. “We’re not pretending! We care about you, Will. All we want is for you to be okay.”

“You want me dead!” Will screamed, though his energy was dipping. “You all wish I had died in that quarry! You all wish I never came back!”

“That’s not true!” Mike said, fire coming back to his voice. “We never wanted to give up on you! Seeing your body coming out of the water, the funeral… It killed us, Will! It killed me!” The crack in the dark haired teen’s voice seemed to dim the intensity of the light coming from Will. “When we found out you were still alive, when El was able to contact you, it meant the world to us. It was… Will, do you remember what I told you that day in the shed? Do you remember what the best decision I ever made was?”

Only the quiet crackling of electricity broke the silence.

“It was becoming your friend, Will,” Mike said, taking two more steps forward. “That decision changed my life for the better. You made my life better, Will. You make all of our lives better. Please, Will, believe me.”

El stepped forward as well, coming closer with small steps as she added, “You help us, Will. You helped me at school, with my homework. You took me to the movies, made us waffles, put up with shopping with me. You took care of me. Let us take care of you.”

With a shuddering breath and a heartbroken tremble, the lighting died away and Will fell forward, angry blue and black veins disappearing as he landed into the gentle and loving arms of his sister and the boy he’s loved in secret for years.

For the first time since 1983, Will Byers felt safe.

#stranger things #stranger things season 4 #will byers #byler #mike wheeler #eleven #el hopper

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holy-fate-worse-than-death · 6 years ago

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Red has a new chapter!

Chapter 12 is here! Have a preview!

Content Warnings:

Graphic depictions of violence, canon-typical violence, swearing, blood, injuries, life-threatening injuries

***

It’s been two days since Damian woke up. Two days, and Bruce has already ditched Gotham again.

Jason’s in the grounds of Wayne Manor when it happens.

He’s perched on top of the roof of the garage, doing a handstand, with Dick by his side. They’re precariously close to the edge, and Alfred has told them off four times already for being up there. Don’t you think you’re setting a bad example for your brothers, Master Dick, Jason mimicked in his head, Must you spend all your time on the rooftops, Master Jason. But Alfred’s words hadn’t had the same bite to them that they usually had when he was ripping into them for something (not that Jason had been on the receiving end of that for many years). There’d been a softness in his eyes, a look of understanding. Jason was pretty sure he was the only one who’d caught it – that it had been intended for him, even.

He still wasn’t used to that feeling. Standing on his hands, shirtless, like some frat boy on the garage roof of his childhood home, trying to outlast his older brother in a vain and juvenile contest, he had the distinct sensation that people wanted him there. The soft look in Alfred’s eyes, Tim’s laughter as he looked up from his laptop by the pool every so often. The way even Damian had to shoot him a smirk once or twice as he goaded Dick with the best insults he could muster.

Truth was, Jason was doing it for that last part: for Damian’s sly little smirk. They spent so much time being teammates, tentative allies, or enemies, they hardly knew what having a brother was like. Tim’s words echoed in Jason’s head as he felt the blood finally starting to pulse in his ears a little, He’s not here half the time anymore!

Jason was just beginning to contemplate packing it in and climbing down. He was thinking that maybe he’d feign exhaustion, flop to the ground and place a hand over his forehead. You’ve bested me, oh great Nightwing! he’d say, and he’d get another contented little laugh out of Tim, and Nightwing would somersault off the roof effortlessly, landing a gentle kick in Jason’s ribs before helping him up. With any luck, his older counterpart might even be smiling.

They’d hardly spoken a word since that night in the Cave – when he’d promised Dick he’d stay – but Jason was pretty sure Dick knew what game he was playing at. As if on cue, Dick cocked his head slightly, sparing a glance towards the pool and indicating that Jason do the same. Jason followed his brother’s gaze, their hands almost grazing where they were braced on the tiled roof. And sure enough, Dick’s eyes were on Damian. The kid was smiling again, shirtless and soaking up the sun, though his torso was still bandaged. His cat (another Alfred) was curled on his lap, enjoying the soft heat of the day as well.

“You’re doing good here,” Dick said pensively, letting out what might have been a sigh.

The acrobat readjusted his stance then, and now his hand brushed Jason’s. Were they in some stupid teen movie, Jason might have thought it was accidental; a little static shock brought between them by happenstance. But Jason knew Dick was the most precise and coordinated man in the city – maybe even the world. Somehow that made it better, knowing that Dick had meant to touch him like that.

“His mom would be pissed if I wasn’t,” Jason admitted sheepishly, turning his head fully away from Dick’s now so that he could only see Damian and Tim.

That’s when they saw it. The familiar green glow of energy from a Green Lantern’s ring, rising up from the tree-line at the edge of the Manor’s lawns like a great bubble. From Jason and Dick’s vantage point they could just make out a few other figures within the emerald orb, one of which took on the uncanny silhouette of a bat.

Jason and Dick immediately turned to look at each other. Dick’s pupils were blown a little wider than usual, and his face was flushed from standing upside-down for so long. It reminded Jason a little of the kiss they’d shared that night when they’d thought Damian was going to die, and he chastised himself for even thinking about that. Right now, Dick’s mouth was nothing but a thin line of concern.

They shared a synchronised nod and then they were both somersaulting off the roof gracefully, neither of them making a sound as their bare feet connected with the sealed concrete of the Manor’s rear driveway.

Dick locked eyes with Tim almost immediately, who was already shoving his commlink in his ear and typing furiously on his laptop.

Alfred was behind them in an instant, saying something like, “Master Bruce would like you all to know he’ll be out on League business for a few days.”

Jason didn’t really hear him though, the buzzing in his head drowning out the butler’s words as he sought out Damian’s gaze. The boy had been petting the cat in his lap, but now his hand had stilled; the only indication that something might be bothering him.

After an acceptable period, Damian gently scooped up the cat from his lap and deposited it on his shoulders. He stood carefully, but even so, he winced a little. Before Jason could think he was crossing the lawn to the pool area, padding over the warm, smooth tiles in his tracksuit pants.

Then he was helping Damian up, even as the boy protested with an acid tongue.

“I’m not an invalid, Hood,” Damian hissed, shoving Jason away.

Jason bit down the bile he felt at the use of that name when he wasn’t wearing the helmet or armour. He thought about how he’d called Dick Nightwing two nights ago though, and promptly decided that, all things considered, he probably deserved whatever low-blows were about to come his way.

Damian had stretched his ribs too far when he’d shoved Jason, and now he fell back down on the sun bed he’d been sitting on and winced.

“You’ll be healed within the week,” Jason assured him, his tone colder than he’d meant it.

Jason was still god-awful at talking about the Lazarus Pit and all of the effects it had had on himself – let alone on his younger brother – and he was sure Damian could hear it in his voice.

But if his youngest counterpart noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took to staring at Jason’s feet like they were the most interesting things he’d ever seen. Jason wondered if the kid was thinking to himself, Seriously, how did he manage to get a bullet wound in his foot?

“Damian,” Jason tried again when the boy made no other attempt to move or respond to him.

Jason could feel eyes on him – Dick’s and Tim’s – and it made him unsure of himself. He found himself crouching down until he and Damian were the same height, and he carefully leaned back onto his haunches so that he wasn’t crowding the kid.

“Look,” he said, dropping his voice so that the other birds couldn’t hear him, “You just have to let your body do its thing, okay, kid?”

Damian didn’t say anything, but eventually he nodded. Jason just sat there for a while, as Tim caught Dick up on the Justice League case that Bruce was working. Something off-world, apparently, and Dick seemed pretty convinced that Alfred’s estimate of a few days had been on the low side. Jason knew Damian could hear all of this too, and that he knew what that meant.

After a while, Damian spoke. His voice held a familiar quietness, the kind that the League of Assassins drilled into you. It wasn’t a whisper, it was decibels lower than that. To the untrained ear it would have sounded like Damian had just exhaled a particularly long breath.

“Red Robin can’t go out on his own tonight,” the boy said, his words for Jason and Jason alone.

Behind the boy’s black-haired head, stretched out on a sun bed, Dick was already talking about the case he’d be working in Blüdhaven tonight. Under different circumstances Jason might have been mad at his older counterpart, but how could he be? Dick’s perfectly chiselled abs were on full display, the only thing covering his body a pair of tiny cotton pool shorts. They were pink, which Jason had heckled him about earlier. Dick had dipped his mouth towards Jason’s ear and whispered you sure you don’t like them? and Jason had felt his whole face go red. Dick had made a tiny huff of pleasure before traipsing away.

“Well,” Jason said, smiling now and standing upright.

He held his hands out for Damian, who took them carefully and allowed Jason to steady him as he eased himself to his feet. Alfred the cat was still draped lazily around his neck, and Jason reached out to give the creature an idle pet. That seemed to earn some brownie-points with Damian. Encouraged, Jason continued, a little twinkle in his eye:

“It’s a good thing the Red Hood’s in town then, isn’t it?”

Red Hood and Red Robin fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Their combat manoeuvres were perfectly synchronised even with only one fight under their collective belts. Jason felt like he could do anything beside Tim, and the electricity in the air told him that his younger counterpart felt the same.

Hell, I haven’t even called him ‘replacement’ once tonight, Jason thought to himself as he crouched on the gargoyle of a building in Park Row. It was his old haunt – his oldest – and Tim hadn’t protested when he suggested they start their patrol there. Jason figured Tim knew he was from here; Tim knew everything. According to Dick, his stalking of the Bat-clan had begun even before Jason’s untimely demise.

Tim couldn’t have been older than Damian then, and Jason thought briefly of his own youth. In his mind’s eye he saw himself on his knees just a block north of here, the hood of his jumper pulled up over his head as he frantically unscrewed one of the Batmobile’s hubcaps. He still remembered the rush in his belly when Bruce had caught him, those hideous fangs Bruce called teeth curling upward into what should have been a blood-curdling smile.

Jason wondered if Tim had felt the same way, taking his little pictures of the three of them – Batman, Robin and Nightwing. He figured the kid probably did, because once you got a taste you couldn’t go back – not really.

Click, click, click.

Tim’s spy-sized bat-camera clicked a few times and then he was adjusting the lens with a green-gloved hand, zooming in.

Tim sat on the gargoyle next to him, his long black cape draped around it and encircling them both so that he was nothing but a shadow on Gotham’s murky horizon. The smog dimmed the moon tonight, as it always did, but it suited them both that way – suited their work.

They were doing their due diligence, as Tim had put it, by standing vigil in the very heart of Park Row for another fourteen minutes exactly. Tim liked schedules and had spent the ride here recalculating his to suit Jason’s preferred route.

“We’ll take Park Row first,” Jason had said, because that’s where it always felt right to start patrols.

If he was being honest with himself, it made him feel closer to Batman. Not to Bruce, but to the heart of who Batman really was. Jason had slowed the car down as they drove past that fateful spot, and Tim had asked him why. There had been a true innocence in his voice, so Jason had said, “thought I saw something” and kept driving.

“Still can’t believe we’re taking the Batmobile,” he’d muttered after that, shaking his head even as his hands gripped the car’s tactical steering column.

Jason was pretty sure he still remembered what all the buttons did, but he’d probably double-check with Tim before he touched anything anyway. The kid had been using the car’s onboard computer system but now he looked up, furrowing his brow.

“Two sweeps of Park Row?” he’d inquired.

“Yep,” Jason had replied, “One at the start of the shift and one at the end.”

Tim had paused for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. Then he’d just murmured, “God knows the place needs it.”

Now Tim was rattling off the rest of their itinerary, “… Midtown via the hospital and the university, then into the Diamond District through The Narrows, followed by a quick loop around Toxic Acres and- are you sure you want to go right through the main street of Chinatown?”

“Mm-hm,” Jason hummed.

When Tim didn’t look convinced he nodded down at the alley below, their gazes both falling on the now-parked batmobile.

“In that car?” he said shortly.

“Draws a lot of attention,” Tim murmured.

To which Jason countered, “It also scares most of the petty crims away.”

Tim didn’t argue with him after that and finished listing all the places they’d hit. When he finally wrapped up he said, “It’s better when we can delegate and give everyone their own beat.”

“Beat,” Jason laughed, hopping nimbly off his gargoyle to stretch his legs before they went numb. “You sound like a cop.”

He snorted when Tim turned to level a glare at him.

“Or Dick Grayson,” Tim said hotly, his voice lowering a little as though he were scared someone would hear him.

Jason tossed the kid’s conclusion around in his head for a moment. It was true, Nightwing was the vigilante who most resembled a cop out of all of them, and that was the part he played in his daily life. But Jason wasn’t so sure that was true of Dick Grayson, not deep down, and Jason knew from experience that no Robin was a cop.

“Maybe he’ll arrest daddy for all the breakin’ and enterin’ he does,” Jason finally quipped back as he bent down to touch his toes.

He was in the middle of readjusting his domino mask – which still felt a little alien on his face, especially with the shit that passed for adhesive these days. Tim had explained that it was resistant to most commercial and industrial solvents and was only compatible with the kind kept in the Batcave and at the various League headquarters around the country. It meant that no villain with a little chemistry know-how could compromise their secret identities, but the stuff smelled like a tyre fire.

“Shit,” Tim said emphatically, and Jason was immediately on his feet.

He crossed the roof and stood just behind Tim’s perch on the gargoyle. Tim was looking through his bat-noculars and frantically trying to chase something a few blocks in the distance.

“What?” Jason barked, and Tim shot him a frankly terrified look before handing the binoculars over.

It took Jason a moment of frantic searching to find Tim’s target down the street. When he did, he found himself unexpectedly smiling.

“Look,” Jason began, eyeing the tension in his younger counterpart’s shoulders and jaw.

Jason felt his brow furrowing in confusion as he noticed how Tim was white-knuckling the gargoyle beneath him, how his legs trembled just slightly from how tight he was clenching his whole body.

“I know you got a history with KC,” he continued, “But Waylon’s not the monster you think he is.”

“No,” Tim hissed, snatching the bat-noculars back from Jason’s hands, “You idiot, didn’t you see what he was carrying?”

Jason hadn’t seen Croc carrying anything. In the brief moment he’d seen Croc, he’d been poking his head out the door of an abandoned building, like he was concerned about being followed. Jason supposed that it was their city, so they should go and at least ask the big guy what was happening, but the panic in Tim’s voice seemed unfounded.

Tim took Jason’s silence as a ‘no’ and blurted, “He was carrying R- Arsenal. Unconscious.”

Jason’s eyes widened, but even as concern for his friend coiled itself deep in his gut he stared at Tim’s hands, the way they were shaking around the bat-noculars. He hadn’t known that Red Robin and Arsenal had met, let alone were on a first name basis. Something in Tim’s shattered expression caused Jason to push his questions away though, and in a heartbeat, he was springing into action, already about to leap off the roof and down into the alley were the batmobile was lying out of sight.

“Go!” he shouted at Tim, hoping the frantic scurry across the rooftops to Roy’s position would focus the boy somewhat. “I’ll bring the car around.”

The tyres of the batmobile came to a screeching halt in front of the boarded-up apartment building not a minute later. Tim hit the ground in front of the car at a run, staff already out, and Jason was barely a second behind, leaping out of the batmobile’s rooftop hatch and scarcely remembering to lock the thing behind him.

He was out without a gun again tonight, but Damian had quietly tucked his sword – Talia’s sword – into the backseat of the batmobile. Jason had seen him do it, of course, and they’d shared barely a second of eye contact before Damian was disappearing into the shadows of the Cave and making his way back to his bed upstairs. In that brief moment, Jason had looked stern, he knew – which was no doubt why Damian had made a beeline back to his bed – but he hadn’t been able to help it. On the one hand, he wanted to tell Damian that the blade was too long, too gaudy, and completely impractical for the kind of close-quarters combat that Gotham vigilantes were so often faced with. But on the other, Jason was being bestowed with a family heirloom; a trusted and irreplaceable possession from the woman who had trained them both.

Jason grabbed the sword from the backseat as he leapt out of the car and pounded up the stairs of the duplex after Tim.

By the time he was inside he had it slung snugly across his back, and the loud “FUCK!” he heard echo through the gutted building made him draw it from its sheath.

It was Roy’s voice – that distinct Star City accent he’d picked up in his many years there as Speedy clear as day – and Jason felt panic rise up into his throat like the green bubble that had carried Batman away earlier that afternoon.

He approached with Damian’s sword clasped firmly in both hands, holding it in a proper stance that he knew Roy would make fun of him for if he had all of his senses.

Another scream told Jason he didn’t, and he heard a heated exchange between Roy and Tim.

“Don’t you fucking touch it, Red,” Roy hissed, then groaned in pain again.

Jason rounded a pile of debris – an old TV, a couch that was so old it was practically decomposing, and a stack of chairs piled to the sky. When he got around it, the pair finally came into view.

“You have to let me take it out, Roy,” Tim was saying flatly, his voice conveying none of the panic Jason had seen in him on the rooftop a minute ago.

Roy was stretched out on an old kitchen countertop, the only thing left standing in the entire apartment by the looks of it. His hat was missing, and his orange hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were open; wild and manic, and his whole body was bucking off the table in pain.

In his abdomen, the lone, red spine of one of his own arrows stuck out of his flesh.

Jason had sheathed his sword and swept across the room in an instant, and then his hand was on Roy’s forehead, sweeping his hair out of his eyes.

“T-thanks, Jaybird,” the archer replied weakly, his eyes fluttering shut.

The fact that he didn’t even have the wits to be surprised that Jason was working with Red Robin in Gotham was terrifying, but what was worse was how much blood had already pooled on the counter below him.

“You need a hospital!” Tim exclaimed shrilly, bandages and gauze appearing from nowhere in the kid’s hands as he applied pressure around the arrow.

Roy howled in pain and Jason silently wished he had a gun strapped to his leg to grip onto, or to put the handle of it in Roy’s mouth so he had something to bite down on.

So, he took his combat knife off his belt and tried to put the thing between Roy’s teeth, a weapon that had been between both their teeth numerous times before when anaesthesia wasn’t an option.

But Roy wrenched his head away, arching away from Jason until he was curled up on his side, facing Tim.

“They’re still coming for us,” the archer managed to grit out.

Jason saw his eyes close and his breathing grow more laboured, like it always did right before he threw up. Instinctively, Jason rounded the table and put his hands on Red Robin’s shoulders, gently peeling the boy away just in time to avoid getting puke on his shoe. Roy looked up at him with what might have been gratitude, and Jason snatched a piece of clean gauze from Tim’s hands to wipe at Roy’s mouth.

“Who’s still coming for you?” Jason asked as he folded the gauze over and patted it against Roy’s forehead.

Jason could hear Tim behind him, the boy’s breath whistling hard and fast through his nose. There was a history here. Jason didn’t know what, but he knew that he was the only poor sucker in the room who was used to seeing the people he loved on their deathbeds. Tim, on the other hand, was losing it.

“Some guns Waller hired to track down KC after he escaped,” Roy managed to say.

Then the idiot tried to sit up and Jason and Tim both had to wrestle him back down onto the bench.

“He needs to go to the Cave,” Tim said meekly, the shrillness from earlier still tweaking his voice an octave or so higher.

“Not until it’s done,” Roy growled, anger streaking across his face like a great jolt of pain (which was probably what caused his sudden outburst).

“But what if you die,” Tim was saying, his voice barely more than a gasp, and then Roy was looking at Jason pleadingly, with the ghost of something else between his eyes that Jason would have to piece together later.

“Where’s Croc?” he asked instead, cocking his head over his shoulder at Tim.

Suddenly Jason felt bad about being between the two men, so he extricated himself and shunted Tim closer with a hand on his counterpart’s flank. Tim took up the position easily, one of his hands reaching for Roy’s face and then withdrawing it immediately. Roy shot a look at Jason that said don’t do this now, but Jason knew that Tim’s hesitation hadn’t been because of Jason’s prying eyes; Tim’s hands were covered in blood, and he didn’t want to smear it all over Roy’s already bloodied body.

“Checking the perimeter,” Roy finally answered.

Jason was turning on his heel and stalking out of the room before anyone could say another word. He turned so sharply he thought that if he wore a cape it would have snapped in the air. He felt like Batman, especially when he called orders to Tim back over his shoulder, “Get him behind that bench and keep him alive,” he was saying, then shouting as he took off at a sprint down what remained of the apartment building’s hallway, “And stay in radio contact!”

The ensuing firefight was hellish. Never in his life had Jason enjoyed a fight less. Croc fought valiantly beside him, tanking bullets like they were raindrops, while Jason dodged out of the way with the grappling gun he’d taken out of storage at the Cave. If he wasn’t going to be shooting anybody, he needed an extra element of surprise.

He dropped down on the men one-by-one, like Batman… if Batman carried a sword. He knocked them unconscious, mostly, smashing the hilt of Damian’s sword into a lot of brainstems and slicing a lot of ankles. When he broke the first guy’s jaw with a well-placed punch and his machine gun clamoured to the ground, Jason had to grind his teeth together to keep himself from picking it up.

He thought of Roy in the next room, bleeding out and probably dead, and then he thought of Tim. Tiny Tim, the one who’d cried into his chest for hours that night in the Cave. Tim who was so opposed to death and who had such a righteousness in his heart that he’d chosen to be Robin in a way that no one else ever had. He imagined Tim cradling Roy in his arms as he died, and Jason tossed the machine gun down the jaws of a mouth made of jagged floorboards that opened up into the basement.

He slammed his boot into the throat of the next one, knocking him clean out. He sliced at the arms of some of the others, brought the tip of Damian’s sword up to the neck of one in particular who had spat an insult at him. He was so close to doing it that his hands shook, but then Croc was smashing an end table over the guy’s head and that was the last of them.

Jason’s suit was nicked with cuts and scrapes and he could feel bruises forming everywhere on his chest. He could barely breathe, sucking in air like he was drowning, and Croc swayed on his feet. But Jason couldn’t rest – didn’t dare.

Instead, he was sprinting along the length of the apartment block, leaping over piles of debris and bodies without a second thought – he figured the cops would be here soon anyway. Croc was hot on his heels, and Jason came to a screeching halt halfway to the apartment where he’d left Roy and Tim.

He turned to Croc and barked, “Go find someplace to lay low, I’ll know how to contact you when I know something.”

