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archetypal-archivist · 4 years ago

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Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone P.2

So, a little while back I wrote piece titled Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone (linked here) which was inspired by the works of @petrichormeraki and @redorich, who popularized the AU of Tommyinnit from the Dream SMP getting dropped into Hermitcraft somehow and summarily getting adopted by the entire server. I, in my infinite wisdom, decided “yes, but also angst” and spat out a solid 1500+ words with a cliffhanger at the end because it was getting ridiculous and I had yet more to write. This is another 1500+ words of continuation.

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It's not easy, knowing things. Joe knows more things than most, and oh, how it eats at him sometimes. He jokes with Cleo that between the two of them and their dogs, they are perhaps the leading experts on being chewed on, but she never laughs at that joke. He can't help but wonder why, his thoughts drifting as he lies still and silent in her arms, curled up together on his bed in the winery. Her orange hair tickles his nose as he moves to bury his face in her shoulder a bit more, her cool breath ghosting over the sticky tear tracks that still line his cheeks. All the things that remain unsaid lie between them, but their silent agreement binds them together tighter still. And indeed silence is the name of the game, however much he wishes it wasn't necessary- everything will work out in due time, he knows. But oh, how it aches that he can't say anything more on the matter, not even to her.

"Cleo?" The zombie woman makes a soft inquiring noise, politely ignoring how his voice cracks on the syllables. "Are we doing the right thing?" Her grip tightens again, almost crushingly so, and Joe goes limp at the implied rebuke. Be it right or wrong, his silence must be ensured- he knows so much that if he said anything, it'd all come pouring out. A real modern-day Cassandra, verbal fountain and harbinger of doom in one. No, best to stay cryptic when he can and silent when he can't- and if even his silence fails, Cleo is there, sword in hand, ready to keep him quiet.

He should not take comfort from that. But here, wrapped up in his best friend's embrace, utterly at her mercy and all the safer for it... He does anyway.

-----

Joe and Cleo aren't in a romantic relationship, but it would not be amiss to call them platonic life partners in this universe. Joe has been seeing things for as long as he can remember, the exact mechanics are strange and baffling at best, and if he tries to actually do any Science to figure out how this stuff works, the magic changes to spite him. It's led to a lot of unfortunate visions of peanut butter and how the server generally tends to misuse the stuff (Etho sometimes using it instead of slime in a sticky piston is a milder example), so after enough peanut visions to make him allergic on principle, Joe tends to just let the visions come as they may. The only hard-coded bit that comes with them is that anyone living who hears his prophecies won't believe them and will have something bad happen to them as a result. Cleo, being a zombie, is a special exception to the rule. She's only alive in the most technical of senses, so while bad things still happen to her if she hears Joe speak about his experiences, she at least will believe him.

Which is why she is so determined to not know more about whatever is going on with Tommy. When Joe had rushed in a month ago, tears streaming down his cheeks and glasses barely hanging onto his face, she had merely put down the book she had been reading and had opened her arms wide to him. Convincing him that she would not betray his trust or break his heart had been hard, but she had known it was worth it. How can it be anything but, when Joe had looked at her then as if she was the most precious being on the planet and had immediately thrown himself into her arms, bursting out into troubled tears? He offered to tell her the full story, eyes wet and longing, and her long-dead heart ached at the trust he is giving her- but she is far too selfish to give that up. So she had turned him down, smile on her lips.

Even when he whispered, voice hoarse, that they wouldn't be seeing Tommy for a while. Even when he shuddered and shook in her arms, fragile as glass in her grip. Even when he begged her to ask, just ask, please, it's too much... She did not ask. If she asked, he would tell her, and then she would be hurt and his heart would break because it would be his words that had hurt her. She would not, cannot, will never inflict that upon him, or let him inflict that upon anyone else. (Of all the heads in her collection, the one she has most of is Joe's.)

She simply asks him if there will be a satisfying ending, and when he says yes, she asks no more. Everything will be okay, in the end. So long as there is that much, so long as she has Joe in her arms and the comfortable silence stretches out between them, then she will be content.

(At the foot of their bed, deep in Joe's winery where the barking is muffled and the light cannot touch them, there lies a chest of heads. Inside it, nestled among the many faces of the dead, rests an old iron sword bearing the name Hush. It's blade is rusty from disuse, but if Cleo ever decides that she isn't satisfied, well. There are ways of dealing with that.)

(Things will be okay. She'll make sure of it.)

-----

Philza was no stranger to death. A veteran of a hardcore world, where even the very earth was out to kill him, he had seen his fair share of deaths and had dealt out even more. Usually just to the local mobs and wildlife, but there was still the occasional player dropped into his world by the cruel hands of the Void as a sort of "apology" for leaving him alone, bereft of his sons. As if some random strangers could ever fill the Void in his heart.

Most of them had wandered off upon seeing him, more interested in escape than any companionship he could offer them, and he'd inevitably see their death messages in the otherwise silent chat a few days later. Others would approach him, some curious, some desperate for kindness- he gave them none, was often intentionally cruel just to drive them away. He had the Void in his heart and the Void had him, and he ached and ached for what he could not have. Anything less would be a pale imitation, a mockery of the love he was desperate to return to. He tried not to think about how those kind strangers would also come to meet their ends, often more messily than those that had decided to leave him be to begin with.

Then there were the rare few with... less than gentle intentions. (Blood for the Blood gods, no matter the universe.)

Theirs were the deaths he regretted the least, but the blood still gave him nightmares. For all that he loved his sons, he never understood their love for glory, be it found in conquering other nations or the sticky ooze of a dying foe. Maybe that's why he had spent so much of his time with his elder sons when he returned, the Void finally releasing him from his hardcore prison. Just a father's attempt at understanding, even if it left his youngest at loose ends.

But the problem with loose ends, he had come to find, is that the world had a way of setting them to rights- either by tying them back into the grand narrative, or by cutting them out entirely. For months after Dream had come to him, apology on his lips and charred shoe in hand, he had believed that Tommy's fate had been the latter. He had mourned his son as if such was the case, weeping openly at the news for the first time in years. (He wasn't the only one, though- Technoblade was an only child now and he was not taking it well.) It was only when Tubbo came to him with his compass to ask about its ever-spinning needle that he felt a spark of hope, for a compass that spun was not a compass linked to a dead soul- simply a lost one. Such hope was justified when, six months later, Technoblade burst into his house with a snarl on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Tommy had returned.

And as Phil stood, back straightening and wings spread wide, hope bloomed in his chest like hanahaki, choking him with love right down to his core. Tommy had returned, despite everything.

And Philza would not let him go again.

-----

For all that Tommy might have been... gone for at least a month now on the Hermitcraft server and life has significantly slowed down for all involved, by no means has it stopped entirely. The shops are still stocked, the torches are replaced when the old ones burn out, Hermits still go out and see each other, if less often than before. Xisuma, in fact, instates a series of mandatory meetings every week or so as a way of making sure that everyone is still alive- a bit of reassurance that no one else has died in the time interim. Even the hermits who prefer to keep to themselves show up, such as Tinfoilchef, Joe, and Cleo, although the latter two remain distinctly separate from everyone else on the server during the meetings, their refusal to take a side alienating them from the rest. Grian, broken though he may be, also comes, usually in the arms of Iskall or with a vacant smile on his face depending on the state of his mental health on the given day. His presence is also alienating, as most of the hermits don't quite know what to say around him and thus will give him and Iskall a bubble of space to themselves during the meetings. Mumbo is the only one to cross the divide, standing loomingly tall at Iskall's back, as if daring anyone to say something potentially hurtful to either of his friends.

Frankly, the entire concept of weekly meetings is a bit of a mess. Xisuma stands at the front with Keralis at his back, voice and posture more and more tired with every meeting and Keralis standing just a bit closer, a silent show of support (ready if his admin ever needs some physical support too). The prognosis is usually a mix of dull stuff and hopeless stuff- lag is better than it has been in years, the Chestmonster shop is out again, Tommy still has not been... found. It's not exciting exactly, but the tension during the reporting stage is palpable as everyone waits to hear if something else has gone wrong. It's a bit like being on the front lines- horrible, drawn-out minutes of tedium as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if another bombshell will drop but knowing that they have to be there, because some warning is infinitely better than seeing a death message in chat one day and not knowing if that person will ever make it back.