Croc was looking at him with the eyes of a predator, adrenaline (or whatever crocodile men had) no doubt still pumping through his veins. His fists clenched and then relaxed, and Jason took that as agreement.

But he stepped towards the prehistoric man anyway, lowering his voice and holding Croc’s gaze firmly.

“I will not let him die,” Jason promised, even as he imagined Roy dead as he spoke those words.

It’s what Batman would say – what Robin would say – he realised, and he silently cursed the ghost he could never quite escape.

But that ghost seemed to comfort Croc somehow, and then they were peeling their eyes off each other and running in separate directions down the hall.

When Jason reached Roy and Tim’s room, Tim was already hauling an unconscious and pale Roy to his feet.

“Think I stopped the bleeding,” the kid muttered, his suit covered in blood from his collar to his boots.

Tim grunted as he slung one of Roy’s arms around his shoulders and Jason was struck by how small Tim was – how young. Roy wasn’t even six foot and Tim could still barely lift him, and the archer was on the light side as far as superheroes went.

“Here, let me,” Jason offered, reaching out his arms and getting ready to carry Roy bridal-style – not for the first time in their long and gory history.

“No!” Tim growled, the strength in his voice surprising Jason.

With another strained grunt, Tim somehow managed to haul the older ex-sidekick into his arms. He looked possessive and he was fuming. Jason wondered if it was because he’d missed out on the fight, missed out on getting a chance to crack the skulls of the people who’d done this to Roy – who Tim apparently cared so much about.

Jason took point on their way out the front door, not even bothering to draw his sword so that he could unlock the batmobile faster. He could hear sirens in the distance now, drawing nearer, and he urged Tim onwards with a short, “Quick.”

“I know,” Tim grumbled, allowing Jason to help him hoist Roy’s limp body into the back of the batmobile.

“Get in the back and keep an eye on him,” Jason was saying as he leapt into the front seat and took the steering column in his hands.

Tim seemed grateful for the direction and his eyes started to come back into focus somewhat then. He kept one finger on Roy’s pulse and lifted the other up to his radio, where he hailed Alfred on the comms and warned him to be prepared for triage.

Jason was glad they were still so close to home, and was thinking about saying, see, this is why you visit Crime Alley twice, when Roy began to stir.

Jason put his foot to the ground then, which caused the batmobile to blast past everything in its way. The other cars on the road were a blur, the buildings were a blur, and if Jason hadn’t known this route so well that it was muscle memory, he might have taken a wrong turn.

Roy was murmuring something, and Jason strained his ears to hear it.

“Kori…” he managed to say, his breath ragged and catching on fluid in his throat. Probably blood, Jason thought grimly. “Went back to Tamaran,” the archer finished, and Jason felt his stomach sink on his friend’s behalf.

For a moment, stuck in the cramped batmobile with Red Robin between himself and Roy, Jason felt like he and his best friend were the only two people in the world. He thought about their crashed ship, and their little tropical island, and wished that Roy had been allowed to die there in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” Jason breathed after he wrenched the steering column again.

It was the second last turn he’d have to make, the last one being onto the side road that led to the Batcave. Now they had about two minutes to sit and pray as they crossed the bridge out of Uptown and towards the mainland where the Manor stood alone in its fields.

Some air escaped Roy’s lungs that Jason thought might have been the poor guy trying to laugh, and when he spoke next, he had a smile in his voice.

“Don’t be, Jaybird,” he breathed, and Jason heard a shifting sound as Roy and Tim rearranged their limbs on the backseat.

Jason caught a glance of what they were doing in the rear-view mirror and his heart shattered right there. Not two days ago Jason had seen Tim hold Damian’s hand the same way, and now the seventeen-year-old was being put through it all over again. Only this time… Well, as Roy put it:

“Be sorry if this one ever leaves me.”

And then Roy was smiling, and his eyes were closing, and Jason was easing up on the accelerator to make it safely past the Cave’s waterfall. Jason and Tim both held their breaths as the car dove through the curtain of water, like if they didn’t they’d drown in it.

Drown in blood’s more like it, Jason thought darkly as he slammed on the brakes and opened the roof in the same movement.

Tim rocketed out of the car in an instant, already barking a description of Roy’s injuries and relevant medical info at Alfred, who was already clad in gloves and a surgical mask.

Jason made short work of hauling Roy out of the car. He sprinted down the hall to the med-bay and was assaulted by a not-so-distant memory of carrying Damian down here the same way only a few nights ago.

Jason felt panic rise in his chest, and thoughts that he’d been trying so hard to keep hidden started to rise to the surface. This job is too dangerous, the weak voice that had reared its ugly head after his resurrection said. I won’t be here to watch them die.

Jason put Roy in a different room to the one that had held Damian, just to make it feel like this was somehow different than that night had been. Sure, Damian hadn’t died, but Jason knew deep down that the Lazarus Pit had determined that; not his own fortitude or some cosmic luck. And Roy didn’t have any powers, not even the Lazarus Pit to give him a boost.

Jason didn’t realise he was crying – might not have been – until he was shouting at Tim. He’d meant to bark out an order the way Bruce would have, but he just wasn’t that fucking strong.

“Go clean that blood off you,” he snarled, ignoring the way Tim’s own eyes were brimming with tears, “and bring me everything you’ve got on Amanda Waller.”

***

Read the whole fic here!

#fanfic #fanfiction #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction #batfam fanfiction #batfam fanfic #jaydick #royxtim #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #roy harper #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #killer croc

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neveriayan-blog · 6 years ago

Text

The Next Chapter 1: Kiss to Win

(Spring. Rex visits Noah at the college fair.)

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Noah was a crazy guy.

As in a non-skilled, untrained, non-official Providence agent who still rushed head-long into battles as Rex's sidekick –kind-of way.

Okay, okay, so to be fair, in the six years Rex had known him, he had to admit Noah Nixon had some mad skills at table tennis, basketball, console games, and was a natural with a machine gun.

They've come a long way from those days of fighting EVOs, and tackling the Consortium and other crazy wackos who tapped into advanced machine warfare.

But over the last three years Noah had been in college, Rex found himself surprised by the new things he learned about his best bud.

Like A: Noah –at about five foot ten –has added 'the shortest basketball star to ever dominate his college' to his resume, since the rest of the players were all over six foot like Rex.

B: He has accumulated fans of nearly everyone on campus since his debut as Romeo in his end-of-year drama assessment during his freshman year.

And C: He's the number-one guy on campus whom girls want to kiss.

The long line of female fans at Noah's kissing booth was utterly ridiculous, especially since they each had to pay five bucks for a peck. Although Rex never went to college, and so didn't know about the different social ladders, he was pretty sure that there were ladies of all social statuses eyeing for his lips.

From the regular, average chicks or plus sized ones in simple skirts or jeans and plain tops, to athletic ones in their sneakers, or cute, petite types, and even the mega bombshells –Noah was like the bachelor of every girl's dream.

Someone should really make it illegal to cheat girls out of a kiss, even if it was for fund raising for the school. It really wasn't fair since Noah was obviously getting the better end of the deal. Or maybe Rex just thought that way because he was just jealous. It annoyed him that he never got any kisses for rewards even though he had saved countless of girls –much less get paid.

Here Rex Salazar, the world's greatest hero, who'd saved the world time and time again, entered the campus compounds without a single note of fanfare. One would think the Master Nanite Controller, who'd miraculously deactivated Nanites world over, would be recognized without his trademark nanite builds.

But no, without them, he was just another ordinary guy who couldn't compare to Noah. Jeez, at least it would have been great if Rex's handsome looks could command at least some attention.

When Noah told him about the kissing booth Rex gallantly decided not to crash in with his full nanite sleekness. Hence, he'd opted for a less flashy entrance, ditching his hover-bike outside the campus entrance, before coming in like a regular guy. But seeing Noah now with a throng of free kisses, he was starting to see green, and wondered if he should have dropped in on the middle of the fair with his jet pack instead.

Rex had trouble keeping his face expressionless as he closed the remaining yards across the large quadrangle where the campus fair was held. He weaved in between knots of people grouped together in front of other booths that held less interesting activities.

There were classic games like ring toss, shooting bottles, spin-a-wheel –all designed to leech the money out of people's pockets since those set ups were probably rigged such that the visitor would never win no matter how many times they try.

Still, the visitors, who looked around his age –probably most of them being college students themselves – seemed game to try. Animated chanter and cheers filled the place, with everyone lively and looking like they were having fun.

"You're late, Rex!" Noah yelled when Rex was a few steps from him and waved him over to his booth, where his next words were gobbled up by the lips of his newest customer.

Rex made a face at the garish red lipstick slobbered over Noah's face when he was released five seconds later.

"You're missing all the action," Noah added and was about to clean his lips with the Kleenex next to him, when he was attacked on the lips by the same girl.

She was a brunette. Prettier than the average girl, she would have looked compatible with Noah, except that she was acting like one freaky, possessive chick –and Rex didn't want that for Noah, as much as it was amusing to watch.

Noah clearly had the short end of the stick in this case –the girl looked like she was sucking the life out of him, fisting Noah's golden hair in a painful grip.

"Hey! No hogging!" a pissed-off girl behind yelled, prompting another to also protest.

By the time Despo Chick released Noah. He was blue in the face and looked like he needed proper CPR.

Noah stepped back and coughed, probably because he was choking on her saliva, and gave a bland smile.

"Well, that kind of invigorating action I can do without," Rex taunted with a mean smirk. Arms folded across his chest he leaned at the side of the booth.

Noah stared icy daggers with his cerulean blue orbs and wiped the lipstick off his mouth.

"Oh, Noah! My Romeo, another one!" the desperate girl exclaimed before smacking another five on the booth and lunged forward for Noah.

Rex would have gladly thrashed her if she was an out of control EVO. But since she was just one of another case of Noah's fans obsessed with him after his epic portrayal as Romeo in his school's drama performance, Rex just grinned at his buddy's misery.

After all, popularity came at a price.

Besides, it was just too damn funny.

But when the girls behind grabbed Despo Chick's arm and started shouting, Rex quickly stepped in between them before a catfight broke out.

"Hey-Hey, ladies. I know Noah's a stud, but let's play nice and share him, alright?" Rex tried to calm them down.

"Please, Noah is my dream man! I've waited all year to do this! This is his senior year, too –my last chance!" Despo chick exclaimed.

Rex didn't want to resort to unorthodox means of control, but there was nothing else he could do unless he wanted to cause a scene by physically stopping her.

Much to his surprise however, Noah laughed lightly and quirked a brow, saying, "Okay then, but you have to promise to let me breathe."

Then Noah leaned over to kiss her again.

Rex shook his head and chuckled. Despite acting like the resident flirt, Noah was actually really sweet. Well, to girls, at least.

Half a minute later, Noah pulls away, but Rex could tell that Despo Chick was still unrelenting.

So Rex did a little trick he learned since the time he discovered he'd the Omega-1 Nanite inside him.

Not being the scientist his older brother was, Rex didn't know how it was possible, but he discovered if he focused and thought really hard, he could get nanites to listen to him. It was as if the invisible, electromagnetic channels were completely open to him, making it easier to 'talk' to the nanites inside people's bodies. If he concentrated hard enough he could possess a limited amount of control over them.

Just like how he jolted 'awake' just enough nanites inside the girl and ordered them to influence the electrochemical signals in her brain to control her motor movement.

And just like that, she was abruptly turning around and she'd be miles away before the nanites would automatically shut down, snapping out of her semi-trance, and she realizes that she had been walking away against her will.

It sounded daunting, but Rex did have limitations on his abilities, and how much influence he had over other people's nanites. If there were too much static or electromagnetic interference, he wouldn't be able to connect with nanites from other bodies without direct contact. And even without such interference, he had to be standing close by, within a few steps, in order to do so.

Hence this ability fell short whenever he was in a room plugged with a phone or an internet router or anywhere that has strong wireless signals. The open grounds were generally clearer from these types of interference, which was why he could influence Despo Chick's nanites without much difficulty.

Unfortunately, it also readily gave him a shitty headache –influencing three or five people, whether through direct contact or standing close by, was just about his limit before his brains start to pound like a sledgehammer going through it.

Also, he found his abilities weren't strong enough to affect EVOs like the Consortium. He tried several occasions when they battled, but it would seem that as they had conscious control over their active nanites, they could overpower Rex's commands, which stands to reason since Rex had not been able to cure them either.

Noah gave a bland smile at Despo Girl's exit, and then speared Rex with a glare, showing his distaste at what the EVO had done. Rex knew Noah would recognize the telling signs of when he used his nanite influence. Rex rarely did it, even in battle, but Noah had witnessed it a few times before on harmless occasions.

In the few instances when Noah seriously expressed his outright dislike were about Rex's newfound abilities. Rex understood why. It was terrible to control someone against their will, like those inhibitor collars* that were placed on EVOs back when Black Knight was in charge of Providence.

Besides, Rex was not about to turn into a control freak.

He used it, only and if, it were absolutely necessary. And Rex knew Noah trusted him not to abuse his powers. Still, neither of them liked it when he did.

At least for this time, Rex was sure Noah didn't think he went completely overboard, since he didn't say anything when the girl appeared to take a sudden about turn and leave.

So Rex merely forced a smile and whispered, "You're welcome," before the next girl ungraciously elbowed Rex out of the way.

"Hey, jeez, not like Noah's the only stud around here. What about me?" Rex grumbled under his breath in annoyance.

Noah must have heard him because he gave Rex that cocky smile of his, with one corner upturned in a devilish manner, which he always does when he wanted to challenge Rex.

"Oh, jealous pal? It's not your fault that you're not born a star like me."

"No," Rex made a face, "but I was engineered to be one. Bet the girls will go ga-ga when they see my true superhero form."

"Oh yeah? You wanna bet?" Noah pushed again, in that infuriating manner that drove Rex's adrenaline in a jumping frenzy, sparking him to take on whatever stupid challenge there was, like a blind bee to honey.

Since the first time Rex met him, Noah could always egg him on and rile him into competing with him. What the contest was meant to prove didn't really matter –simply winning was.

Rex could write a list of all the stupid things they've competed over that would stretch across a whole city block.

When they were sixteen, it was normal for them to get in on ridiculous challenges, or at least, Holiday was patient enough to look the other way when they took their contest within Providence Headquarters. But now, being closer to twenty-one, and therefore no longer privileged with given the blind eye like in their younger days, Holiday scolded them more often than not that they were being downright immature.

"C'mon Rex, what's with the stalling? Not confident enough? Why don't you just admit that I'm the hotter guy between the two of us?" Noah pushed again in his cocky tone and that did it.

"Like hell I will! You're sooo on, Noah. The one that gets the most kisses wins!" Rex gave his own swaggering bite before he sent millions of his nanites buzzling into action, constructing a three-tiered platform beneath his feet to raise him to a more attention-grabbing spotlight.

The unveiling of his powers brought in the right effect of fanatic shrieks, gasps, oohs and ahhs. Finally, they recognized him as the nanite-wielding hero.

"Hey! That's cheating! I don't have a freaking stage!" Noah protested.

"Well then, you need to get an upgrade, like me," Rex taunted.

He'd come a long way from the weapons he was limited to creating back in his teens. Since being perfectly in sync with his Omega-1 Nanite, he gradually learnt to generate a variety of other useful constructs and components.

"Hello ladies, the Nanite Master, Rex Salazar, is on the grounds. So step right up for a kiss for the same amount as your resident superstar, Noah Nixon!" Rex announced dramatically through a loudspeaker he quickly generated with his hand.

The stampede and rush of females scampering to line up in front of Rex was glorifying, especially since he stole some of Noah's fans over.

Rex snickered as he heard Noah's loud humph of annoyance.

"Whatever Rex, I had a head start. Game finishes at the end of the fair at five."

Rex gave a thumbs up to agree with the rules and was convinced that this was going to be his best day ever, until his lips started hurting three hours later from all the brutal sucking and nibbling.

Rex had tasted every flavor there was of food the girls had eaten before and the unpleasant combination left in his mouth was almost nauseating. By then, the charm of getting free kisses from hordes of girls faded away.

At times like these, Rex pondered in chagrin at what possessed him to take up Noah's stupid challenge. He was actually starting to dread the line that seemed to never end.

The afternoon sun beat down on them didn't help either. Rex was sorely parched, but he didn't want to waste time getting a drink since Noah didn't take a break either.

A sideways glance at Noah also confirmed he was also feeling the abuse. Noah was slouching against the side of the booth now, with his lips all red and puffy. He probably had it worse since he'd started earlier and there was still almost two hours left.

But they both stubbornly wanted to win –they were similar in that way, among many others, which was why they'd such a tight friendship. Stupid contest or not, Noah wasn't going to give up, so neither was Rex.

Then, a commotion at the end of Noah's line caught Rex's attention.

A couple of guys, four of them, were crowding Noah's fan, shoving her –no correction, him –around. They looked cool and pretty sporty, dressed in jeans and hoodies emblazoned with the school's emblem. But they behaved like typical, rude, arrogant jocks the way that they harassed the poor, skinny twig who looked like he'd easily snap into two if they pushed him around any harder.

"What's this? A guy queuing up for a kiss with Noah? You damn fag, get outta here. Noah isn't gonna kiss a disgusting freak like you," one of them taunted cruelly.

Pushing aside his surprise that even guys wanted to kiss Noah, Rex shook his head, irked that in this day and age, such prejudice still exists.

It was as if some people needed to find an excuse to bully someone now that they'd no EVO targets to hold prejudice against.

Rex stepped down from his stage just as he saw Noah already striding over.

"Hey guys, c'mon, give him a break," Noah stepped between the poor guy and the jocks.

One of them gave Noah a look of disdain.

"What? Don't tell me, you're gonna humor this fag?"

Noah shrugged. "A little kiss ain't gonna hurt anybody."

The goons chortled.

"Oh hear, hear, looks like all-star Romeo boy is switching lanes. Better ditch the line ladies," another sneered.

Rex wasn't amused by the sarcasm dripping from the guy's words and quickly moved towards them.

Noah on the other hand, remained cool and unruffled.

He merely slung an arm over the guy's neck and gave a lopsided smirk.

"Haven't you heard? Gays are secretly all the rage for those ladies who are 'In'"

At that, Noah did the craziest thing Rex had ever seen him do –he kissed the guy fellow full on the lips.

The bullies flinched as if scalded; crying out that it was gross and what not. Then they quickly retreated as if Noah was a contagious infection that they didn't want to catch.

Rex was rooted to the ground a few feet away, jaws dropped open in shock. I didn't just see my best friend kiss another guy, Rex chanted to himself mentally. But fact was he did, and he didn't know what to make of it.

After Noah was done giving the lucky guy his kiss, he must have caught Rex's perplexed expression because he bit his lips in the way he did when he was nervous.

"Rex," Noah paused, sounding a little shaky and ran his fingers through his hair, which was all the clue Rex needed to tell that Noah was bothered –worried about how Rex would see him, maybe even scared that Rex would be weirded out.

Rex quickly shook himself out of his flabbergasted shock and gave Noah a thumbs-up.

"Yo, Noah, that was cool man! But I should have known you'd beat me to standing up for this guy. Trying to steal more limelight from me, eh?"

Noah immediately looked relieved, with a proud smile replacing his nervous one.

"What can I say? Can't stop myself from saving anyone in distress. You showed me that," Noah gave his snappy comeback and they fist bumped before going right back into the competition.

As if Noah was spot on after all, his queue suddenly increased in numbers, of girls as well as guys. It was almost a mirror image of the girls, except in guy versions. They looked like a range of different stereotypes –the bespectacled, buttoned shirt geeks, the brawny health nuts, the scrawny twigs and their opposites, and he'll be damned –even a few whom he recognized from their incredible, towering height, were members from Noah's basketball team.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Are you sure you don't want any of this three-combo-taco of lip-smacking awesomeness?"

Rex gurgled for the tenth time that evening, to get rid of the horrid aftertaste of a thousand kisses from all sorts of girls, before answering.

"No thanks, I've had enough of lip-smacking for today."

"Dude, did all that kissing mess up your brain? We're talking dinner here. And three types of juicy meat," Noah tried again as he came up behind Rex in the bathroom and made a show of slowly peeling back the wrapper.

It had rained earlier, before the fair closed, and Rex and Noah got caught in it. So they went back to Noah's dorm room to dry off, but not before Noah dragged him to the café at the East Block to get the tacos they both absolutely loved.

Noah had already wolfed down his share before they reached his room. But it seemed like too much kissing had a negative effect on Rex, making him feel utterly sick to his gut.

Rex pretended to gag. The act wasn't so hard to pull off.

"Actually, yes, it did. I've enough kissing to last me a lifetime. Now, c'mon. Hurry up and finish it, so we can have a few rounds of 'Monkey Kong versus Killer Whale' before the game."

"What's the rush? My Xbox isn't going to run away."

Rex made a face.

As part of the school fair, there was going to be a friendly basketball match tonight with another campus that was Noah's top rival. In between Providence missions, and the few hundred miles distance between Providence Headquarters and Noah's dorms at the campus, Rex couldn't hang out with his buddy as often as he liked.

He was excited to watch Noah at his best in a basketball tournament. It was almost as invigorating as their one-on-one with each other. Besides that, he was also itching to have some fun playing video games with Noah.

He had his own console back at headquarters, but Bobo was too tough an opponent. That monkey has agile fingers at the joystick and controls, and beat Rex so many times that he'd given up.

"Besides, we haven't even compared our stats yet," Noah folded his arms across his still wet clothing and cocked a brow.

Rex groaned internally, forgetting how persistent Noah could be. He walked past Noah out the bathroom and toweled his hair dry.

"It rained twenty minutes before closing time. Did it still count?"

"Hell yeah! Of course, it does!" Noah exclaimed as he followed after Rex.

Rex helped himself to one of Noah's shirts in his closet and threw it at Noah's face.

"Better get changed first before you catch a cold."

Then Rex threw Noah fresh pants. Noah caught both in with one arm, but looked kinda comical juggling them with his other hand still holding the taco.

"C'mon Rex, how many did you score?" Noah bugged as he abandoned the taco on the counter against one wall and stripped his wet shirt.

Rex had no clue.

Since Noah did that wonderful stint with the gay guy, Rex barely noticed the rest of the girls kissing him after that –he practically lost count and stopped counting.

All that captured his attention were the number of guys who queued up at Noah's line and how Noah looked completely cool with it, comfortable even, with them wrapping their arms around his shoulders and neck, stuck to his lips like glue in what seemed like forever.

Not that there was anything wrong, but if Rex had to be completely honest with himself, he did find it kinda weird. Like, if Rex suddenly kissed Claire, Noah's ex-girlfriend, kind-of weird.

Noah wouldn't shut up if Rex didn't have a number, so he gave a rough estimate.

Noah gave an exaggerated look of despair.

"No, no! How could this be? Have I lost my charm? I'm two kisses behind you!"

Rex chuckled at his lucky guess, not like it was really important anyway. He was feeling pretty sick, and wouldn't have cared even if he lost, though he wouldn't admit it to Noah.

"Okay no, wait," Noah dropped one fist into this other palms in realization, "I did kiss that obsessed girl another two times before you made her take a hike. So yes!" Noah pushed two fists in the air like he won some big game, "Now, at least we're equal." Noah had that joking, smug look with twinkling eyes; looking every bit like he enjoyed the game just like every single time whenever he bested Rex at a competition.

It was dumb really, and annoyed the hell out of Rex, but at the same time, it was kinda fun, goofy, and cool, in a weird, comradely game kind-of way.

Rex loved these games, even if they were silly. And even if he currently felt like shit at the end of it. At least Noah had a good time –it made Rex feel like he'd fun too.

And just like that, without much thought, or comprehension on what he was doing except to wipe that smirk off Noah's face and get one up on him in this contest, Rex closed the three steps between them and pressed his lips onto Noah's.

A slight flinch and a tiny hitch of breath told Rex that Noah was completely caught by surprise. But Noah was not repulsed by Rex's sudden action, instead, started to lean in deeper, tilting his head just a teeny fraction so their lips melded into each other's grooves better.

Rex ended up being the one stunned and he pulled back a hair's length, breathing deeply.

Noah stared at him, eyes wide with an unfathomable gaze, shaky breath hot against Rex's swollen and sensitive lips.

Rex sort of jumped over the couch, suddenly seized by the desire to flee, as if he could erase his mind off the crazy thing he just did.

Why did he kiss his best friend?

His mind was scattered, and then he remembered.

"Hah! I win. I stole that kiss from you, so score one for me," Rex threw over his shoulder, and busied himself by plugging in Noah's Xbox, mentally calming down his insides that suddenly seemed to go haywire.

Rex expected some witty comeback or mock, enraged insult but there was none.

Noah was dead silent –scarily quiet. It unnerved Rex and suddenly he regretted his stupid move.

Just as he turned around, mind scrambling for some lame joke to ease the sudden tension, Noah had disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door with a resounding thud.

Great. Smooth move, Rex.

Rex started getting jittery. Was Noah going to hate him now? Because they kissed? But Noah seemed cool kissing those fifteen other guys. Or maybe it was some line they'd crossed, which they shouldn't have as buddies.

He couldn't dwell on it, as his providence communicator tucked over his ear, beeped.

"Rex, come in," Six's voice came through the device.

"Yea, I hear ya, Six."

"Strafield County. A dairy farm owner has reported on his cows rolling over, sick. Our GPS shows you're the nearest to the location so we need you to go over for investigation."

Tch. What bad timing. Rex was going to have to miss Noah's game… again.

"Woah Six, you should know I'm no vet. How about Holiday, or one of her assistants?"

"A few of the cows show signs of abnormalities. We don't know how quickly it would escalate, so you had better get over there. Pronto."

There was urgency to Six's tone, and Rex couldn't ignore it.

"Right, got it. Send me the coordinates, and I'll be there in thirty."

"Noah," Rex called out, "I gotta go-"

Noah flung the door open before Rex could finish, towel wrapped round his hips.

"Providence?" Noah lifted a brow.

"Yeah, sorry man," Rex grimaced, feeling bad for ditching their plans. Noah never complained; which was probably why Noah was still his best friend outside of Providence. "This time, we're losing cows at the farm. Six says I'm the closest, so he's sending me to check it out."

"No sweat, Rex. Saving our supply of juicy beef is more important. I need my protein to shoot hoops," Noah shot him a smile and gave him a thumb's up.

Rex grinned, relieved that the apparent weirdness between them had disappeared. Perhaps he was even over-thinking it.

"Now, that's the irony, saving the food… to save our food."

Rex joked and returned the thumb's up before he ran and jumped out the window, sending a zillion of his nanites into constructing his turbine wings.

In a flash, the propellers roared into life, spinning at full blasts and giving him lift before he hit the ground. Then he was off, zipping ahead a few hundred miles away.

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Footnotes:

*inhibitor collars:

Shown in season three; an upgraded version of the original collar used by Providence that used to limit EVOs from unleashing their full power. The new ones commissioned by Black Knight were able to brainwash EVOs.

#noex #generator rex #noah nixon #rex salazar

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ncyua-blog · 6 years ago

Text

dead in a ditch.

CHEM X — what really happened, part 1.

with @ncdoug, @ncjaein, and @ncyeonju.

it's easier than she expected. maybe it has something to do with the drugs in her system, or the sudden rage that just took over her at the sight of his smug, sleazy smile. he lands with a loud thump and she's certain she heard a crack the moment his head makes contact with the bottom of the staircase. even in this state of mind, the reality of what she just did dawns on her.

"i swear i didn't mean to do that."

jaein — things happen in slow motion. yua pushes and junyoung falls. he falls backwards, head first and lands at the bottom of the landing like a broken marionette. all the while, jaein laughs. they're terrible people, but yua isn't. yua's a good girl who's maybe too naive for her good but she's not a killer, she's not like the rest of them. it all takes a second to process, the laughters still lilting off of her tongue but her hands are clinging to the hem the railing white knuckled in terror. "junyoung, get the fuck up." she heard the crack as well as anyone else, and jaein's no doctor but she knows enough about the human anatomy to know he's in a bad way. "seriously get up, people might think you're dead or something."

doug — he runs to the railing—it happens too fast for him to yell—but when he hears the sudden crack against concrete his mouth gives way to sound. it's enough of a fall to make him recoil and his hands fist into balls by his chest still cold from the metal banister. "whoa, whoa, whoa, what the fuck, yua?!" he cries out, eyes shot wide. jaein's laughter bounces off the walls in giant waves and doug's heart beats on overdrive. his feet don't budge, though. he can't lift them. "hyung?"

yeonju — she’s thoroughly inebriated, careless with the way she handles her vices. pop a pill, wash it down. many more to follow in once the high hits an hour in. she’s barely focused enough to notice (instead, cigarette in hand, her eyes are fixated on her phone) attention drawn only from the photo app at doug’s cries. “what?” a laugh, “wait what—what’d she do?” yeonju bites onto the butt, inhaling deeply while she steps forward, fingers curling around the rail support as she leans into doug, peeking from over his shoulder. “what the fuck?” it comes out as a laugh—disbelief perhaps—“this a joke?” yeonju presses her free hand into the boy’s back, “move, doug—go.”

yua — "i'm sorry — i didn't mean to." she takes a step back, followed by another, her gaze never leaving junyoung's body at the bottom of the staircase she rubs her eyes when she thinks she sees red. no. that's just the drugs making shit up. "he — he's fine. he has to be." funnily enough, she doesn't want him to be. deep down, she knows he deserved it. but it doesn't stop her voice from quivering and her hands from trembling. after all, she did just push a man to his death. a sorry excuse of a man, but someone nonetheless.

jaein — it's automatic, the need to run down the stairs and check on him— human instinct and nothing more. she doesn't like junyoung, not really, but there's some overwhelming concern in her to check on him. jaein needs to abate her fears. he can't be dead, not really, who the fuck dies at twenty-five? who the fuck gets pushed by a girl half his age and dies? her feet beat hard against concrete stairs and the closer she gets the more she can see the aftermath of it all. his chest isn't moving, his eyes gaze into nothingness, she bets if she touched him there wouldn't be a hint of a pulse. "jesus christ," she kneels closer to him trying to shake the panic that rises in her voice. she looks to the top of the stairs and face mirroring something close to confusion or anger, she's not sure which anymore. "jesus fucking christ, he's not breathing!"

doug — the hand against his back sends shivers straight down his spine and to the ends of his toes and they curl in his sneakers. the ball of his foot lifts off when jaein runs down and he's suddenly two steps behind her. "hyung!" he yells again. not even dead static. with hands splayed out and legs twisted, junyoung's nothing but a dead wishbone. doug wishes he'd come the fuck back up for air. jaein's voice sounds like water in his ears and hands reach out for junyoung's jacket collar even though he's fucking terrified of the picture on the other side. hands shaking violently, he turns junyoung over. his nose is out, that much is for sure. red pools all around his nostrils and mouth, and there's a peculiar glinting lustre about his gray face. the kind of sheen that whispers to doug that they're all hellbound.

“hyung. what the fuck. you’re just playin’ with us, right? that’s what this is. wake the fuck up man. you're just playin. stop fuckin' playin.”

yeonju — of the four she is frozen, heels glued to the floor and dilated pupils fixed on the broken body at bottom of the stairs. wisps of smoke slipping past parted lips. for a long moment, time is slowed, attention stolen by red spilled across skin, the glazed look in his eyes. then, unfreeze. “shit,” she curses, eyes flicking over the entrance of the alleyway, noting the occasional car in passing. “fuck,” yeonju hisses, discarding the cigarette to make her way down, hand gripping onto the railway tightly. “we need to get him inside, now!”

yua — doug turns him around and yua stills. so it wasn't the drugs fucking with her vision. finally, she looks away, gaze now on yeonju who tells them to get him inside. but her feet are planted on the concrete floor, unwilling to follow the older girl's instructions. instead, tears start welling up and she goes into panic mode. "no no no no, this was not supposed to happen." her back faces them now as she remains at the top of the staircase. "god, what the fuck?!"

jaein — there are things in life jaein's never considered— what it feels like to put her hand in a pool of blood, what it feels like to take a dead man in her arms, what it feels like to know she's damned for the rest of eternity. it's only the adrenaline that keeps her going, that convinces her it's a good idea to tug at a corpse and try her best to pull it up with her menial strength. they never tell you what to do in moments like these. schools never teach what should happen if you accidentally murder someone. but the feeling of a dead man's body leaning against hers throws her mind into over gear trying to figure out where to go next, what to do next, how to get out of this fucked up situation. "fucking get down here and help us, yua!" she can feel hot tears cascading down her face and she can hear the way her voice shakes with fear and anger, "it's your mess you should help clean it up."

yua — he deserved it, she tells herself in her head as she paces around, tears rolling down her face. christ, she isn't nearly as high enough for this as she should be. jaein's harsh words snap her out of it and she hastily wipes the tears away with the back of her hands, sniffling a little. "right — i'm sorry." this is her mess. she was the one that pushed him. she was the one that killed him. but that's all they know — aside from doug. and there's so much more behind it than just a mere push that stemmed from a simple argument. she jogs down the stairs, stumbling a little when she makes it down. for some reason, carrying the dead body doesn't bother her as much as it should. not when she already killed the guy. that takes the cake. she hardly feels any regret when she looks at his face. all she can see is that stupid, smug smile seconds before she pushed him.

doug — his head's lost in the gutter and it's sewage all around him. the body's not even a minute in and doug's already warding off thoughts of decomposition as his stomach pumps harder to quell any chance of upchuck. at least now that he's facing up the blood won't drag onto the concrete but having to look at junyoung's face like this isn't doing anyone any favors. after a moment's struggle they break the threshold and junyoung's halfway into the entryway. doug lets yua and jaein drag him the rest of the way in as he scampers towards the back and shuts—locks the door. their breathing is ragged in the quiet that follows. "w-." he starts, pathetically. "is." he tries again. "can." his mouth's parched and his brain's not letting him finish any sentences tonight. doug grits through the haze. "can someone check his pulse or something."

yeonju — she's seen bodies. death by overdose. by being at the wrong place at the wrong time. by carrying the wrong drugs for the wrong people. this shouldn't be any different. yet it is, because she knows him. it is, because the killer, the guilty party—lies with yua. and by association, them. it is because they're involved now, hands covered in blood, hands chilled on a body of waning warmth. fuck. "he's dead, doug." yeonju wishes she could strive for a better way to put it. but as it is, things are already hard to navigate with bone, blood, skin thrumming on a high. but to better satisfy his nerves (not really), yeonju kneels beside the body, fingers pressing into the under of his jaw. nothing. "dead," she repeats, almost spatting while she reaches for the pack of smokes in her pocket. finding it unable to think with her mind on such a high. "why—" her eyes turn to them, brows furrowed. and perhaps it is fucked up, but yeonju is more so worried about the repercussions than the act itself. "why the fuck did you push him?"

doug — dead. the statement hits him like a boulder. two years in the gang and he's always found it funny that the word never crossed his path until this moment. when yeonju sinks her teeth into yua like that—it feels like the boulder's sunken to the bottom of the ocean floor. it's another thud that gets his pulse racing and that's when he remembers: the words leading up to the fall and everything before it. the way so many weeks ago junyoung pinned yua to a corner and pressed a thumb to her cheek like she was prey. why the fuck did you push him. doug's breath hitches. he looks up.

jaein — words sit at the tip of her tongue, a million things jaein's dying to say but no words come out. instead, she's squats looking at junyoung's lifeless body because morbid curiosity won't let her tear her eyes away. bloodied hands sit steeple an pressed against her face. it's all so surreal she can barely process anything that's going on, everything sounds like static and she only makes out select words, "pulse" and "dead" and the tail end of whatever yeonju's saying. only then does jaein look up, eyes focused on yua and her naïve looking face and then her gaze trails back down to junyoung, cold and dead on the floor. "it's not like she was aiming to shove him down a fucking staircase yeonju," jaein snaps, and she's not so sure why. she's just as curious as everyone else and yet there's an urge to defend yua's innocence, something still pure and stable to cling to. "i'm sure we all have our reasons for wanting to shove junyoung, he's a piece of shit."

yua — why the fuck did you push him? yua looks up at yeonju like a deer caught in headlights before immediately looking away. the vivid memory replays in her head again, as it did during the argument, as it did right before she pushed him. "i — i didn't mean to." she mumbles, hugging herself in the corner of junyoung's shitty living room as if that'll make her disappear. that doesn't answer yeonju's question and she's well aware of it. still, even in a moment like this, the truth — the reason sits on her tongue like the pills she had taken earlier, just sitting and waiting to be let out. "but he," sniffling, she looks over at his body. "he deserved it." she meets doug's eyes for a brief moment. "you know he did."

yeonju — take a breath. before you say something wrong. yeonju knows fully well what sits on her twitching tongue, threatening to slip out. her eyes flutter wildly, mouth dry, heart pounding a mile a minute. it is impossible to think like this, she knows, already pulling out a cigarette to replace her last one. in desperate need to for a depressant. "there is a difference," she starts, biting out the words as she lights the smoke, "between fucking up someone who deserves it," her eyes flick over to jaein, narrowing slight. "and completely screwing us over—you know that right?" who they'll report this to—who will handle it at yuripa, yeonju doesn't even want to think about. "i need a fucking drink." she mumbles, pushing herself up. "and we need to get rid of the body."

doug — doug's upper lip bubbles with sweat. the fan in junyoung's apartment winds above their heads and the sirens outside his window blare on like any other day in the life but the look in yua's eyes takes him back to one day in particular that sits heavy in his heart. he looks away. "junyoung's..." another sentence left unfinished but the silence says enough; doug's voice goes deeper, softer, like a scratch on the wall. "it was an accident." he says, to yeonju, to yua, to no one in particular, to junyoung. it sounds like an apology.

yua — yua covers her face with her hands, bloody fingers tightening around her hair. killer is the last thing someone would link back to her. it's the last thing she wants to call herself. yet, here she is. literal blood on her hands, and on her friends' as well. all of them are gonna get shit for this and it's all her fucking fault. she removes her hands from her face and she's back to staring at junyoung's dead body. "no — we shouldn't move the body. we... we need to put him back in the stairwell." her words are frantic as she fights the urge to wipe the blood on her hands onto the wall behind her. "'cos it was an accident."

yeonju — yeonju finds it hard to think, dragging her feet over to the kitchen counter, her hand reaches for the closest plastic cup and downs it in favor of relieving her cottonmouth, inhaling deeply to calm her nerves. vaguely, she hears doug speak, knowing fully well that it was their only option now. "we already moved the body," the frown on her lips deepens, bloodied fingers rubbing into her temple as she turns to face them, eyes flicking from yua to doug to jaein and to the dead body laying on the floor, "listen, everyone at joule saw us together. he," she points at the body for emphasis. "was nowhere near high enough to get into an "accident" — none of us can be tied to this, none."

doug — “—but he took an extra hit.” doug interrupts. “that’s how this whole thing started.”

yua — she's read enough books, seen enough news on this to somehow get an inkling of what they could do to save themselves from this mess. "can't we just... make it look like he was high enough?" in other words, pump his body with enough drugs to make it look like he overdosed. he was nearing that line anyway.

yeonju — "and what? you're going to do it?" shes snappish, rightfully so, lips downturned as she looks around. "fine, we'll shoot him up and throw him down the stairs—and then we'll go home and it'll be like none of this ever happened." she eyes her friends, lips pressed. "i'm serious, tell no one."

doug — "wait—before that." doug kneels down. as if in a trance he takes junyoung's right arm into his hands, guiding junyoung's hand into the pocket of his sweatpants to claw out his phone. it lands onto the floor but doug carefully guides it back up to junyoung's stomach with his deadweight hand. the deadweight hand unlocks the phone with its deadweight thumb. doug stands up with wobbly knees but he fights past the nausea. "you guys... do what you have to do. there's more [omitted] in my backpack if you need it. i'm gonna try somethin'."

yua — yua slowly nods, getting up with weak knees. the tears have stopped coming, because quite frankly, he didn't deserve them. right now, she needs to get her shit together and help the rest of them out. "i'll get some more..." she walks to the kitchen, opening the cabinet beneath the sink and reaching under for the stash she knows he keeps there. with shaky hands, she drops the wrapped bag filled with a variety of drugs beside his body. she averts her gaze when she spots something painfully familiar among the pills. he deserved it.

yeonju — yeonju watches absently, noting the way her fingers shake with mounting irritation as she inhales, lashes fluttering with the nicotine filling her lungs and chest. "try whatever you need to." if it'll actually help. though it's difficult to worry, instead her attention fixates on the lifeless body beside her, eyes flicking over the scattered drugs laid out before them (and resisting the urge to take some herself). "well we can't make him swallow any—" she curls her fingers around a needle, digging through the assortment for a vial, "yua, lift him up."

yua — yua bites her bottom lip, doing as yeonju says and lifting junyoung's body up with a bit more struggle than earlier, stretching out his left arm in the process. it seems that the numbness from the drugs is starting to wear off. instead, an overwhelming sense of dread sets in, more than earlier now that the high slowly leaves her body.

jaein — there's something funny about this. everyone assumes their roles so easily. yeonju leads the pack, doug grabs the drugs, yua preps junyoung. everyone has their equal part in damning them all to hell, and jaein sits by idly all the meanwhile. if it weren't so macabre she might laugh. she's a genius who can't manage to wrap her head around what's gone wrong. when did they all become so well versed in murder and how to get away with it? slowly, she steps forward and kneels down next to yua and junyoung. "well come on now, if we're going to cover up a murder let's at least make it look realistic, huh?" there's a sing-song tone to her voice, as if it's all a game. gone is the shrieking and the fearful undertone, she's calm and steady as she pulls off her belt and tightens it around his cold graying arm, "let's make him look like a real junkie lowlife, that way the cops won't even begin to bother to care."

doug — doug paws off the sweat running down his face with the back of one hand as the other sifts through endless pages of junyoung’s contacts. the characters blur into one another on the screen; the sigh doug lets out is harsh, battered with frustration. the high is still rocking his system. "where the fuck is it, coulda sworn hyung had it in here somewhere." he thinks back to a conversation that'd taken place over a half-squashed cigarette.

“what? whaddya mean?” doug had gawked.

“i mean, they’re gone. they lost the goods, so i made sure they got lost, too.” junyoung returned, waving his phone boastfully. doug had barely caught a glimpse of the name but there it was.

it'd made him shiver then the same way it makes him shiver now even though the rest of his body and the bodies scurrying around him are burning up from anticipation and adrenaline and the drugs.

with one last swipe, he finds the clearing. there it is.

he jots the number down onto his phone, then locks junyoung’s. his feet shuffle back hurriedly to yeonju’s side and he places the phone next to the corpse. "okay," he says, before a sudden realization dawns on him. “fuck,” doug looks at junyoung's phone. "fingerprints, i forgot."

#ncdoug #ncjaein #ncyeonju #&&. DEAD IN A DITCH.#&&. CHEM X.#&&. WITH DOUG.#&&. WITH JAEIN.#&&. WITH YEONJU.#uh oh spaghetti o's

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franchisewars-blog · 7 years ago

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Why The Force Awakens is better than The Last Jedi (IMO): Character Arcs- Finn.

(Note: This is an entry in a series arguing why one member of the FranchiseWars duo, Hopper, has a serious issue with any and all claims that The Last Jedi is better than The Force Awakens. Other entries will eventually be linked to this article. This article emphatically does *not* reflect the opinions of the other member of the duo, the Condor , who loves the shiznit out of The Last Jedi.)

The Force Awakens *lives* for character arcs. It’s the bread and butter of the film, as every major character undergoes serious character growth or, in the case of Kylo Ren, character breakdown. And the chemistry and conflict between the characters effectively defines the film’s best parts.

And in comparison, the Last Jedi utterly fails at that.

First, to Finn. Finn is, in effect, the de-facto main protagonist of The Force Awakens; he goes through the most character growth, with a character arc that lasts from his first scene until his last. He’s initially the literal personification of a background extra; a nameless, voiceless and faceless Stormtrooper, who’s only maybe recognizable by his short height. But from the first second the camera directs the audience to view him, we witness his character arc begin. He’s the first Stormtrooper we see to ever respond to an injured comrade and try and help him, then he’s the first one on screen to suddenly grasp the horrors of what he and his comrades are doing, with John Boyega doing some amazing acting for a masked character in heavy body armor. And when this Stormtrooper refuses to massacre civilians, and exchanges a frightened and frozen stare with the apparently stoic Kylo Ren, we’ve already gone through more character growth than most other individuals in the saga’s arc. We’ve witnessed a “face turn,” to use wrestling parlance, and one executed perfectly.

And without a single line uttered by the character! And we haven’t even seen his face yet!

From there, the stormtrooper’s changes in character become integral to the film’s plot. After a brief reprimand by Phasma, we see him showcase pragmatic and cunning thinking by forging an alliance with Poe and escaping the First Order with him. And for this, the Stormtrooper FN-2187 gets a name: Finn. He’s almost *literally* baptised by combat into a new identity. And it’s not inaccurate to point out that since the film establishes that Stormtroopers are stolen from their families and raised to e cannon fodder, he’s ditching a *slave name* for a new identity. And when separated from Poe and upon meeting Rey, he adopts a persona as a Resistance fighter partially out of convenience and partially out of a selfish desire to maintain Rey’s admiration. It’s a very human reaction for someone who’s basically been reborn into freedom to pursue something that can give them just a little bit of joy and ease of life…

...Of course, for Finn, it also means that he suddenly has to act the part he’s decided to play, and effectively by going full method actor. While his personal goals are still to merely escape the reach of the First Order, he finds himself picking up Poe’s mission and forging an alliance with Rey to deliver BB-8 to the Resistance. And this introduces the next major component to his character arc: the internal conflict between wanting to run and hide versus helping Rey, BB-8, and ultimately the Galaxy in a dangerous mission. Han Solo’s entrance in the film highlights this conflict; when Han immediately susses out that Finn’s story is a cover, John Boyega gets to give Finn scenes of shame and guilt just by facial acting. He doesn’t just want Rey’s admiration; he wants to be *worthy* of it, and he knows he isn’t.

Which is why I absolutely love the shiznit out of his and Rey’s argument when Finn wants to leave! Finn’s new identity is basically a newborn freedman, and he pours his heart out to her with what he wants and what he feels, and all the things that were impossible to contemplate when just a faceless Stormtrooper. He begs her forgiveness and understanding, and pleads with her to flee danger with him. It’s an emotionally vulnerable scene for the character, and we again see his internal conflict when Rey begs him not to go when he hesitates and seems to genuinely consider staying with her and accomplishing their missions before rejecting it. Again, it’s a very relatable choice he makes, as we understand how he can evaluate his survival above the potential to save the rest of the Galaxy...

...Until he suddenly sees the First Order destroy the Hosnian System. Watch that scene again, and watch Finn. He freezes mid-escape plan, and goes to tell Han what happened… and only *afterwards* asks where Rey is. Finn’s underestimated his own virtues. He saw a need to at least pass on more reliable intelligence, and forsook his escape out of a moral obligation to help Han and Rey understand what they’d just seen. His flight reflex has flipped over to fight. And he takes up arms against the First Order not just for Rey, but also because it’s simply the right thing to do. When he goes to Starkiller Base to rescue Rey, he’s fully on board and obedient to the mission’s priorities of deactivating the shield first, and doesn’t hesitate to follow Han’s lead in staying to compromise the Oscillator’s fortifications. Finn may still care about Rey more than anyone or anything else, but he’s clearly fully on-board with the Resistance's goals. He’s a loyal soldier, just like a Stormtrooper is supposed to be, but he’s a loyal soldier to the right cause and for the right reasons.

Which helps add even more awesome to his confrontation and short duel with Kylo. When they first shared the screen, Finn was in utter, helpless and voiceless terror of Kylo Ren, who only bothered to give him a somewhat bemused stare after Finn had stared at him for several seconds. Now, at the end, Kylo has to draw Finn’s attention *back* to him by screaming and threatening him, when Finn is so focused on helping Rey he’s willing to turn his back on the 6-and-a-half-foot tall patricidal madman. The faceless Stormtrooper has so enraged the self-absorbed Knight of Ren that he whines and cries about how Finn’s denying him what he wants. And even though the power between the two is still heavily in Kylo’s favor, Finn charges against him because damn it, he’s going to defend his friend! And even though Kylo simply toys with and quickly maimes Finn, Finn’s furious, desperate assault buys time for Rey to reawaken and challenge Kylo, and Finn’s single landed blow plays a part in Rey overpowering Klo at the end of their fight.

The Force Awakens took a nameless slave mook, gave him name, and a journey to being a savior of untold billions of lives and herald of the return of the Jedi...

And then The Last Jedi does almost nothing with the character but give him busy-work, when it isn’t mocking him, ignoring his past, or undermining its own message.

You see, Finn’s *supposed* to have a character arc. He’s supposed to struggle between: a desire to flee the Resistance's fleet to seek out Rey (ostensibly because he’s certain the Resistance is doomed and wants her safe from the First Order), and coming to grasp the larger picture and his responsibility to help the Resistance fight the First Order. And he *does* go through this arc…

… For all of about 5 minutes.

Right after Rose has tasered him for his attempt to leave, and while they’re arguing over what he was doing, they stumble into techno-babble about how they might be able to save the Resistance. And from then on, Finn doesn’t express any internal conflict or competing desires like he did in TFA. Instead, we have an almost totally static character here, who doesn’t really experience any growth. (I’m going to argue the same thing is true for Rey and Kylo in future articles.)

And arguably worse than that, the film seems to mostly treat Finn as a comic fool, someone to be laughed at and condescended to. Think about his first scene in the film: Finn has just awoken from the life-threatening, coma-inducing injuries, for which he has received intensive medical care, and which almost certainly have left a permanent scar across his entire back… and the film decides he’s the perfect target for some slapstick humor. “Ha! Look at the addled and injured war hero! Doesn’t he just look so stupid wandering around in that ridiculous suit we put him in? Perfect! Now we don’t have to address his situation in anything resembling a serious manner!”

Not that Finn should be dead-serious; Boyega gave him a humorous charm in TFA. The issue with the comedy in TLJ is not the comedy itself, but the refusal to match it with the gravitas that TFA and the Original Trilogy managed. Finn gets a scarce few times to show Boyega’s dramatic chops, and TLJ works to downplay those scenes, or it undermines them outright. On Canto Bight, Finn receives a short, all-too-brief and simple lecture from Rose about the underpinnings of slave labor that allow the place to operate.

She just told the *child slave soldier* about people suffering a similar blight right in front of him. And he does *nothing.*

What the hell!?! This ignored concept has more dramatic value than anything they give the character in the film! Kind of like how the film *refuses* to tackle how ex-Stormtrooper Finn might have a strong compulsion to free his brothers and sisters upon visiting the Supremacy, or how he and Phasma should have an intense animosity born from her using people like him as cannon fodder but is willing to sell out everyone to save her own hide! (Check out how this might have been the original plan for the character in the Extra Credits at the bottom) Finn should be the unholy offspring of Harriet Tubman and Spartacus! And instead, we’ve got Finn, The Last Jedi’s comic relief minor character stuck in a plot cul-de-sac, going nowhere fast.

Finn and Rose’s journey has barely any impact on the film’s meta-narrative, save for the convoluted and horrible writing of the Space Chase connecting to it to ensure their mission actually makes things *worse* for the Resistance (again, this will be covered in later installments). The most eloquent defense I’ve heard of the film is that the subplot is supposed to reinforce the “failure is the greatest teacher” theme. It’s a good lesson to teach, to be sure. But the lesson is sabotaged by other plots in the film, and since Finn and Rose are ultimately just reinforcing the idea, it renders their entire sequence superfluous and redundant.

And it really doesn’t help that an accurate statement about The Last Jedi would be “The white guys shape the overall narrative, while all the people of color are off in skippable subplots.”

And finally, the film tries to give Finn another lesson to learn, but does so in a laughably incompetent way. When Rose rams Finn out of his charge at the Battering Ram, she justifies her decision (which was already on some pretty shaky physical grounds from her cutting him off when he was at maximum speed) by arguing that “We won’t win this fight by killing what we hate, but by saving what we love.” It’s a sweet thought, but, uh…

WHAT THE HELL DID SHE THINK HE WAS DOING?!?

He was trying to *save* what he loved, and save everybody’s lives, by risking a self-sacrifice to stop the Battering Ram, allowing the Resistance to survive even longer behind their great door! And since the film doesn’t show the Battering Ram firing until after they’ve crashed, and he’s gotten out of his speeder, ran to her, she says what she wanted, and then moves to kiss him… well, it looks like he clearly could have made it to the Battering Ram and saved everyone! The film could have tried to play the scene better, by having the cannon fire right as Rose knocks him out of the way, demonstrating he couldn’t have made it, or by having her not saying that stupid phrase in a situation where it simply doesn’t fit.

But nope. The Last Jedi had to ensure that we knew it treated Finn and his plotline as bantha poodoo.

It’s such a baleful, pathetic continuation of The Force Awakens take on the character, I’d *almost* laugh, if it weren’t so sad.

EXTRA CREDITS: How Rian Johnson kept changing Finn’s plot.

Okay, to be a bit more real here, I don’t think Rian Johnson intended to wall off Finn and Rose into an ultimately pointless pee-break of a story. A lot of his early ideas sound like they clearly included big, fun plans for the character. But it’s also clear that Johnson made serious mistakes while creating the film that slowly ate away at his initial plans, and left us with the disappointment we have.

First off, Finn’s story was supposed to feature him and Poe as the duo going to Canto Bight. Sounds cool, right? Oscar Isaac basically sweats charisma, and he and Boyega have a proven chemistry! Just one problem: Rian Johnson felt he couldn’t differentiate their voices enough.

What?

Asides from being male, these two characters couldn’t be more different. Poe’s a veteran New Republic pilot raised in the Galactic order created by Han, Luke, and Leia. Finn’s a freshly defected rookie soldier hailing from an autocratic regimes slave army. But apparently that was too similar for Johnson as a script writer, so we got Rose.

Now, Kelly Marie Tran is a great actress, and she does a lot of good work that I think TLJ ultimately wasted. Some of that is because of another change that occured in production. You may remember this picture of Finn from a BTS video:

Notice how he’s wearing a Starfortress Bomber uniform? Apparently, Finn’s original entrance in TLJ would have seen him not in his bacta suit, but instead as one of Rose’s sister, Paige Tico’s, fellow gunners. Finn would have been the last survivor of the bomber run on the dreadnaught, and would have cradled a dying Paige, so she could put a bloody handprint over his heart, mimicking the opening of The Force Awakens. Sounds interesting, right? It would certainly add an interesting dimension to Rose and Finn’s relationship, perhaps increasing their friction, as Rose would see Finn’s attempted desertion as a dishonor to her sister, while Finn would be leaving because he refused to re-experience that kind of loss again. It’s great dramatic material!

But Johnson didn’t want to write it.

"If he did know Paige was Rose's sister, there would either have to be a big 'I saw your sister die' scene, which I didn't want to write and the movie would have come to a full stop to do, or he would be an arsehole because he would never tell her. So ultimately it felt really right as a set-up but I realised there was no wood to burn in terms of a pay-off." (Rian Johnson, Art of Star Wars: The Last Jedi)

You’ve got to be kriffin’ kidding me! “No wood to burn in terms of pay-off”?!? It would have been leagues better than the fairly onenote characterization of Rose’s attraction to Finn, and would have added some actual internal drama to the story!

ANYWAYS… originally, Canto Bight was going to be a much longer sequence, which presumably would have done a better job of handling the war profiteering angle, and the recruitment of DJ. Finn and Rose would have been outfitted in some sweet space tuxedos/dresses. Presumably, this would have acted to play up physical attraction between the leads… and get some laughs from Finn wearing his backward.

Finally, We have confirmation of a deleted scene building on Finn and Phasma’s confrontation, and possibly planting seeds for a potential stormtrooper revolt in Episode IX. Here’s the scene from The Star Wars Show: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjoJqZDjxgI

While it’s a rough scene, I do think it should have remained, if not expanded. Phasma and Finn desperately needed more buildup for their confrontation, and just that little hesitation on the Stormtroopers’ part reminds us that they were just like Finn once. Shame Johnson decided a badly written Space Chase subplot couldn’t be cut entirely to save time for this scene...

To read the next article on Rey: https://franchisewars.tumblr.com/post/171920170140/why-the-force-awakens-is-better-than-the-last-jedi

To read the article on Finn, go here: https://franchisewars.tumblr.com/post/171769864765/why-the-force-awakens-is-better-than-the-last-jedi

To read the article on Luke and Han: https://franchisewars.tumblr.com/post/172012889670/why-the-force-awakens-is-better-than-the-last-jedi

To hear our podcast comparing the two films from the sequel trilogy: https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fitunes.apple.com%2Fus%2Fpodcast%2Ffranchisewars%2Fid1286433288%3Fmt%3D2%23episodeGuid%3DBuzzsprout-675266&t=NDAyNjNkNDk3OTExNTY1MGVjZjE5MzYzZjhmNjhhZTlkM2MwOTcxNyw5YjNidHhxTw%3D%3D&b=t%3AgYAQ8VbQFnxwgeW_XfJRCQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Ffranchisewars.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172572228305%2Fthe-force-awakens-vs-the-last-jedi-podcast&m=1

#finn #the force awakens #the last jedi #anti tlj #tfa #tlj #anti the last jedi

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carry-on-kissing-snowbaz · 7 years ago

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Detention & Chalk (Carry On Countdown Day 1)

It feels so good to be doing the Carry On Countdown again, I can’t wait to look at everyone’s stuff! I hope you enjoy a little 8th year one shot! <3 @carryon-countdown

Word Count: 1824

Simon

It was hard to focus on an exam when your nemesis was sitting beside you, answering the questions faster than you were. Simon was only on the second page of his exam and had noticed that Baz was already turning to the fourth page. Baz had always been the better student, Simon knew this, but he’d never had to suffer through watching it happen in action like this.

Miss Possibelf had changed the seating arrangement, just like that in the middle of term. Simon had tried to talk to her, had pointed out all the potentially disastrous scenarios that would result from having him seated next to Baz, but she’d refused. She said that, given that it was their eighth year, she was teaching them how to be the mature adults they should have already been.

Simon felt a rush of happiness when he flipped to the third page. It was deflated, however, when he saw that Baz was on the last page of his exam.

“Showoff,” Simon muttered.

Baz’s grey eyes slide to his, narrowing.

“Excuse me?” Baz whispered.

“Why don’t you just close your eyes and fill them out that way? I’m sure you’ll score just as high, you’re so perfect.”

Baz sneered.

“As grateful as I am for the compliment,” Baz whispered, “Would you mind shutting your mouth? You’re ruining my concentration.”

“Maybe I could shut up if you weren’t such a superior prick,” Simon said.

Baz glared.

“Maybe, if you weren’t such an idiotic-“

“Simon! Baz! Give me your tests!”

Miss Possibelf stood above them, her eyes narrowed and her hand outstretched.

Glumly, Simon handed her his test. Normally she was nice to Simon but just because she liked him didn’t mean she treated him differently than anyone else in their class. With a huff, Baz handed her his own exam.

She tore them both in half.

“Hey!” Baz barked.

Simon’s cheeks reddened.

“Talking during an exam is an automatic zero and a detention. You boys both know the rules. Come see me after class.”

“But Miss Possibelf,” Simon said, “We weren’t cheating.”

She shrugged.

“I don’t care what you two were discussing. Rules are rules.”

They both had to suffer the rest of the class without exams and endure the looks everyone else was giving them. Simon could practically feel the rage coming off of Baz to his right.

“I just want you to know that I blame you for this,” Baz spat.

“The feeling is mutual,” Simon said. Baz

If Baz had to clap one more chalkboard eraser, he thought it might have to be against Snow’s head.

They were in Miss Possibelf’s classroom, cleaning. He still couldn’t believe he was going to take a zero on that exam. He’d been well on his way to getting an A on it, he was sure of it. The exam had been worth thirty percent of his grade. Now Bunce was going to take the spot of top of their class for sure.

The source of all his misery was angrily scraping gum off of the bottoms of the desks, his magic making the air thick with static. Normally Baz wouldn’t have gotten so riled up by Snow’s jabs, but it had been torture ever since the seat change. Before, he could watch Snow from afar, enjoying the view and sneering every time he got caught. Now he was next to him every single day, feeling his magic and body warmth. It was like he was getting drunk on Simon Snow every day, and it made everything more intense. Including his frustration when Snow acted like an absolute git.

“I’ve never gotten detention before,” Snow pouted.

Baz looked over at him and resisted the urge to roll his eyes, or laugh. He was sitting under a desk, scraper in hand, with his hair dangerously close to the gum territory. He looked miserable.

“I’m surprised,” Baz said, going back to clapping the erasers together, “What with all the ditching you do to go off on adventures, I thought you’d have gotten detention loads of times.”

Snow glared at him.

“The Mage signs off on my, well, they’re not adventures. He signs off on my missions.”

Baz smirked.

“Right Mr. Bond, sorry,” he said.

“Well,” Snow said, rising to his feet, “Have you ever been in detention?”

Baz thought about it and frowned.

“No, actually, I haven’t,” he said.

Snow looked surprised.

“That’s weird,” Snow said.

Baz winced internally. He didn’t need to be reminded how low Snow thought of him.

“I know, I’m the worst villain ever to be evil,” Baz said.

Snow growled.

“That’s not what I meant,” He said, “I just meant that with all the times we’ve fought in class it’s weird we never got a detention before this.”

Baz studied Snow’s face.

“Maybe we used to be better at fighting,” Baz murmured.

Snow blinked and then looked down at Baz’s hands.

Baz was covered in chalk dust, from head to toe. He was pretty sure he’d be washing chalk out of his hair all the way up until the Leavers Ball.

“Here,” Snow said, taking some of the other erasers, “Let me help.”

Baz wondered if Snow was actually trying to be nice to him.

Simon

He wasn’t sure why he was trying to be nice.

Simon had been helping to clap the dust out of the erasers for about twenty minutes and he still wasn’t sure why he’d offered to help Baz. It had just been strange; to realize that in all their history together this was the first time they had gotten in trouble together. And then Simon had started to think about all the times they should have gotten detention together. It had made him feel funny, thinking about their past.

“Do you think this will be the last time?” Simon asked.

Baz looked up at him.

“What do you mean?”

Simon clapped his erasers together, trying not to cough when the dust hit his nose.

“The last time that our fight ends in something as silly as a detention,” Simon said.

Baz’s grey eyes flickered over his face. Simon always had been obsessed with Baz’s eyes. Technically, they both had blue eyes but in reality their eyes couldn’t be more different. Simon’s were just plain old blue but Baz’s were more than that, like the mist that covered the Great Lawn in the early hours of the morning.

“Maybe,” Baz said, looking away, “I hope it isn’t though.”

Simon picked up another set of erasers, thinking How can Miss Possibelf possibly have so many of these in one classroom?

“Why?” Simon asked.

Baz sighed.

“Do you really think I want to kill you Snow?”

For a long time he’d thought so. But now he wasn’t so sure.

“So you don’t want to kill me?” Simon asked.

“There are,” Baz said, shaking dust out of his hair, “A lot of things I want to do to you, killing you is not one of them.”

Simon frowned, confused.

“What do you mean?”

Baz shook his head.

“It’s nothing Snow, let’s just get this done.”

They worked in silence for a bit. Simon couldn’t help but turn Baz’s words around in his head, trying to arrange them in a way that made sense. Did Baz want to be his friend? To have one last go at him on the pitch? What could he possibly want from him?

“And I’m done,” Baz said, wiping his hands.

Simon looked up and laughed.

“What?” Baz asked, looking annoyed.

“It’s nothing,” Simon said, “You just have chalk on your face.”

Simon stepped forward, licking his thumb. He pushed it over Baz’s sharp cheekbone, wiping away some of the chalk that had settled there. Baz’s eyes widened, and he reached for Simon’s wrist.

“What are you doing?” Baz asked.

“Oh calm down,” Simon said.

He licked his thumb again and went to work on the rest of the chalk. The skin there was surprisingly soft and a little cool. He had almost gotten it all and had pressed his other fingers onto the side of Baz’s face to get a better grip when Baz sucked in a sharp breath. Simon looked at him and was about to ask what was wrong when something in Baz’s eyes made him stop.

Simon felt his heart thud a little faster.

“You know,” Baz murmured, “People don’t usually just lick their finger to clean someone’s face.”

Simon looked at Baz’s mouth as he spoke, a million thoughts clashing in his head.

“Penny does it to me all the time,” Simon muttered.

Simon hadn’t let go of Baz’s face, even though all the chalk was gone from his cheek.

“You’re still touching me,” Baz said.

“You’re still letting me,” Simon said.

Baz’s mouth parted slightly and then Simon couldn’t help himself any longer, he was just kissing him.

He half expected Baz to push him away, or yell, or do both. But none of those things happened. Instead Baz let him kiss him, his own hands finding their way onto Simon’s cheeks.

Simon realized, as Baz pressed him gently against the chalkboard, that it was strange they hadn’t done this before. Maybe they’d used to be better at fighting, but this, they were best at doing this, Simon thought.

His hands were in Baz’s hair and Baz’s were untucking Simon’s shirt, pushing up underneath to touch the skin there. At some point Baz had opened his mouth and Simon had lost the ability to think straight, his brain melting away.

“Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. But I’m glad you two are getting along.”

Baz moved away from him and Simon saw that Miss Possibelf was standing in the doorway of the classroom, a smirk on her face.

“I, uh, we, um-“ Simon couldn’t catch his breath.

Miss Possibelf put up a hand to stop Simon.

“It’s quite all right Mr. Snow. I think I understand. But, seeing as your detention is over, I need my classroom now.”

Baz gave her a funny look.

“Did you give us detention to try to get us to get along better?”

“Yes,” She said, “And it achieved a great deal more than that, it would appear.”

Simon’s cheeks were burning.

“Now,” She said, as they were filing out, “Do be careful in the halls. You two look like you both rolled around in a chalk factory.”

When they got into the hall they looked at each other, and broke out into laughter.

“I cannot believe that just happened,” Simon said.

Baz had tears in his eyes.

“I know,” He said, “It felt like having Mary Poppins walk in on me wanking off.”

When their laughter died down, Simon reached out shyly, taking Baz’s hand.

“So, uh, is this okay?”

Baz pushed his hand through Simon’s hair, smiling.

“More than okay,” He said.

They kissed and Simon didn’t even mind that it tasted like old chalk.

#carry-on-kissing-snowbaz #carry on countdown #coc 2017 #my fanfiction #carry on #carry on fanfic #carry on fanfiction #carry on fan fic #simon snow #Simon and Baz #snowbaz #baz pitch #basilton pitch #basilton grimm pitch #canon divergence #Watford

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god-fucking-dammit-mizutani · 7 years ago

Text

Moonlight Mile

Taishiro Week Day 3: Soccer / Camp

Words: ~2000

Summary: Soccer Camp AU. Taichi enlists the help of his fellow counselor in staying awake. It turns out to be more effective than he hoped.

Notes/Warnings: Brief mention of drugs as a metaphor. There is no partaking by any of the characters, though.

Read it on AO3!

~*~

The road looms on, an unvarying landscape of dark, blurred trees and highway dividers. Unable to hold a station for very long, the van's junk radio releases a melody of hissing static. The last of the road lights blink in and out of his rearview mirror; the campers whistle and sigh through their light snoozing in the back. Together, it's the recipe for a lullaby Taichi would give anything to succumb to.

Highway Hyponsis. He'd circled the wrong name on a mock exam in driver's ed and now the answer sits with him on every long drive.

Next to him, his fellow counselor shifts in a soft doze. The car swerves slightly right, tires humming over the ridges of the audible lines, before Taichi gets enough of his senses back to correct the steering wheel. He doesn't feel too bad when midnight eyes blink back at him, sleep logged and bleary. Before he can right himself back to sleep, Taichi drops several pats onto his thigh.

"Help me stay awake," he hisses. One of the kids groans, and maybe he should be more sympathetic after a game well played on their end, but their lives rest on his tired eyes.

The boy beside him sits up. He leans his elbow on the little ledge by the window and rests his cheek onto his palm from the crooked angle, eyes focused on the dark expanse of road before them.

"How do you propose I do that?"

His voice is drained, face pale save for the blotches of sun burn that sprout in uneven patches along his face, particularly the sharpest point of his nose. The car swerves a tad again and Taichi refocuses on the road.

"I don't know," he says unhelpfully.

His companion makes a low groan, more sleep ridden than annoyed. With a long yawn, he rolls into describing something Taichi's half working mind can't wrap itself around with the exception of words he's heard repeated in science lectures. He feels transported, suddenly, to the back of class and even more prepared for a nap.

"I said keep me awake," Taichi grumbles haughtily, "not bore me to sleep."

The other hums, his tone as monotonous as the view. Taichi eyes from his peripheral a shock of red nodding against a muted world.

"If you have a preference, Taichi, I'm amenable."

In the last two months, he's not sure Koushirou's ever used his name before. Taichi finds it a bit strange. Not the lack of hearing it, even, but the buzz it seems to ripple with, a current he can't quite explain that rides through his body.

Everything about Koushirou is an enigma to him. Taichi's never met someone who wears a laptop to soccer camp and can't tell a pass from a dribble, but insists on taking his shifts on the field instead of working in the recreational cabin or first aid tent, out of the sun and away from the sport. He thinks about his friend, Yamato, the traitor who left him for space camp this year, and wonders if Koushirou would blend in better there, with science and physics at his fingertips instead of grass.

"Something that'll wake me up," he says finally. "Like a surprising fact, I guess. Or a scary story."

Koushirou jostles around until he's sitting completely straight. His head leans back where the adjustable headrest used to be. Taichi wonders if it's still sitting at the bottom of the lake, where he tossed it on a bet with someone a couple of summers ago. An easy fifty bucks.

"Surprising," Koushirou repeats, yawning. "Bananas are technically classified as a berry."

"No," Taichi says.

"Statistically, you're more likely to die from a vending machine than a shark attack."

"You are such a source of fun facts."

"I aim to please," Koushirou says. There's a ghost of smirk on his face and Taichi chokes on a surprise bubble of laughter in his throat.

He glances up at the rear view mirror on habit. In the far back, one of the kids has thrown his feet up against the back window, seat belt slaking enough that his head is no longer in view. Taichi's too tired still to stop just to save one kid from having all the blood rush to his head. When he looks back to the road, the rickety old camp logo flashes in his headlights.

Only ten more miles.

"Are you awake?"

"No." Taichi rubs at his eyes, holding one of them closed. Maybe he can trick them individually into thinking he's resting. His opened eye feels only slightly more alert, but the effect dives after a moment. "Got anything else?"

"Cleopatra lived closer to the moon landing than she did the construction of the great pyramids. We share fifty percent of our DNA with bananas."

"How berry interesting."

Koushirou snorts. "I'm going back to sleep."

"No more puns," Taichi promises. "Keep going, please?"

"Diamonds can be made from a combination of carbon dioxide and peanut butter. The chemistry in your brain when in love matches the patterns of a cocaine high."

"Cocaine, huh?" Taichi doesn't have the experience to compare them, but he wonder over it for a bit. Of all the little sparks and infatuations dotting through years in life. The puppy loves and cloud nines that dissipated. The only face he recalls with any sense of clarity is Sora's, but he should hope so. They're still friends. He had thought that was love, when he was eight, but he knows a little better now. He doesn't think any of them gave a feeling he could equate to more than a sugar rush. "Are you sure that's legit?"

Koushriou shrugs. "I haven't reviewed the exact paper myself, but it appears somewhat verifiable."

"Do you think it's like that?" Taichi asks. "Like, have you felt it?"

Koushriou huffs a small laugh, airy, tired. "What answer would surprise you more?"

Taichi shrugs.

Up ahead, their exit comes into view, and even though they're the only ones on the road in his line of sight, Taichi makes sure to signal the upcoming turn in advance.

He takes the exit with a wide swing. It winds around, long and high, framing a particularly darkened ditch. Taichi loves when the bus makes the loop every summer, the first rush of camp around the bend of it. Steering around it himself is even better. It feels like an adrenaline rush, like scoring the winning goal after an arduous game. He wonders if love's something like that. He doesn't know.

Koushirou is silent, unmoving, in the passenger seat. Taichi feels more awake now that the road has twists and obstacles so he lets the air between them fall still save for the snores in the back seat. He chooses to switch off the radio, an effort to end some of the white noise. All it really helps is give a platform for the wind racing about the car to hum louder in his ears.

When Koushirou speaks again, it startles him. "Theoretically, the parallels are somewhat similar…" He sounds distant, defeated. His eyes have closed again, forehead resting on the glass now. For a moment, Taichi thinks he's misconstrued the sound of snoring into a coherent sentence, because Koushirou looks to be asleep, lips parted only for puffs of breath that leave trails of fog against the window.

Taichi focuses back on the road. Everything he sees is under the beams of his own headlights. The thicket of forests overhead choke out the night sky, suffocating the moon and stars, the only source of light on this road otherwise. They're still not home, not safe. There's still miles between them and camp. He imagines plopping into bed soon, cool sheets sinking around him, embracing him. He thinks about giving in to sleep and his body aches.

He'll make it. He has to.

"They're stimulants. Psychotropic, even," Koushriou continues, muttering. This time, Taichi catches the movement of his lips in the corner of his eyes paired with a quick flutter of his lashes. "Doing things out of your nature. Seeing things that aren't there-- like misinterpreting signals for your personal confirmation bias. Chasing the feeling of being around them until you've developed a tolerance… The need for more…"

Koushirou rubs at his eyes and yawns. It must be after two, Taichi thinks. The clock in the van hasn't worked since before Taichi was a camper himself, and he's not about to grab out his cellphone now just to check. He remembers the match had ended sometime about seven. Their victory dinner had been after eight, at a restaurant on the side of the road. Wrestling the kids back into the car had been like herding cats into a bath.

"It'll die some day," Taichi says, rubbing at his own eyes. There's just a few miles now. Maybe half an hour if he drives carefully, but faster. "Love usually seems to."

Koushirou hums. Taichi's never heard anything so caught between amused and despairing before, but it's a melody he thinks will haunt him for a while yet. "Contrarily, I fear it's getting worse," he says. "The more we talk, the more onerous it is to terminate this feeling."

"Have you tried asking them out?"

Koushriou snorts, "No." His lashes flutter against his cheek. They're dark against his skin, longer, also, from this angle than Taichi's ever noticed. A smile quirks up on Koushirou's lips. "They barely know I exist."

"Try it," he suggests. "You won't know otherwise."

Koushirou sighs. His lids just barely open, his eyes as dark as the world around them. His lower lids look puffy, bruising with want to sleep.

Taichi almost misses their turn, taking the right sharper than needed. No one seems to stir. Overhead, the moon peeks through a bald spot of trees. It catches on Koushirou's hair. It looks silky, tempting to touch. Taichi pinches on the nerve between his thumb and forefinger, some pressure point he'd been told helped with tiredness. He's not sure it works.

He can feel Koushirou's gaze on him, an intensity only obscured under heavy lids. It feels, interestingly enough, familiar. "Something surprising," the other mumbles. He sounds so far away.

"Ever since fifth grade…" Koushirou trails off and lets out a short, little huff. Frustrated, tired. Taichi sympathizes. "I've been enamored with you since then."

By the time the words register coherently in Taichi's ears, Koushirou has already huddled against the door, legs hunched on the seat and arms wrapping about himself like a blanket. The even lifts of his shoulder indicate to Taichi that he's already back to sleep. He thinks he has every right to wake him up, to explain further, but Taichi doesn't exercise it.

The rest of the trip passes in mostly silence, but Taichi doesn't feel the same lull of sleep call to him. His head buzzes with half formed questions, wondering if Koushirou had meant him--or had he been thinking of someone else? Half dreaming of a person who wasn't there?

He finally pulls into the old, dilapidated shed on the front end of camp. He can't remember if it's ever had doors, but the older counselors remain stern that the van must be inside when not in use. He wonders if they can collect insurance if the garage topples over on it.

Slowly, the campers stir with loud yawns and soft murmurs. Some take a little extra coaxing to move. The kid who's legs were blocking the back widow has since fallen to the floor, laying across his teammate's sneakers. Taichi shoulders the bags of equipment as everyone else grumbles and staggers through the darkened fields, blindly following their instincts back to their cabins, to bed.

Koushrou is already half way across the field to his own cabin, laptop bag latched faithfully to his back, by the time Taichi finishes dropping off the duffel bags back to the storage shed a few feet away. He doesn't bother following or calling out.

Taichi's sheets feel cool, welcoming, when he flops into bed, but tonight they do not coax him to slumber. Clipped to his headboard, his miniature fan whirls noisily. He watches the revolution of the little blades, counting the intervals like one would imagine sheep.

It might be nerves. He's overtired, worked up by driving. Restless muscles.

He knows it's not true.

The sun drift in slowly, over the open sill, stretching along the floor boards and leaning over the edge of his bed to peck him with a morning kiss across his cheek and Taichi hasn't stopped thinking about a boy, who, by possible admission, is in love with him.

The knowledge sparks something in his chest, a feeling both foreign and familiar in a way that rustles his feathers and frustrates his mind. It rattles on the tip of his tongue, refuses to dive off--

Adrenaline.

It feels like an adrenaline high.

#taishirou #taishiro #digimon #taishiro week #taishiroweek #drug mention #there's more to this story but I'll post as a different chapter or 2 later #ahhh #sparkle garbage

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rdclsuperfoods · 4 years ago

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We’re in the midst of a global pandemic and national political upheaval unlike anything we’ve seen in the past 150 years. Still, wellness influencers, major news outlets, and even the CDC are finding plenty of time to fret about dieting and weight gain. In response, anti-diet nutritionists, therapists, and activists have taken to social media to point out that a too tight grip on your eating habits can cause anxiety and unhealthy patterns that leave you frustrated and physically uncomfortable.

I agree. In April I wrote about how quarantine-induced worries linked to food and exercise can backfire, and why a more relaxed approach to food leads to better health. However, this is easier said than done. Our relationship with weight and diets is complex, and it can be tough to distinguish a healthy habit from an unhealthy one. If you’re working toward a healthier mindset about food, a good first step is to identify your own food rules and then challenge them.

A food rule is any kind of black-and-white thinking about food. Some might be holdovers from a specific diet you’ve tried in the past, like the idea that you should avoid carbs, or that there’s a static number of calories you should eat in a day. Others are extreme versions of generally sound advice, like the idea that you must only eat whole foods, or that sugar and processed goods are explicitly off-limits.

Some of these ideas are grounded in evidence, but there’s a critical difference between food rules and healthy eating habits. The latter are flexible: you prioritize nutritious ingredients but don’t agonize over what to eat and aren’t stressed if you go a day without vegetables or finish a meal feeling overly full. Food rules are rigid: you have strict parameters around how you should eat, and feel guilty or anxious (or like you need to compensate) when you don’t eat according to that plan. “Following food rules can be physically, mentally, and socially exhausting, which impacts overall quality of life,” says Taylor Chan, a dietitian and certified personal trainer. Here are six new anti-rules to learn in the new year.

There Are No Bad Foods

Morality has long snuck into the way we talk and think about eating. Look at the way that various foods are marketed: something low in calories, sugar, and fat might be labeled “guilt-free.” High-sugar, high-fat, and high-calorie foods are deemed “sinfully delicious,” an indulgence to feel a little ashamed of. It might seem normal to think of certain foods as good or bad, seeing as how moralizing eating patterns is a natural product of our culture’s fixation on healthy living. But that doesn’t mean it’s helpful, says Chan.

If a certain food is deemed inherently bad, and eating it is bad behavior, it isn’t a huge leap to think you’re a bad person for eating that way. Food quickly becomes a source of stress and shame, rather than nourishment and pleasure. Dalina Soto, an anti-diet dietitian, expertly called out the problem in an Instagram post: you aren’t a horrible person with no self-control because you ate some ice cream; you just ate something delicious because you wanted it. Thinking of it this way makes it easier to let go and move on. The point isn’t that ice cream is nutrient packed or that it should be the cornerstone of your diet—those wouldn’t be accurate or helpful, either! It’s that there’s never a reason to feel guilty about eating, no matter the nutritional value of the food.

Forget About Clean Eating

Clean eating is such a common phrase that it might not raise an eyebrow, but it’s problematic, too. It implies that other foods and ways of eating are dirty, which falls into the same moralizing trap mentioned above. Plus, there’s no real definition of what “clean” means. “People start developing arbitrary rules about their food, which leads to restrictive and unhealthy food patterns,” says Heather Caplan, a dietitian who specializes in intuitive eating and sports nutrition.

There’s evidence to back this up. A 2020 cross-sectional survey of 1,266 young adults published in the journal Nutrients found that over half the participants had heard of clean eating and thought of it as healthy, but that their definitions of clean were all over the place. The researchers pointed out that while clean eating is often portrayed as healthy, it is often linked with disordered eating. It’s a dichotomous way of thinking, “characterized by extreme ‘all bad’ or ‘all good’ views toward food,” the paper states. Additionally, someone can use clean eating to mask behaviors like severe calorie restriction, claiming that they’re avoiding various foods for health reasons when in fact they may have an underlying eating disorder or disordered-eating behaviors. The researchers also found clean eating to be associated with nutritional deficiencies, since restrictive behavior can go undetected and unchecked for so long.

If you want to eat healthfully, a better approach is to prioritize nutrient-dense foods—fruits, vegetables, whole grains, nuts, seeds, legumes, healthy oils, and lean proteins—without vowing to only eat these foods. It’s a flexible and realistic approach that won’t have you constantly questioning whether certain foods are clean enough or not.

Stop Tracking Your Intake

Religiously counting calories or macros (carbs, fat, and protein) probably isn’t going to have the effect you want it to. One 2013 review of 25 existing studies published in Frontiers in Psychology found that restricted eating habits rarely led to weight loss and, in fact, often corresponded with weight gain.

There’s no consensus on why exactly this happens, but a 2015 article in the International Journal of Obesity explains that the body is designed to protect against weight loss. Restriction-induced weight loss precipitates physiological adaptations, including fewer calories burned overall, less fat oxidation (converting stored fat to energy), a decrease in the fullness-signaling hormone leptin, and an increase in the hunger-signaling hormone ghrelin. Even if someone who has lost weight successfully manages to override their hunger signals, their metabolism may still be slower than before, making it increasingly harder to keep burning fat. This might be why many dieters don’t see the results they want from calorie counting.

Soto instead encourages an intuitive eating approach: eat what you want, when you want it. Our bodies know to seek out the variety of nutrients that they need to function, and proponents of intuitive eating explain that paying close attention to your cravings will naturally lead to a nutritious diet. When it comes to gauging how much food your body requires, it’s far easier to eat until you’re satisfied than it is to count and track calories.

Don’t Demonize Macronutrients

Popular as the keto diet may be, there’s no evidence that a low-carb diet is any healthier than one that includes a balance of all macronutrients. The same goes for low-fat diets. A 2020 review of 121 previously conducted, randomized controlled trials published in The British Medical Journal found that none of the diets limiting certain macronutrients like carbs or fats are any more effective at improving health than a regular, varied diet.

Still, it’s common to demonize certain carbs or fats, even if you aren’t on a particular diet. Maybe you pass on the bread basket because you don’t want to eat too many carbs, or always use nonstick cooking spray instead of oil because you’re wary of adding too much fat to a meal. Soto says this isn’t necessary. All three macronutrients play an important role in health and function. The Dietary Guidelines for Americans recommend getting anywhere from 45 to 65 percent of your calories from carbs, 10 to 35 percent from protein, and 20 to 35 percent from fat. There’s a lot of wiggle room there. Most people’s intake already falls within these ranges, so striking the perfect balance of macros day after day isn’t something you should overthink.

You Don’t Need to Burn Anything Off

Food is more than just a source of energy, Chan says. “We eat food for so many reasons, and it’s important to honor those,” she says. “We connect with our culture through food, we connect with others over a good meal, and we eat for pleasure and nostalgia, all of which supports overall well-being.” But the idea that you must earn food with a grueling workout is still pervasive.

Trying to compensate with exercise when you feel you’ve eaten too much can have a significant negative impact on your quality of life, Chan says. At worst, it sets into motion a cycle of overeating, compensating, and overeating again. Instead of beating yourself up, or trying to atone for eating more than feels comfortable, just let your body do its thing and digest. You’ll feel fine again soon, and chances are you’ll feel less hungry later on.

Yes, there’s nuance here. Food still fuels movement, and there’s nothing wrong with adjusting your intake accordingly when you’re training. The important thing is to not be too rigid or punish yourself for eating too much. A strict calories-in, calories-out approach to fueling isn’t very effective anyway. There’s strong evidence refuting the popular idea that eating 3,500 calories leads to one pound of weight gain, and equally strong evidence that fitness trackers are notoriously terrible at measuring the actual number of calories burned during a workout.

Be Mindful and Flexible

“Ditching food rules opens the door for nutritious foods, not so nutritious foods, and everything in between to be enjoyed,” Chan says. The goal isn’t to give up on good nutrition but to make it less stressful and more sustainable. If your intention is to feel your best, be mindful of how different foods affect your mood and energy levels. Use that to guide what you choose to eat, instead of sticking to black-and-white rules that set you up for failure.

via Outside Magazine: Nutrition

#IFTTT #Outside Magazine: Nutrition

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dontcallmecarrie · 7 years ago

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You guys know the drill. Some spoilers for Chapter 20 in TWiFFON, [plus some themes that get touched on in the next arc,] because of obvious reasons.

The what-if I’m playing with this round, under the cut because it grew on me and now wants to be its own spinoff oneshot of TWiFFON:

What if Ultron had managed to kidnap Tony?

I wasn’t very subtle about Ultron’s obsession with stealing Tony away, and it’s pretty obvious what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been stopped. Vision got to him before he got a chance to do so, but if he hadn’t been assimilated, Ultron would had most definitely stolen Tony away.

As for exactly what happens...It depends a bit, actually. In Chapter 20, Vision was lucky; Ultron hadn’t expected him to be that strong, and managed to win the fight.

But maybe, in another universe, Ultron won, because Vision powerful but young, whereas Ultron knows his limits, and has been sitting for years with little more to do than wait and plan.

If Vision had lost the battle, Ultron would’ve possessed the Mind Stone, and been amused by Vision enough to transfer him to the now-mostly-defunct Legionnaire while keeping the shiny new vibranium body for himself.

...or perhaps he does something else, but there’s only so many what-ifs I’m willing to keep track of during a shatterpoint, so just roll with him ditching Vision, all right?

And, with it, Ultron would have been unstoppable.

Tony, of course, would’ve known right away that something was wrong, but he’s busy fighting a huge horde of Chitauri on his own lonesome, cut off from everyone else, and would not have been able to take Ultron on as well. The Iron Legion’s good, but their numbers are being decimated because Ultron’s got his main objective [the Mind Stone back] and he wants to take Tony with him when he goes to report to Thanos, so subtlety isn’t a concern anymore.

The Avengers realize they’ve been played, pretty damn fast.

Because it’s pretty hard not to notice, when the Chitauri aren't working as a distraction anymore, just focused on overwhelming Iron Man, and Tony’s very clearly trying not to lose it over the comms and the portal’s acting up but they don’t have Loki’s Scepter, don’t know how to influence it.

The battle’s almost entirely shifted to the air so the team can only watch while Tony Stark’s finally overwhelmed by the entirety of the Chitauri army, and swept away into the portal, and it closing almost immediately after.

Now, since I’m fighting off plot bunnies already, I won’t go into what would’ve happened if Ultron had left the portal open, because that’s pretty self-explanatory and any alternatives would require their own post for me to go into specifics.

Tony’s very obviously freaking out, and this is literally his worst nightmare, cut off from JARVIS, and the rest and he’s seeing the alien army he’s been trying to get the Earth ready for and...welp.

That he’s being dragged and ‘presented’ to Thanos, is only the goddamn cherry on top.

He doesn’t know what happened to Vision, but Ultron’s wearing his body and that’s not exactly helping either. The only silver lining to being around Ultron is his tendency to monologue, and that’s how Tony gets an idea of what’s going on.

Thanos is looking at him like he’s an insect, and oh, that’s where Loki got some of his crazy from, makes sense. [He’s so, so screwed, isn't he?]

...oh, wait, they want to recruit Tony? And have him make them an army, because they’re curious as to what he’s capable of? This, he can work with.

...it’s been a few years since the debut of Iron Man, and Tony never really advertised what went down in Afghanistan. Plus, these aliens have different priorities, and really it’s not their fault they’re making the same mistake the Ten Rings did.

Except for the way it really, really is.

Add in Tony’s resistance to the Mind Stone [Loki tried it on him in the Avengers and failed, remember? Plus with humanity’s surprise tolerance for items of infinite cosmic power that I mentioned in another post] and you get Tony with highly advanced alien tech, being forced to supply an army for the enemy.

Because that’s ended so well for his captors before, right?

Meanwhile, back on Earth...

...hmm. I can’t decide. Because the Avengers are reeling, are going ‘oh shit’ and ‘looks like Tony wasn’t as crazy as we thought, oops’, while JARVIS...

Umm. Well, obviously he’s not going to take it well.

And I can’t honestly say how that’ll go down. Because JARVIS, at this point, is traumatized and has been hyperfixating on Tony’s safety to cope. His morality’s never been much to write home about and Tony was what was keeping him reigned in. He has a robot army at hand, doesn’t believe in overkill, and his morality chain’s gone, there’s no way this can go wrong, right?

He was already borderline Skynet in some ways, but seeing Tony get kidnapped [and hearing him, and feeling the connection become static]...well. I’ll leave that up to your imagination.

It depends, really.

If he goes the subtle route:

JARVIS would regroup the Iron Legion, collect Vision and any alien artifacts, and book it home. He wouldn’t care about what happens to the Avengers, except to run a subroutine to monitor them [because he’d deemed them a potential threat before but now Tony got captured on their watch—] and mobilizing as many researchers to get on the case as he possibly can. Dr. Foster’s data gets copied to his private servers, SWORD and R&D are on it, and it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

Vision gives him the data, and got moved to an Iron Man suit [because the body he’s in was mostly running on willpower], while they’re working on making him a newer and better body. [And if the Iron Legion’s also growing exponentially...well, that’s no one’s business, now, is it?]

Rhodey immediately gets brought in, and is kept in the loop the entire time.

This isn’t his normal field of study, and the only words he recognizes are the ones that also pertained to aviation engineering, but he does his best to not get lost.

He’s seething, and only part of it’s guilt [he’d been less than 500 meters away, again, just like last time—], and JARVIS clued him in as to how the team had treated Tony [he’d punched Thor while still in the suit, when they’d first met. Thor had let him, and didn’t lift a hand to fight back].

But things are going slower now, because Resident Genius 1′s the guy who got kidnapped, while Genius 2′s MIA [...or not? Maybe he sticks around? Hmm...] and Dr. Foster and Selvig’re doing quite a bit of heavy lifting. Not to say SWORD and SI aren’t, but their specialties are in ways to make things explode better other fields, so progress isn’t what it used to be.

The Avengers, meanwhile...well, they get shafted, simply put. Tony was the one doing all the work, and now that he’s gone and SI’s devoted its spare resources to finding him, they’re facing the scrutiny of the world and don't have any good answers to their tough questions.

Turns out losing billionaire philanthropists was a bigger deal than they’d thought, and now that Tony’s gone it’s Steve that’s getting called by the World Security Council, except this time it’s about reconstruction efforts in Johannesburg and questioning his recruitment choices and what was being done to secure the planet and he doesn’t know what to say.

...that might’ve been a bit harsh, actually.

I’d like to think that Tony’s loss would’ve been the wake-up call the Avengers never had, the likes of Phil Coulson’s death in the first Avengers movie, because I’m a sucker for good team dynamics and even if it won't go this way in TWiFFON, if I can fix it even a little, I will.

Just...umm.

Please ignore Wanda’s absence, or pretend that the Chitauri took out both twins instead of just Pietro in this one, because of reasons.

Thor’s taking it the hardest, and Vision’s mention of Thanos [one of the things he’d managed to get from Ultron’s mind during the fight] makes his blood run cold as he remember’s Loki’s Scepter [and the gleam of madness in his eyes], the similarities between him and Tony, and goes back to Asgard as soon as possible because—no, please no. Hopefully Heimdall had something, please, don’t let this happen again—

Steve’s the team leader, and he’s taking it pretty damn hard, too. He’s looking back, and remembering what happened last time, and wants to punch himself in the face. How had he not seen this? Why hadn’t he— just— how could he have been so stupid? [And what could they do now?]

His nightmares had featured Bucky falling for years now. Seeing Tony getting swept up and up and up is not much better.

Natasha’s calling in as many favors as she can, and between her and Maria Hill, a good chunk of SHIELD’s scientists are also working on it. Relations between SWORD and SHIELD improve, because they’re collaborating more, and working towards the same goal.

Clint’s retirement either gets moved up from ‘after this mission’ to ‘right fucking now, go to ground and lay low stat’, or he stays with team, since half the roster’s MIA and the other half isn’t doing so hot. He’s also calling in every favor he’s got, and the scientists who were working on the Tesseract and weren’t in Natasha’s debt tended to owe him one. [Or two.]

Bruce’s situation I already covered. Either MIA or hard at work.

They’re doing what they can with what they have, and maybe it’s not enough right now, but they’ll get there.

[Aka the cast of TWiFFON assembles to rescue Tony.]

Of course, that’s assuming JARVIS has a modicum of self-restraint and subtlety, when Tony’s been kidnapped on his watch. [He doesn't believe in overkill, after all.]

If JARVIS had decided to go forego subtlety, though...

He can make Skynet look like a toddler, his morals are now officially compromised, and Tony did his level best to keep him safe.

You do the math.

He may or may not have kidnapped every scientist who hadn’t replied favorably to his request within 72 hours, is what I’m saying.

He may or may not have stolen all data from multiple nations without making any bones about it, and scared the crap out of the planet while at it.

Ditto as to what the Iron Legion’s up to. Or Stark Industries.

Tony would gladly raise hell for those he cares about, and some things run in the family.

Either way, at some point another wormhole’s made, or opens up.

Everyone’s gearing for battle and panicking and the Iron Legion’s assembled, when a single figure in slim black-and-gold armor slowly exits and the portal starts to close behind him.

“This the right place? Terra—Earth, I mean, Earth! Damn I’ve really spent too much time abroad. Hey, JARVIS, miss me—oooh boy. You’ve been busy, haven't you?”

#shatterpoint #behind the scenes #The War is Far From Over Now #writer's commentary #Naught rambles

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donutpwns · 7 years ago

Text

Journey to the Roots Part 3

Part 2 - Part 4

“Mabel, this is a bad idea!”

“Do you have a better one?”

“No, but--”

“Then come on!”

Static. Screams. Their Grunkles will be so mad. This was a bad idea, such a bad idea.

WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL

----------

She hits her head on the door when she wakes up with a jolt, a whine escaping her at the pain. There’s a terrible pounding against the back of her eyes which sting with the threat of tears. What was…she felt even worse than when she’d first woken up in the front seat of Stan’s car. Which she now was in the backseat of? When had she moved from the front seat again? Her and Stan had been snacking and listening to some of the awesome pop songs from the 80s that he liked to pretend to hate but she knew he really loved. When had she moved to the backseat?

Slowly she sits up; the movement combined with the rocking of the car doing her stomach no major favors. Stan’s still in the driver’s seat, humming to himself and tapping offbeat against the steering wheel. Mabel originally thought his issues with keeping a rhythm was due to his poor hearing in the future, but now she was starting to realize that he may in fact be tone deaf.

He notices her and their eyes meet in the rearview mirror. “Look who decided to wake up. You feeling any better after that nap, sweetheart? You’re still looking pretty green. Maybe we should’ve lifted you some medicine along with the food.”

“Younkle Stan?” she curls up a little more in the seat, leaning against the door and tugging the collar of her sweater up to her nose. Not quite Sweater Town because she wants to see Stan but enough to help ease a bit of her anxiety. Was she losing more memories? And that dream… “Do you ever...feel like you might've done something really bad?”

She sees Stan’s eyes focus on her for a moment through the rearview mirror, his mouth twitching from the friendly smile he’d been wearing. He gives a weak, forced laugh, showman smile in place instead. “Pumpkin, I've done all kinda bad in my life.” The smile disappears when he looks back to the road. When he speaks again his voice is a bit softer, “Why? You do something bad?”

A shiver runs through her, clenching her stomach and sending a new stab of pain behind her eyes. “I think I made Dipper do something.” She closes her eyes, trying to think past the pain. Her whole body hurts when she tries to chase down the dream. She can hear both her and her brother screaming, remembers being afraid. Remembers the sound of—

WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL

“Oh god, I’m gonna be sick.” She opens her eyes, clamping her hands over her mouth to try to force down the bile that she can taste in the back of her throat. Her vision blurs as her eyes water. She hears Stan swear and the car jerks to the side of the road. She looks out the window to see that they’re on the side of the highway, cars speeding past them.

“Breathe, kid. Hey, it’s okay.” Stan’s turned around in his seat so he’s looking right at her, face pinched in worry. Then he’s climbing out of the car and moving around to the side that’s facing the ditch beside the road. “Please don’t puke in my car. C’mere.”

He reaches out his arms to pick her up, probably to carry her to puke into the grass, but she instead takes it as an invitation to latch onto him. She gets her arms around his neck and presses her face to his throat as she trembles. “I think I did something really bad and what if Dipper is mad at me? What if I’m wrong and I got sent back alone because Dipper doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore? What if—” what if they were going to be like Stan and Ford, is what she thinks and then feels even worse for thinking it.

Stan is hunched super awkwardly from how she’s clinging to him while still in the backseat and he’s standing beside the car. She feels him sigh before his arms wrap around her. He picks her up and shifts her a bit before sitting in the seat himself, one leg out of the car, one in. One of his arms hugs her about her shoulders while his free hand rubs small circles into her lower back. It makes her think of her mom, which just serves to make her start crying harder into the collar of Stan’s shirt.

“Listen, uh, Mabel…I don’t really know you or your brother. Not right now. And I don’t know what you did or didn’t do, or how Dipper feels about it,” He clears his throat and grabs her shoulder, forcing her to lean back to look him in the face. His face softens when she looks at him, “But I do know a thing or two about making the people you love mad at you. And know what it took me a really long time to learn?”

She shakes her head, biting her lower lip hard enough to taste copper despite feeling no pain from it.

Stan rubs her mouth with the sleeve of his new jacket. “I learned that you gotta be sorry and want to make up for it, but they gotta love you enough to give you the chance.” His smile is sad and breaks her heart, because she knows that he doesn’t think Ford loves him enough. “So, yeah, Dipper might be mad. He might be mad for a long time. And it might hurt having him be mad at you, but if he loves you as much as he should, he’ll realize that he needs to forgive you. So you just gotta be ready for that day.”

Mabel sniffles, leaning forward to rest against his chest and be hugged. She slips her hands into his jacket to hug him as much as she can with how much wider than her arms he is. “…are you scared to see him again, Younkle Stan?”

A laugh shakes through his chest and it sounds like his heartbeat goes a little funny for a moment. “Sweetheart, I’m terrified.” She hears a telltale sound of sniffling above her but purposely ignores it. If she sees him crying, she knows he’ll shut down and make an excuse about getting something in his eye.

They sit like that for several minutes until Mabel’s tears slow to a stop. She still feels wrung out and her head still hurts, but she does feel a little better having cried. Plus hugging it out always made her feel better. She leans back, making sure not to look Stan in the face when he hurriedly rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes.

His showman grin is back in place when she does finally look up at him, though his eyes are ringed with red. “But, hey! We’re gonna be heroes, right? Save my idiot genius brother from that Bill guy!” he musses her hair, which doesn’t help with the headache but does help her feel less like emotional garbage. “That should get both of us some good points, even if they’re both mad at us.”

Oh, right. They were going to save the day. Save the day and fix things with Ford. Even if Dipper was mad, once he saw Stan and Ford acting the way twins were supposed to act there was no way he wouldn't be her best friend anymore. And she'd finally apologize for being so mean all the time and maybe actually try to play his nerdy board game when they got home.

“Um, Younkle Stan? I kinda have another problem, other than the maybe being a bad person.” She shifts in his lap, scraping her teeth against the torn skin from where she'd bit her lip earlier. “I don't… really remember getting in the backseat?”

Stan lifts a brow at her, “Like ya blacked out? Shi-oot. You might be sicker than we thought.” He presses a hand to her forehead, frown deepening. “You don't have a fever. Is this, like, a time sickness?”

“I don't know. This didn't happen any of the other times we traveled through time.” She scowls; this whole thing was weird. She still didn't understand how she'd ended up with Stan, not that she was complaining. Her Younkle was the best. “And my body is all achey and my head keeps hurting if I try to remember. But I feel like I gotta because it's important.”

Stan shrugs, “If it's real important you'll remember when you need to. I'm sure Ford will be able to figure it out once we get there. We're still a few hours out from what I can figure.” He stands up with her and carries her to the front seat. “Don't sweat it, kid. I'm sure whatever's the issue it's not as big a deal as you think.”

Mabel reaches into the backseat to grab the blanket, and then she snatches the knitting project she'd started from the floorboards. By the time Stan is back in the driver's seat, she's made the front seat into a Knitting Nest. A neighbor city to Sweater Town with a booming export business. “You're probably right. I'm just being silly; Younkle Ford will be able to figure it out. And then we'll save him from Bill and the after.”

Stan frowns harder as he pulls back onto the highway, resuming his steering wheel tapping. “...you keep talking about an after. What exactly does Bill do to Ford other than trick him?” the leather of the steering wheel squeaks with how hard Stan grips it. “Does he hurt him? Like, physically?”

Mabel squirms a bit in her seat; she'd told Stan all about Bill and living with her and Dipper and Ford, but not about the portal accident. It felt wrong to talk about, a story that wasn’t hers to tell. She also realizes that she doesn't know everything Bill did to Ford, only what Dipper had shared with her. She knows Bill tricked Ford like he'd tricked Dipper and Gideon. But if he'd hurt him...well, she can remember the bruises and small cuts that covered Dipper after Bill had possessed him. Had he done that to Ford too? The thought makes her hate the jerk even more.

“Grunkle Ford…wasn't okay after. I don't know everything that happened, but I know he needs help now so he can be okay later.” She grumbles out a Grunkle Stan style swear when she drops a stitch. “Bill is a jerk.”

WHO'D SACRIFICE EVERYTHING THEY'D WORKED FOR JUST FOR THEIR DUMB SIBLING?

And she'd almost given him the book! All because of a stupid boy. Bill brought out the worst in their family. She still felt bad about it. Maybe the unicorn was right; maybe she wasn't a good person. Dipper forgave her for that but sometimes it felt like she couldn't stop herself from screwing up. From being selfish and demanding and rude. The longer she thought about it, the more reasons she found that Dipper had to not forgive her. She didn't know how to function without Dipper as a counterbalance. They'd always been together, and even though it had been less than a day, she’d never missed him as much. It felt like she really hadn't seen him in thirty years.

A pair of fingers snaps in front of her face, startling her out of her thoughts. She rubs at her eyes that had been watering and tries to give Stan her best grin. Now she was making Stan feel bad, she was the worst. This is why she needed Dipper, he--

“You're thinking too much, kid.” Stan grunts, sparing her just a glance before resuming his focus on the road. He's gone back to tapping the non-rhythm against the steering wheel. “Listen, for what it's worth, I don't think Dipper is going to hate you or whatever. You seem like a good kid and from what you’ve told me, you two are a kinda world class team. See, Ford and I were just dumb kids that thought we only had each other. But you two actually have friends and sh--stuff, but you're still best friends who have actual adventures.”

Mabel sniffs, slowly working on her line of stitching. She thinks about Grenda and Candy, about Dipper and Wendy. About the stupid gnomes and her brother promising to trust her always no matter what the journal said. “I miss him a lot, Younkle Stan. Like a lot a lot. And it's only been a little while but it feels like forever and I just wanna see him.”

“You will, sweetheart. I promise I'll do whatever I can to get you back with your brother, even if it means dealing with mine.”

She smiles softly; she might not have Dipper, but at least she has Stan. “Thank you, Younkle Stan.” She burrows into the blanket and resumes knitting. She has Stan and soon she’ll have Ford and Dipper too. Even if Dipper is mad at her, Stan is right, he’ll forgive her. She’ll do whatever she has to for it.

She doses off again at some point in the drive; when Stan wakes her up her knitting needles have left angry red lines where they were pressed up against her palm. She shakes the hand out while she yawns and stretches. She feels much better this time, having had no dreams. Then she looks out the window and feels her throat close up.

There’s two cars parked outside the Shack that she doesn’t recognize, and signs telling people to go away rather than step up. With the signs and the snow, it looks so lifeless compared to the place she’d called home all summer. It reminds Mabel of being at school at night; creepy and with a sense of wrong. But that’s where Ford is. And hopefully Dipper.

“Ready to go into the unknown, Younkle Stan?” she looks over at him, where he’s fidgeting with the sleeve of his new jacket. He’s got that ‘Ford-just-stepped-out-of-the-portal’ nervous smile on his face again and she really hopes this reunion goes better than that one.

“Nope.” He turns to look at her, smile vaguely manic. “But let’s do it.”

------------------------

Dipper awakes with a start, bile climbing up his throat as his skull pounds with a vengeance. He swallows it down and tries to will himself to not lose the small breakfast he'd had. When had he fallen asleep? He remembers the drive back to the not-yet Shack, McGucket following with the excuse of ‘can't trust Stanford with a child’. What had happened after that?

More blackouts in his memory? Dipper had thought it was just from how he'd been sent back in time but...okay, so this was a little scary. He looks around; he's back in the room that'll be Soos’s break room and then Ford’s room. He snatches his hat from where he’d left it on the floor, letting himself feel comforted by the familiarity of it on his head. The pain was passing quicker so long as he didn't try to chase the memories down. What was going on with him? What could Ford’s tests have missed?

He'd been dreaming something, something he feels was important for him to remember. Something to do with an idea Mabel had had and—

Huuuurk. Okay, dream also equals urge to vomit. Noted.

He lets himself take a few minutes to breathe, to let his stomach and head settle. The goal is to not vomit as it often is in life. Vomit free zone, that's what he is. He vaguely wishes Mabel was around to pat his back the way she had when he’d been so excited to meet Ford, the way their mom did back home when they got sick. That thought sends a stab of longing straight to his heart. The feeling passes enough for him to stand and leave the room.

“I knew ya were the stupidest genius ever, Stanford, but this takes the whole flabnabit cake!” He hears Old Man—well, it's just McGucket right now, isn't it— yelling from the living room so he goes towards the sound. “Ya wanna doom the world with yer damn thing in the basement an’ now yer doing it with a child sleepin’ upstairs.”

Dipper peeks around the doorframe; McGucket is seated on a section of the couch that has been cleared by shoving a lot of books to the floor while Ford paces paves the length of the living room. Neither seems to have noticed him. He figures it won’t hurt to listen a bit; adults have a nasty habit of keeping things from kids no matter how capable said child—almost practically a teenager in fact— was, and this Ford wasn’t as ready to trust Dipper as the one in the future.

Ford shoots an exasperated look at his former partner. “I know, alright? I admit that—that I was wrong about the portal. You were right, it's too dangerous, but—”

“Holy cow, someone call the paper; Stanford Ego Pines admits he was wrong. It'll be a national holiday.” McGucket crosses his arms, leaning back in the couch like a petulant teenager and giving Ford a look that would have Wendy whistling impressed.

Dang, McGucket. Dipper shakes his head. Was this what he was like before he started erasing his memory? Though Dipper’s not sure when that started happening; just that it happened after he’d seen the other side of the portal. Was this a McGucket with his memories or one with holes all through his mind? He winces at the thought; that was a very harsh way of putting it.

“Listen, I know you're angry with me, but surely you have to see the big picture here.” Ford sweeps a hand in front of him, clenching the other at his side. His hair is sticking out in all directions again like he’s been tugging on it. “I can’t stop what I’ve done and take care of a child. You helped me build it, you can help me take it apart safely and—”

“I will never, not on m’ damn life, Stanford, go back down there.” McGucket’s voice is dark, there’s a shake to his hand when he moves to grip the arm of the sofa white-knuckle tight. He sighs and leans forward, one hand going to cover his eyes. “I—I get why yer asking me fer help, Ford. An’ I get why it’s important. But I ain’t ever going down there again. I can’t. I ain’t ever want to…remember what we did. And God forgive me fer ever helpin’ ya with it in th’ first place.” His hand drops from his eyes to his knee and he looks up at Ford.

Well, so he’s probably started on the memory gun at least. Maybe he can help answer questions about Dipper’s lost memories.

The look seems enough to deflate Ford, who sinks down to sit on top of some books on the coffee table. He shakes his head, “Fidds…fine. If you won’t help me then I’ll just do it alone. I still have all your notes to help me.” He moves his fingers through his hair, furthering mussing it up. Dipper realizes he looks like an owl with over fluffed feathers. “If you won’t help me with the portal, will you at least—”

McGucket nods, waving a hand as if to brush away the remainder of the question. “Yeah. That…won’t be a problem. I have some other things ‘m workin’ on, but they can wait. Kids come first.”

Wait, what?

Ford’s shoulders slump in relief. “Thank you. It’ll just be while I get everything taken care of here, and then I’ll come get him.”

Ohhh. Oh no.

McGucket nods again. “Once he wakes up, I’ll take him back to my place.”

“No!” Dipper yells, giving away that he was eavesdropping and not caring. He tries to rush into the living room but trips over his own feet. He grunts when he hits the floor before shoving back up to his feet. He points a finger at Ford, “You’re not going to send me to stay with Old M—I mean, McGucket! Young Man McGucket! I’m gonna help you!”

Ford gives an annoyed sounding sigh, turning his head up to the ceiling. “Dipper, my work is too dangerous and you're clearly sick. You said yourself that you weren't feeling too well. I can't fix my mistakes and look after an ill ten-year-old. You'll just stay with Fiddleford until I can safely dismantle the portal. Then I can focus on getting you home.”

“I'm twelve! Almost 13!” Dipper’s face burns; this Ford doesn't think he can do it. The weird path I must walk alone. “You can’t send me away! I’m not—” not Stan, is what he nearly says, but he clamps his hands over his mouth before the words can escape him, eyes wide. Why did nearly he say that? Why think it? “We're family; I want to help. Please, Great Uncle Ford! Just give me a chance to prove myself! I'm not sick, I promise! Just-just time lagged!” the last part is a lie, but he can tell Ford about the lost memories after they were done dealing with the portal. He'd be fine until then; it was just an hour or so lost, no big deal. Getting to prove himself to Ford, to the Author, was way more important.

McGucket chuckles from his spot on the couch; Dipper gives him an awkward smile back. “If he ain't a precocious lil feller.” He pushes himself up from the couch and gets close enough to pat Dipper’s hat. “So yer the time traveler. I reckon that's one of the stranger things I ever did see, but not the strangest. So, Stanford,” he levels the dry look right back at Ford, who instantly straightens with a scowl, “what's the plan? I ain't taken nobody against their will. Especially not a kid with even half that determination.”

Ford groans, once more fisting his hair. “Why does no one ever listen to me, gosh dang it?! Everything is an uphill battle.” He shoots Dipper a serious look, “Fine. You wanna prove yourself? I need some help retrieving something to help me deal with our you-know-who problem, and since Fiddleford wants to be a child about it, you can come. And if you do good and don't get ill again, I'll consider letting you help further. Is that sufficient for you two?”

Dipper nods so fast his jaw clicks and his hands are shaking at his sides; oh what he wouldn't give for a pen. A chance to prove himself, to go on an adventure with Ford not spawned by magical dice! Ohh, wait till Mabel hears about this. She'll be so jealous. Too bad he doesn't have a camera to take pictures for her. That's one scrapbook he'd love.

“And while you two have yer adventure, I can work on the time travelin’ problem.” McGucket offers, surprising Dipper.

“You can do that?” he frowns up at him. Then again, the McGucket he knew could build just about anything.

McGucket looks proud as punch, thumbing his big nose. “I built the last time detector we had, ‘fore Stanford stupidly lost it. Yer uncle might be brilliant but he ain't able to hold a candle to my engineering. It's why he needed me to—” he freezes; proud look lost to something confused, “to…build something. The thing in the basement. I...I cain’t quiet recall the specifics but it was mighty impressive, I reckon.”

Dipper laughs nervously, uncomfortable with the reality of McGucket’s memory issues and knowing exactly where that would take him. Well, maybe they could help with that once Bill wasn't a threat, before Dipper went home. Hard for McGucket to found a cult and destroy more of his mind while he was here, right?

He turns his attention back to Ford, who has started sifting through some of the books on the table in the hunt for something. “So, uh, Great Uncle Ford. Where are we going? What do we need to get?” he moves closer and picks up on of the books closest to him. Physics and Where They Just Don’t Work. Huh.

“Where it all began, my boy. Aha!” Ford manages to slide out a folded up piece of paper from beneath the pile. When he unfolds it, Dipper can see an array of lines that make no sense whatsoever. Then Ford folds it up again differently until it’s in the shape of a triangle and when he holds it up, Dipper can see what it is. A map. “I’ve already hidden away my other journals and with the snow it would be quite difficult to get them back. So we’ll just re-gather the information from its source; the cave.”

The cave. The cave. The cave.

WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL

Dipper nearly doubles over; it feels like he was just stabbed right through the eye into his brain. The book in his hands drops to the ground as he presses his palms to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. Oh god, it hurts so bad! He feels his legs threatening to give out under the wash of nausea, feels the bile once again crawling up his throat. No, no, no, no. What was happening to him?

A pair of hands catch his shoulders as he sways and he looks up in surprise at his uncle. Before Dipper knows what he’s doing, he’s got his fingers dug into Ford’s sweater and his face pressed into his stomach while he struggles to breathe through the vice on his skull. Ford’s awkward, one hand staying on Dipper’s shoulder while the other twists his hat away so the brim isn’t digging into him. Dipper’s embarrassed by how he’s clinging, how childish he’s being, but everything hurts. He tries to block out whatever memory is trying to surface.

“We can’t go to the cave. We can’t. It’s not—” he swallows down the bile and digs his fingers in harder. “It’s not safe. I don’t know why, I can’t remember, but we can’t go. S-something’s not right there.” Oh god, he wished Mabel was here. Even if just to give him a proper hug, unlike Ford’s uncomfortable patting. He felt stronger when it was the two of them than when it was just him alone and right now he felt weaker than he ever had. He was with the Author, he was being given the chance to do what he’d dreamed all summer and go on an adventure, but suddenly all he wants is to be with his sister.

Ford pushes him back a bit so he can kneel, putting him roughly eye level with Dipper. He looks over at where McGucket is standing to the side; Dipper’s cheeks burn at the look of concern on the other man’s face. Ford gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Listen, Dipper. Breathe. Slow, in through your nose, out through your mouth. Do that for me.”

Dipper obeys; slow deep breaths in the nose and out the mouth. It takes a few repetitions before the panic starts to dissipate and with it most of the nausea, though his head still hurts. He nods slowly at his uncle.

“Good boy. Now keep doing that and listen.” Ford frowns and adjusts Dipper’s hat, fixing where it had been pushed askew. “The cave isn’t safe; I know that. Going there is a calculated risk and one I feel that we can withstand. So long as I don’t fall asleep again, my mind is safe, and you’d have to shake his hand for him to take you. And now that I’ve finally had some coffee, I’m awake enough for this, but perhaps you should stay—”

“No!” Ford doesn’t have the plate in his head; Ford isn’t safe from Bill. Well, that would explain the way he’d screamed when he’d woken up after the five minute nap after Dipper had first arrived. How long has it been since Ford has slept? Dipper feels a chill in his spine at the thought of Ford going there and potentially falling asleep. “Great Uncle Ford, you have to listen to me! You can’t go there! It’s not—“ another stab of pain, “I don’t know why but it’s too dangerous! Even for you! Especially for you!”

Ford looks ready to argue more but McGucket speaks up. He’s moved over to the window, peaking through the blinds. “Now, I don’t mean to be interuptin’ y’all’s argument, but there’s someone here. Someone that looks an awful lot like you, Ford, but with a much better haircut.”

\lsdqfo��,*

#this is also on ao3 if anyone prefers to read it there #gravity falls #mabel pines #stanford pines #stanley pines #dipper pines #fiddleford mcgucket #fanfiction #fanfic #kainichivonwrites #journey to the roots

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deepseawritings · 7 years ago

Text

Trapped (part 2/2)

EDIT: Part 1 is here

Fucking Dutier and his holier-than-thou attitude. Good riddance to him and his chronic sourness, and to the endless accusations that were driving Lukash mad.

He continued messing with the damaged computer, illuminated only by the glare of the screen. He hummed as he worked. Despite the appearances, it wasn't a happy or contented hum. He was doing it for the same reason he started talking before: noise helped mask the buzzing in his head. It was really annoying, like having a mosquito following you all the time. So he hummed and talked to himself, hoping it soon would go away.

"Dancing on the ashes of the world, I behold the stars... c'mon you piece of shit... Heavy gale is blowing to my face... dammit!"

Maybe it was time to accept his hacking skills weren't up to the task. Or that the hard drive was corrupt beyond salvation.

Accepting defeat, he turned the computer off. The screen's light faded out of existence and the room was left in almost total darkness. There was one of the ever present emergency lights out on the corridor, but only a weak glow arrived inside the abandoned lab room. Blind in the shadows, Lukash stubbed his toe against the table's leg. Shit!

"Damn battery consuming anomaly," Lukash grunted while blindly rummaging his backpack, thinking on what he could use as a source of light. "Ah, right!"

The lighter, of course. Its flame was a poor substitute for the torchlight, but it was better than nothing. A loud noise followed by muffled shots came from somewhere far away. Looked like Voronin found a welcome party. Awesome, that meant less mutants Lukash would have to deal with.

He went to the dimly lit entrance of the room and into another corridor, which was blocked by an erratic electro. Thank goodness this could be bypassed simply throwing a bolt.

But his headache was killing him, the buzz getting louder and louder, like static in his mind, and he botched the timing between throwing the bolt and crossing. To avoid getting shocked he threw himself against the wall. To his luck, he fell against a door that burst opened under the sudden impact. The lighter’s flame was snuffed and his shoulder would develop a bruise the size of a mountain, but he was fine. Lukash re-lit the small flame of the lighter and decided to explore the place.

Getting lost in the small maze of interconnecting rooms was surprisingly easy, especially because all those rooms looked basically the same. But in the end he made it back to the corridor. The electro was behind him now, for which he was grateful. And further ahead the long corridor he glimpsed a hunched figure standing still in the semi darkness.

"Voronin?"

Had the Dutier lost his mind, stopping in the middle of the corridor in the dark like that? His eyes hurt from straining his vision in these conditions, and he saw everything blurry and greyed. His headache worsened considerably too. And the more he approached Voronin the more he felt something wasn't right.

The figure finally turned around, slowly. It most definitely wasn't Voronin. It wasn't even human anymore. A deformed face flashed in front of him, despite the fact neither of them had moved an inch. Reality spun wildly like a rollercoaster and Lukash nearly fell to his knees overwhelmed. Thinking was difficult, and reaching the GP-37 slung on his back proved to be a titanic effort since he barely knew what was up or down anymore. But he screwed his shut and focused on getting the weapon in his hands.

He succeeded, all the while the mutant's hideous mug flashed behind his closed eyes. Hoping he was gripping the rifle correctly -and not about to shoot himself- he opened fire. The accuracy left something to be desired, but at least he hit the mutant. The Controller either didn't realise it had been shot or didn't care, since it kept doing its weird mental voodoo.

Lukash wasted the whole clip on the Controller and when the ammo ran out, instead of reloading, he just took out his pistol and finished the job. He knew when the Controller died because he stopped feeling like someone put his brain on a blender. The pain stopped but his ears were still ringing and his vision was blurred. Oh God, this was way worse than the evilest of hangovers, everything kept spinning. Lukash sat on the floor while the world around him righted itself.

Slowly but surely he was getting better. Except for his vision, which had gone from blurry to unbearably bright. Fuck, it was like staring at a light bulb.

"Can you hear me?"

So he was actually staring at a light bulb. Sort of. "Get that damn thing out of my face!"

The torchlight's beam was redirected away from his eyes and Voronin even offered him a hand to get up. It was suspiciously nice of him.

"Oh, did you miss me? That's why you came back?" He swatted the hand away and got up on his own after picking up his rifle.

Voronin's answer was a sound of disgust mixed with annoyance. And yet he refrained from starting another of their vicious arguments.

"While you played with the computer I found more Burers. Killed one but the other smashed a barrel against me and escaped." Coming from Voronin that was as good as admitting he felt guilty, maybe even worried, by having left him behind to fend for himself.

But Lukash wanted an apology, damn it, so he pushed him further. "And you stumbled into me by coincidence, I'm sure."

The Dutier clenched his jaw and made a face like he swallowed a lemon. And then he surprised Lukash.

"Abandoning you in the dark was a bit extreme, I suppose I shouldn’t have lost my patience like that. I just couldn't think straight in that moment."

"I think this once it's understandable," Lukash kicked the Controller, making sure it was dead for good. "Man I hate Controllers and their ability to mess with people’s minds."

Voronin's answer was a stiff nod and an awkward silence fell upon them, neither sure of what to do after their little show of civility. Of course, Lukash broke it first, and with a rather unfortunate joke.

"Now we just have to agree about who ambushed who and we're as good as friends."

Talk about putting your feet on your mouth. Voronin gave him a hard look, clearly conveying the idea he thought him an idiot, and walked away, although at a slow enough pace that gave Lukash ample opportunity to catch up with him.

They walked in silence for a while, the torchlight's beam weakly illuminating the way. Lukash wondered if Voronin had an idea of where were they going, or if he simply went down the corridor because it was the easiest path.

"I think I may have an inkling about whose fault the ambush was," the Dutier said out of the blue when they reached a fork in their path. To the left there was a dead Burer slumped in the middle of the way. Vorornin went to the right. "And if I'm right I'll skin the son of a bitch alive"

"Ha, so he was one of yours!" Being proven right was amazing, more so when the admission came from the dour Duty General.

"He hasn't been one of mine for quite some time now," Voronin replied bitterly.

A deserter then. Probably someone with a grudge against his ex-faction, Lukash guessed.

They arrived to another big room full of old junk. Another lab presumably, like the one where they had their spat before going separate ways. A dark heap lay on the middle of the room.

They approached cautiously, until they were close enough to see it was a dead Burer. Must be the one that escaped from Voronin. Maybe he wounded it before it got away? Except, Lukash noticed with alarm, this one had the throat ripped open. Bullets didn't do that.

There was a single warning growl and fear doused him like an iced bucket of water. Then he saw a pair of malevolent yellow eyes too close to his face and pain bloomed on his chest. The bloodsucker clawed him from clavicle to hip and Lukash stumbled back. Voronin shot the mutant as soon as it became visible, drawing its attention away from Lukash. The bloodsucker turned around and jumped at the Dutier, attaching its tentacled maw on his neck with frightening efficiency. Lukash watched in sick fascination as the bullet wounds on its back slowly healed as the mutant drank blood, the flesh knitting back together in a scarred lump.

His rifle did nothing when he tried to shoot the mutant off of Voronin. Shit, he hadn't reloaded it since his encounter with the Controller! Mentally kicking himself for such a rookie mistake, he ditched the GP-37 in favour of the pistol, which he hoped still had some bullets in the clip. Unnatural regeneration ability or not, surviving a point blank range headshot was really difficult. Just to be sure, Lukash shot again. The creature went flaccid like a ragdoll and its mouth tentacles released its hold over Voronin's throat. The Dutier wasted no time in pushing the body away from him.

Even in the half-light of the room Lukash could see the wound on Voronin's throat with more detail he ever wanted. They needed to stop the bleeding right now. He started to frantically search in his bag. Fuck, and double fuck! Where were the bandages?! Or the Vinca, or... His hand closed around a soft bundle and he sighed in relief. Lukash shoved almost the entire roll of bandages in the wound and pressed hard, while still searching for the Vinca pills with his other hand. He would also need more bandages.

"Press here." He dragged Voronin's hand over the improvised patch and pressed it down hard until the Dutier winced in pain.

Lukash grabbed the fallen torchlight, because his blind search wasn't going that well, and for the first time saw the blood stain over his chest. At least he didn't feel much pain now, although that could be an effect of the adrenalin surge. He popped a Vinca pill and hoped it would be enough; he had a far more urgent wound to deal with.

He felt like something had tried to chew a piece of his neck off. His hand was still pressing down what felt like a mountain of bandages, and God it hurt. Being bitten by a bloodsucker usually was at the bottom of the list of survivable mutant attacks, usually because the bastards gorged themselves on their victims without restraint, and for the first time Voronin was really fucking glad for Lukash's presence. He tried to get up and the effort sent his head spinning, so he quickly sat down again.

"Ugh, water." Voronin wasn't sure if he said that aloud or not. But he must have, since Lukash materialised at his side with a canteen.

"How are you feeling?"

He grunted and drank more water. Was it really necessary to ask such stupid question? Lukash kept talking, seemingly unable to keep quiet for long.

"I think we managed to stop the bleeding, but if I were you I’d keep pressing down a little longer." Lukash tried to appear unconcerned, but he failed miserably.

Returning the canteen, Voronin looked at him and frowned at the dark stain covering his chest. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, just a scratch from our bloodsucking friend," Lukash waved his hand in a clearly dismissive gesture.

"If that's just a scratch then my neck wound is just a love bite," Voronin couldn’t keep the disapproval out of his voice. His wound was probably massive too, and he looked tired and drawn. Not like Voronin himself didn’t look any better, though, sitting on the floor and slumped against the wall to keep upright.

Ignoring his own injury, Lukash sat next to him and dragged his bag closer. He took a medkit out of the backpack and told Voronin he was going to take out the bloodied gauze and fix a proper dressing for the wound. Thankfully there was no more bleeding when he removed the ball of bandages.

"Seems like the bloodsucker didn't nick anything important when it gave you this hickey," even so, Lukash grimaced when the wound was uncovered. The resulting scar would be huge. "You're one lucky bastard."

The process of applying the butterfly stitches was unpleasant, the edges of the bite wound were pretty sensitive to being pinched together like that. Voronin schooled his face in a blank mask. The sooner Lukash was done with this the better.

The final dressing covering his neck was a bit shoddy and had a bit too much gauze, but Voronin didn't mind. After all, it's not like he would have done it better. He slowly got up. "Good. Now strip."

He didn't expect Lukash's startled laugh, though perhaps his choice of words hadn't been the most appropriate. "What? Isn't that a bit forward from your part?"

After mentally counting to ten, and fixing him with an unamused stare, he answered. "You know what I mean. Have you taken care of your own wound?"

"I took a Vinca pill? It didn't look as bad as your neck, you know?"

Okay, point taken. And yet that was no excuse. As they soon discovered, the dried blood made the clothing stick to the wound and water was necessary to peel it off without making the 'scratch' bleed again. He'd also been lucky, Voronin noticed. The slash went from his clavicle to mid chest, where it curled around his ribs and went down almost to the hip. With a little more force and with only a slightly different trajectory the bloodsucker could have easily gutted him.

"Hmm, I don't think you'll need stitches," was Voronin's verdict.

"Dude, you probably do. Proper stitches I mean, not the flimsy paper ones I used," Lukash admitted a touch worriedly. "But I'm afraid I'd make a butchery out of it."

"Yes, no offense but I don't think I'd let you try."

"Fair enough." Lukash seemed in an awful good mood. "Look at us, being nice to each other. Someone could even think we're friends!"

"I wouldn't take it that far." He slumped back again, searching the support of the wall. Damn, he tired so easily now. But they couldn’t afford to sit on their asses for long.

At Voronin's insistence, they soon retook the exploration of this place, but at a slower pace than usual. The rest of the rooms were pretty uninteresting: another lab, an empty room, a dormitory without a single mattress in the bunks. It was on this last one they found a dusty protective suit with an unknown badge sewn on it. It looked old and worn, but Lukash seized the opportunity to change his slashed suit for this one. Meanwhile he searched the rest of the lockers.

"How does it look?" The Freedomer asked, waving at his new ensemble. "Do I pass for an ecologist?"

"More like a merc. I don't think I've ever seen an ecologist in a blue suit." The suit had a greyish faded hue actually, but it could be guessed which colour it had originally been. "C'mon there's nothing else here."

Such affirmation could be broadly applied, as they soon learnt. The corridor led them to another infinite loop, like the one they found right after arriving. And the only other unexplored room turned out to be empty except for a badly rusted ladder going up to a hatch. With much regret, Voronin had to admit he didn't feel up to the task of climbing up the ladder; this slow crawl through the rooms had been taxing enough. And Lukash readily agreed when he proposed to rest for a bit before investigating where did the ladder lead.

Finding no suitable place but the floor, Voronin sat down and sighed heavily as he turned off the torchlight. No need to waste their only battery when the room was lit by faint glow coming from the corridor. Although that made searching what he wanted a tad more difficult.

"Anything you want in exchange for one of those?" Lukash looked at the painkillers in his hand with hopeful eyes. His ‘simple scratch’ must hurt worse than he admitted.

He traded it for a can of energy drink. Perhaps not the best trade, but he was going to need a little pick me up to keep the pace, he felt drained and sluggish. They took their painkillers and enjoyed a bit of rest while he drank the energy drink, and then got moving.

The ladder wobbled under their weight and creaked ominously, but it endured. The nasty surprise came when they reached the end of the ladder. No matter how much force it was applied, the hatch’s door wouldn't budge. Both of them tried opening it, all to no avail.

Ten minutes later they had to face the truth: they were back like they started, with no way out of the bunker. A desperate need to have a glimmer of hope ensued, and they started to list all the places explored, in the hopes of noticing something they could have overlooked. Lukash carried a notebook and a pencil in his backpack, so they started drawing a map of the whole place cobbled from their memories.

About an hour later they had a very nice map and no idea of what to do next.

"Maybe we should sleep, take on this tomorrow with a fresh perspective." It was sound advice and Voronin had no choice but to agree.

So, deciding this room was as good as any other place, Voronin took out the sleeping bag and went to sleep in sullen silence. Neither of them thought about setting up a watch. According to their map they had explored every place that was accessible, and killed every mutant in their way.

Quiet sobs woke him in the dead of the night. Well, Lukash supposed it was night, but he had no idea what time it truly was.

Voronin was snoring loudly, so he wasn't the one making those sobs. Not like crying seemed to be his style. Was he imagining things? The crying got louder and Lukash was pretty sure it wasn't a hallucination. Then it hit him like a revelation: it must be the damn poltergeist! As far as he knew they hadn't been able to kill it yet, the sneaky bastard just floated away and they forgot about it. Well, this ended now.

He grabbed his pistol, made sure it was loaded, and set off in search of the damn mutant. Following the sound of crying he arrived to the dormitory room where he found his new suit. A thin figure stood hunched in the shadows behind one of the bunks. Whatever it was, it seemed to have its back towards him. Nevertheless, remembering the encounter with the Controller, he preferred to be cautious. Aiming to its head with the pistol, he used his other hand to throw a bolt at it. Nothing. Slowly, he got closer to see what it was. Could poltergeist adopt a form that wasn't a floating ball of energy?

The mysterious figure turned out to be a skeleton dressed in a ragged lab coat. And it was hovering a few inches above the floor. The floating skeleton suddenly lurched forward and Lukash shot it by pure instinct. The bones fell on him, gracelessly scattering upon the impact. And a second later the emergency light shattered in a thousand pieces, leaving Lukash in total darkness.

Why did these kind of things happen to him, and where the fuck was his lighter? He patted all his pockets in search of it, praying he hadn't stuffed it into the backpack. Just as he found it and grabbed it, something cold breathed down his neck, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.

A deep seated surge of paranoia welled up in him and Lukash turned around quick like lightning, the flame of the lighter trembling at the sudden movement. He saw the glowing bastard between the bunks and shot it. The poltergeist retaliated by pushing one of the bunks against him. The impact made him stagger, the metallic frame hitting him right on the wound crossing his chest. The pain momentarily stole his breath away.

Nonetheless, he shot at the mutant again as soon as he was able to do so, then another shot rang in the air. The poltergeist died with what looked like a small implosion of energy, revealing its true appearance. Ugh, he preferred their energy ball form.

"You know, it's the second time I find you hunting mutants in the dark." Voronin pointed the torchlight at him, looking between irritated and slightly amused.

Lukash got closer to him and smirked teasingly. "And both times you came to my rescue, even if I had the situation under control. If I didn't know better I'd say –"

"Yes, yes, thank God you know better," Voronin hurriedly cut him with a put upon grunt.

Since they were both up and about, they decided to retrace their steps from yesterday, in the hopes they missed something, anything. The map they had made was flawless, though. Everything was reflected on the piece of paper, nothing had escaped their notice. And they were still irremediably trapped down here. Eventually they reached the room with the collapsed floor, the time warping anomaly sitting right under it. Had it deflated a bit or did he blow it out of proportion in his memory?

"The smart thing would be to not get into it again," Lukash said, scuffing his boot on the floor and sending a rain of tiny pebbles down into the anomaly.

"I never liked the idea of getting inside it," Voronin looked with distaste at the purplish bubble.

Last time they lost three days and all their energy in there. And yet Lukash both stood at the edge of the hole, looking down with fascination as the pebbles he pushed down seemed to float once they went inside the anomaly. It would take quite some time until they reached the floor.

"Any other ideas?" Voronin didn't sound very hopeful.

Equally desperate to avoid or stall going down there, Lukas wracked his brain for a single idea. There was nothing left unexplored on this floor; what could they try that they hadn't before? The hatch wouldn't budge; it probably was controlled remotely...

"Would you flip your shit if I, what word did you use, play with the computer?" The word again hung in the air between them, unsaid but tangible.

With one last look down to the time anomaly, Voronin turned to him. "I guess it can't hurt to try."

Waiting while Lukash worked on the computer was boring. First he patrolled around the room and investigated every corner of it, just to do something. Then Lukash complained he couldn't concentrate with him wandering about, so Voronin picked up one of the rickety stools from the floor and sat on it.

Watching the Freedomer work was interesting, at least for a short while. He was so focused on it, clearly showing his frustration every time he found a setback. It was almost endearing. Ultimately it didn’t offer that much entertainment, though. Mostly because everything in the screen looked like gibberish to him.

Voronin took out his PDA. According to its clock, and not counting the three days apparently spent crossing the time anomaly, they'd been here for about forty-eight hours. Sometimes it seemed like a lifetime. The communications channel was still dead and he even doubted his last message was properly sent. Voronin decided to confirm his theory by sending another message, a simple S.O.S this time. It worked like the last time, with an error telling him the messaging system was out of line even if the message was sent. He hoped Lukash was having better luck with the computer.

"I can't make this fucking piece of junk work!" Lukash violently pushed the keyboard away. "I'm out of ideas."

They both knew this had been a desperate attempt that would most probably fail. And yet neither of them liked the idea to go with their other plan. However, they were out of options.

"We have no other choice, do we?" Lukash sighed, swivelling lightly from side to side on the stool he was perched on.

Indeed they didn't. So they went back to the office with the collapsed floor, bypassing the electro in the middle of the corridor like they did before.

The time anomaly hadn't miraculously disappeared, but it certainly looked smaller than the last time. Curious how it expanded and contracted. However, while other person might marvel at it and wonder what induced those changes, Voronin only cared that it meant they would spend less time inside it. Perhaps then it would sap less energy out of them, he felt tired enough right now, he’d keel over if he spent too much time in the anomaly.

"Okay, here we go. On the count of three: one, two..." Lukash jumped down before arriving to three.

During the seconds it took Voronin to jump down as well the Freedomer seemed to float mid-air, suspended in time. The illusion was quickly shattered when he went inside the anomaly too.

Despite the energy draining effect, since it was smaller in diameter than the last time and they needn’t climb anywhere now, it didn't take them more than a minute to get out. This translated into actually losing about three hours, according to their PDAs.

Retracing their steps was even easier in this floor, just checking the map to make sure it was accurate. And just as before there was nothing they had missed. Eventually they found themselves going to the upper floor and facing once more the big metal door separating them from their escape.

Neither said anything, but a cloud of gloom had settled over them. They were going to die down here. Sooner or later it would happen, unless they found a way out. Shit, when Voronin thought about leaving a legacy like General Tachenko's he never included mysteriously disappearing into the package.

He stood there, contemplating their bleak future in silence. For once Lukash didn’t start to fill the silence like he usually did. And when he eventually stormed off, because he got sick of staring at a slab of metal, something exploded on the other side of the door.

Startled by the detonation Lukash took a step or two backwards. The door was slightly bent out of its normal shape, what the fuck just happened? Voronin came back in time to see the door slowly swinging open.

Both Lukash and Voronin grabbed their weapons and pointed them towards the opening. The metal door was pushed to the side and revealed a single stalker, who looked completely floored to see them.

"Woah," the man raised his hands in a placating gesture when confronted with both of them aiming their rifles at him. "There's no need to shoot!"

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Voronin barked at the stalker with his command voice.

"I... I'm just a loner! I heard the road to Pripyat had been cleared recently and came to investigate."

That was enough explanation for Lukash, but not for his Dutier companion, who was a highly suspicious bastard.

"This isn't exactly the road to Pripyat, isn’t it?" Voronin squinted at the man with distrust.

"Just a small detour!" The man squeaked. "I've never been so close to the infamous Brain Scorcher before, which I'm very glad was turned off, by the way. I saw the outer door, with the number pad, and I thought I could find something of value inside."

Lukash lowered his weapon and nudged Voronin to lower his Val too. The stalker flashed him a nervous smile and lowered his hands as well.

"You said the outer door had a number pad, did you blow that one apart too?" He was honestly curious to know.

"Yes, with a modified grenade." Well, well, well, this guy was certainly interesting. And he had some great ideas. Perhaps they could have tried to force their way out sooner like that, had they had any explosives.

"There's nothing down there except anomalies," Voronin cautioned him.

The stalker nodded eagerly took out a detector from his belt. "That's fine, I'm an artifact hunter."

Voronin looked pityingly at him and went towards the exit. Lukash shared his eagerness to get the hell out from here and followed him. However, he turned around to face the stalker one last time. "Friendly advice: stay away from the purple anomaly!"

Leaving the flabbergasted loner behind, he stepped outside and went down the ladder. Being able to see the sky again was amazing. And best of all, he recognised where he was! This was the Red Forest, more precisely it was the road that went to the Brain Scorcher. And for once it wasn't crawling with Monolith soldiers.

"We're out!" Voronin answered to his enthusiasm with a noncommittal hum. That wouldn't do.

He grabbed the Dutier by the shoulders, watching him intently to see if he was capable of expressing some positive emotion. And, before he could think what he was doing, he planted a kiss on the surprised General. It lasted a few seconds until Voronin pushed him away and crushed him against the same ladder they had descended from.

Realising what he'd just done, Lukash kept his mouth shut instead of blurting "I like it when you take control like that" like he'd been about to do. Even if it would have been mostly a joke he had the feeling Voronin wouldn't appreciate it.

"What the Hell Lukash." Voronin’s voice was startlingly rough. Lukash had no answer to his question, so instead he just held his gaze until Voronin released him.

"The Barrier is in this direction," he said, walking ahead to get away from Voronin's judging eyes.

It had felt nice but unremarkable. No reason to keep thinking about it, or to imagine how it would have been if the Dutier kissed back. Yeah.

The zombies coming from between the trees were a welcomed distraction, and that’s something he never imagined he would say. Killing them helped clean the atmosphere of any lingering awkwardness. Nonetheless, it was depressing to see so many zombified stalkers wearing Freedom's suits. Such was life in the Zone, and such was the price paid to keep control of the Barrier. At least they were outnumbered by zombified stalkers from Monolith, serves those bastards right.

The zombies kept dropping by all the time; a lone one now, then a pair or three of them together, then a lone straggler. Cleanse and repeat. In the end they opted to run and leave them behind before wasting all their ammo.

And soon they reached the control point that marked the entrance the end of Red Forest. The Barrier was just a road’s bend away.

A group of stalkers rushed from behind the abandoned cars near the booth at the control point. They all were from Freedom, and they weren’t very friendly, aiming their weapons at them.

"Stop and identify yourselves!"

Well, Voronin was almost impressed they hadn't shot him on the spot just for the uniform he wore.

"Max, don't you recognise me you idiot?" Lukash laughed in disbelief.

"All I see from here is a Dutier and a merc trying to cross into our territory!" The Freedomer, Max, replied. One of his comrades said something they didn't catch but had Max quickly checking his PDA. "Lukash?! Where the Hell have you been? And what are you doing with that Duty pig?"

"Stop pointing that rifle at my head for fuck's sake!"

"Sure, but what do we do with him?" No need to be a genius to know who the Freedomer was referring to.

"We grant him passage and let him go. Just this once." Lukash's idea wasn't very well received by his faction.

The Freedomers complained loudly about it and one even blamed him for Lukash's disappearance. Not a completely unexpected reaction, if he was honest. If the situation was reversed his men would probably do the same. Although Lukash didn't seem amused by their defiance.

"I said we let him go and that's final."

Truth be told, Voronin was surprised by Lukash's firm defence of him. Perhaps it should be expected after all they went through. In that hypothetical reversed situation, Voronin wouldn't let his men kill him on the spot either. It would feel wrong.

Deciding to cut this tense encounter short, Voronin voiced his agreement to Lukash’s terms. “I go my way and you go yours. Just this once, yes?"

It was just for a moment, but he saw a flash of disappointment on Lukash’s face. What had he expected? He couldn't go to Freedom's base for a last shot of vodka and a goodbye, they weren’t old friends, they were the leaders of enemy factions.

"Yeah. It's been... interesting." Lukash offered him his outstretched hand.

"It's been a nightmare, you mean." Voronin accepted the handshake.

"Only most of it." Lukash smirked and finally let go of his hand.

He waited while Lukash wrangled with the rest of the Freedomers until he managed to impose his will. In the meantime, he sent a message to his men to let them know he was alive and well. This way they would be expecting his arrival, and if he knew Petrenko well enough, he would dispatch a squad immediately. They would meet halfway if everything went well. And if for some reason Lukash’s men decided to not play fair and followed him, it was good to know reinforcements were on their way.

Once the last of the disgruntled Freedomers disappeared down the road then he went on his way. During his lonely trek back to Rostok he reflected on everything that happened. It was too much for only fifty hours, more or less. It seemed like he spent a lifetime trapped in that hellish bunker. And things didn't exactly go back to normal once they got out. And of course it had been the Freedomer’s fault. When Lukash kissed him his brain had short-circuited. He couldn’t even begin to fathom his intention for doing so, so Voronin decided to erase the incident from his memory. It never happened.

However, for something that according to him never happened, he spent quite some time thinking about it. More precisely, he spent the rest of the way to Rostok thinking about how Lukash's lips had felt against his own. Utter foolishness, even if it happened -which it didn’t, thank you very much- it was something best forgotten.

It would be much better to think about how he would enjoy finding Skull and killing him. He usually preferred to avoid making a public spectacle out of executions, but for him he would make an exception.

Author's note: I may be slow to write and edit, but I said the second part would be up in a few hours or tomorrow, so here it is.

#S.T.A.L.K.E.R.#fanfic #Lukash #Voronin

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fandomfanficsgalore · 8 years ago

Text

A is for Assassins: Part 6

assassins au

Pairings: ZhanYi, TianShan

Warnings: Mention of drugs and suggestion of attempted rape (NOTHING EXPLICIT!)

Jian Yi shifted from where he sat on the bed, his eyes flickering between the other men in the room. Ever since He Tian and Mo Guan Shan came back last night, He Tian had just announced that they hadn’t had any success. Zhan Zheng Xi, even now, was trying to pry more detail, but Mo barely looked up from his shoes, and He Tian was more evasive than ever.

Finally, Zhan Zheng Xi sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Jian Yi loved when he did that. It let him imagine what Zhan would look like with slicked back hair, since the other man refused to style his hair in any way.

Zhan caught his eye, and Jian Yi stiffened, wondering if Zhan would scold him for staring. Instead, he found himself being talked to, and snapped into focus.

“…you and I will have to go.”

Jian Yi blinked owlishly.

“Us?” he asked, “Undercover?”

Zhan Zheng Xi nodded, his lips pressed into a grim line.

“We’re running out of time, and these two have already been seen asking for information. We’ll go in tonight. If we still don’t get him, we’ll have to wait and send He Tian and Mo again. But tonight, maybe we’ll have better luck.”

No one objected, and Jian Yi’s eyes once again drifted to the other two in the room. It seemed like He Tian and Mo Guan Shan were determined not to look at each other, and Jian Yi couldn’t help but wonder what had happened last night. A million ideas swarmed in his head, but then Zhan said something about dinner and getting ready to go, and all other thoughts were swept from his mind.

That night, Jian Yi dressed in a fit of nerves and excitement. He slipped on a tight black shirt and hip-hugging jeans, and even slicked the sides of his hair back a little. He stared in the mirror, contemplating this evening. It had been forever since Jian Yi did any undercover work. Usually it was too dangerous, and Zhan knew that. But maybe they were far enough away that no one would recognize him…

Around midnight, he and Zhan left together, ditching a very disgruntled-looking Mo stuck in their room with a silent He Tian.

As they left, Jian Yi frowned.

“Wonder what’s up with those two,” he mused.

Zhan shrugged. Tonight the man wore dark jeans and a blue shirt, his hair messy as always. Jian Yi both admired and grew jealous of his easy attractiveness. Still, once they were out in the open air and walking away from the hotel, even Jian Yi forced himself to sober up a little. The two walked in tense silence, both wondering how the night would go.

For the millionth time, Mo glanced after He Tian from the computer. Zhan had showed Mo the basics of how to track his and Jian Yi’s locations. Their green dots were moving slowly away from the hotel, and Mo Guan Shan had soon grown bored of watching them.

As soon as they had left, He Tian had moved to the balcony, and hadn’t emerged, but Mo Guan Shan could smell the stench of a cigarette wafting in through the cracked door.

He nibbled his lip.

He Tian hadn’t talked to him at all since last night. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at him.

Mo Guan Shan had fucked up. But was He Tian really that pissed…?

Panic overtook Jian Yi as soon as he stepped into the club. The dark room, the stench of sweat and weed and the loud music all threw him back years ago. To glares and smirks and grabbing hands and indignant shouts—his father’s face, and the terror—

A hand touched his shoulder, and Jian Yi leapt back to present. His head whipped to Zhan Zheng Xi, who stood inches away with his brows furrowed. Jian Yi could feel the man’s breath on his cheeks.

“Are you okay?” Zhan Zheng Xi asked, his eyes gleaning with a knowing shine.

Jian Yi swallowed hard and nodded, forcing a smile.

“Er, yeah! Yeah, of course. It just stinks in here, that’s all…”

Zhan gazed at him for a long, disbelieving moment. Then he turned away, and Jian Yi sagged in relief.

Then he turned to the rest of the room, his focus returning. They had a job to do.

Zhan drifted off to his left, and Jian Yi forced himself not to follow, instead approaching the bar. An older man with peppered black hair and dark eyes smiled at him from over a glass of what Jian Yi could only guess was whiskey or rum. Jian Yi returned it politely and turned away, his cheeks flushing when the man chuckled.

Zhan milled around, pretending to be searching for something. All the while, he kept an eye on Jian Yi, making sure the other man was in sight.

Not even He Tian knew all of Jian Yi’s past. He thought he did, but he didn’t. Only Zhan Zheng Xi had been granted that information, and some days, he wondered if he was grateful or not.

Knowing Jian Yi’s past helped Zhan care for him and look after him, but at the same time, it made everything more difficult. More dangerous, for both of them.

Zhan Zheng Xi continued to mill about. Luckily, most of the writhing bodies were too preoccupied to pay much mind, and most of the sober men and women were busy trying to become otherwise. Zhan hated places like this. Used to them as he was, Zhan felt disgusting and dirty just stepping inside.

A girl appeared at his shoulder, no older than twenty, with her shirt cut low and lips painted red. Zhan Zheng Xi easily waved her off. Once she was gone with a roll of her eyes, Zhan Zheng Xi’s gaze found Jian Yi again. Surprise rang through him to find Jian Yi already standing, and the other man quickly turned away.

A pang his Zhan Zheng Xi’s chest as he, too, turned away, minutely shaking his head at himself.

Jian Yi hadn’t meant to drink. It just… happened.

One moment he was watching Zhan Zheng Xi talk to a girl, the next Zhan was staring at him… Staring at him with that knowing look.

Pitying.

And now Jian Yi had downed a glass of rum—disgusting, but useful—and debated on whether to order another when a new one slid into his hand, as if by magic. Jian Yi blinked and looked up. The same pepper-haired guy from before grinned at him, raising his own glass. Jian Yi bit his lip, smiled, and raised his in return.

Zhan Zheng Xi was growing irritated. Their target had yet to show up, and Jian Yi was chatting with some guy at the bar without a care in the world. It didn’t bother Zhan Zheng Xi, exactly. He only wished…

Well. He wished a lot of things.

But at the moment, he only wished that Jian Yi would take their mission more seriously.

It was about the time Zhan was thinking of leaving and calling it another defeat when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face and blonde hair. Zhan straightened from where he’d leaned against the wall, an untouched bottle of beer in his hand. He shifted, peering conspicuously through the crowd.

There!

On the other side, near the cushioned sofas, a man in a golden chain and black shirt greeted a few men eagerly, immediately accepting a blunt and plopping down next to a busty young woman.

Giori Morretti.

Zhan turned and lifted a finger to his ear.

“Jian Yi. He’s here.”

No answer.

Zhan frowned.

“Jian Yi? Can you hear me?”

Nothing but static.

Zhan whipped toward the bar, and balked to find both Jian Yi’s and the stranger’s spots empty.

The door slid open quietly, and soft, hesitant footsteps followed.

He Tian didn’t turn, taking another long drag of your cigarette.

“They’re taking a long time.”

He Tian was mildly surprised, but shrugged.

“They’ll be fine,” he answered.

Mo Guan Shan sighed in frustration.

There was another beat of awkward silence.

“Look,” Guan Shan started, glaring off into the dark night to avoid looking at He Tian, “I didn’t mean to fuck it up last night, okay? I was just… I didn’t know…”

“You don’t trust me,” He Tian surmised, and continued before Mo Guan Shan could protest, “It makes sense.”

Mo Guan Shan finally looked at him to frown.

He Tian takes another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, lingering in a swirling haze before breathing it out. The smoke curled up towards the sky.

Finally He Tian turned, dropping his cigarette and snuffing it with the tip of his shoe. He met Mo Guan Shan’s eyes, and the latter found no malice, but something almost worse.

Anger? Disappointment? Both?

“I guess we’re even then,” He Tian stated with a quick, hollow smile.

Mo Guan Shan’s fists balled and his cheeks flushed at the reminder of He Tian’s lips on his own and the man’s tongue against his mouth.

“It’s not…” Mo Guan Shan cursed, running his fingers through his hair. He turned to the balcony, and He Tian watched curiously as his face grew red. “It’s not like that.”

“Not like what?” He Tian asked.

Mo Guan Shan only shook his head, scowling.

He Tian paused before stepping forward. The other man’s light eyes found his, almost like a warning. He Tian ignored it and stopped only a foot away.

“Not like what?” He Tian repeated.

Mo Guan Shan’s face flushed. He swore softly and faced away again. At length, he replied,

“I’m done being… being used by people like you.”

“People like me,” He Tian said slowly.

Mo Guan Shan sent him a withering glare. It was so much more than that, though. Behind his anger, He Tian saw a glimmer of something he hadn’t seen yet; vulnerability. Fear.

“You know what I mean,” Mo muttered, his eyes dropping to his hands, which gripped the railing in front of him.

He Tian watched him.

“I don’t want to use you,” he stated.

Mo Guan Shan scoffed.

“That’s what they all say. What else could you want?”

Before He Tian could answer, Mo Guan Shan turned on him, eyes full of fire—anger, and fear, and—was that hope? Or just He Tian’s imagination?

“What do you want, He Tian?” he demanded, “Or do you even know?”

Before He Tian could answer, both of their earpieces crackled.

“Emergency! We’re coming back!”

He Tian’s hand flew up to his earpiece. He gave Mo a meaningful look. This conversation is not over.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Jian Yi,” Zhan Zheng Xi breathed.

He Tian cursed.

One moment, Jian Yi was chatting with the guy with peppered hair. The next, his stomach began to turn, his vision swimming. His first thought was, Whoa, I’ve had too much to drink.

But he’d only had a glass and a half, and he wasn’t that much of a lightweight.

Then his limbs felt heavy, and suddenly the guy was helping him out of his seat, promising the bartender to help him get home safe.

Through the haze and confusion, realization of what was happening struck through Jian Yi, and panic soon followed. He lifted his arms to try to push the guy off, but only managed to pat his chest before Jian’s limbs once again failed him. Consciousness was a struggle. He only felt them moving, and every time he opened his eyes, Jian Yi couldn’t remember when he’d closed them.

Soon they were out in open air, and the man still had a strong grip around his waist—possessive. If only he could reach his earpiece…

Jian raised an arm, but the man pushed it down, tugging Jian Yi closer to his side and muttering something about taking good care of him. It sounded almost reassuring. Jian Yi wanted to spit in his face.

They’d left out a back door, and Jian Yi’s vision spotted black, the shadows of the parking lot behind all blurring together.

Just then he heard a familiar voice, and their motion stopped. Jian Yi’s vision swirled, but he spotted familiar brown hair and hard eyes, and his heart gave a small, pitiful jump.

“Zhan Xi…” he said, or maybe he only thought it, before everything went black.

#tianshan #19 days #zhanyi #zhan zheng xi #jian yi #he tian #mo guan shan #old xian #assassins au

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