In addition to this is the tension that comes from the server being split in three- the believers, the mourners, and those too damaged or too caught up in their own narratives or too neutral to swing to one side or the other.

The meetings are where the most near-fights happen, and Xisuma is so, so tired of having to be the sane one these days. (The benefit of a helmet, he's come to find, is that no one can see you cry.)

(He doesn't take it off much anymore.)

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It's after one such meeting that Zedaph finds himself cooped up in his base, eyes burning with unshed tears and feet dangling out into the Void as he sits at the bottom of the hole in his base, the one that goes straight to bedrock and then even further still. The chill is a welcome distraction from his own inner turmoil, and for all that it's dangerous to be sitting so near to the edge of the world, he can't find it in himself to move away form its cold comfort. After all, Tommy can't have died permanently, right? So sitting there is perfectly safe. He has to believe that. He has to.

The meetings are tough on everyone, but sometimes Zedaph wonders if they are a bit worse for him than they are for the rest. It can't be normal that the first thing he does after every meeting is burst into panicked tears as soon as he gets back to his base, as he's certainly never felt such deep fear and relief after the meetings they had before the Incident. And yet, as soon as the iron door of his base sncks shut behind him, he drops down into the Void hole, sits at the edge, and bawls his eyes out. It's kinda funny- he's shed more tears in the last month than he has in his entire life so far. And all for a boy he had known for less than a year.

During this particular day, however, something odd happens. When he sits down for a good cry, it feels like there's the slightest of breezes coming off the Void beneath his feet, chilling him right down to his bones. It's cold, yes, but a welcome relief as he feels a bit like he's burning up from the inside out. Every moment he spends with Tango and Impulse is stifling, as with them he has to shove himself into a hateful mold he never wanted for himself. He doesn't like being angry, and being angry alongside his best friends is hardly any better. If he had it his way, he would have curled up in bed and simply slept the horror away, only waking when the nightmare was over and he could go play mini golf and Among Us with Tango, Impulse, and Tommy again. Instead, his love for his friends demands that he supports them in all their endeavors, even if their goals these days seem to run a little closer to "get them all killed" than is comfortable.

But yes. The breeze. It feels like ice on his skin and sends every nerve in his legs buzzing. It has a distinct smell to it too, like TV static, ozone, and that sensation you get after you brush your teeth and go take a big gulp of cold water. It's... odd. But vaguely comforting. And as the tears finally well up in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, as he lets himself sob for all the friends- both new and old- he's lost, he finds that it's exactly what he needs.

And if Zedaph would only listen a little closer, let himself see beyond his broken heart, perhaps he would hear the whisper on the wind, too.

Everything will be okay. I'll make sure of it.

-----

Evil X has his own troubles to deal with. He had been present when Tommy had died, if watching from the wrong side of their dimension. Lost in the Void with nothing better to do, he had often found himself watching his friend go about his day. With space and time being as screwy as they were in the Void, he could find himself taking three steps and then would be watching Tommy go from sleeping over at BDub's base to having "breakfast" with Rendog. So when Grian and Tommy had gone out End-busting that fateful day, of course he had been watching. And that was all he could do- watch- as he saw his best friend fall to his apparent death, that little line of code that signaled "perma-death" flashing once, twice, and then glowing a deep, ominous red.

But that wasn't the end of it, even as his dull and bruised heart stuttered in his chest at the sight.

Like a redstone pulse lighting up everything around it, that red glow set off a cascading chain reaction that rippled up and down Tommy's code until it eventually trailed out to wherever his code stretched out into the Void. There, it must have severed something because before he could even call for help, his friend's code yanked inwards and away, slingshotting the whole mess into the distant darkness beyond, leaving naught but a vague impression on the inside of his eyelids behind. It was... awful. One of the scariest things he had ever seen, perhaps second only to watching his brother, stern-faced and cold, send him off to the Void once again. But for all that it hurt to see that red glow and watch in mute horror as the server he had once tried to destroy shake itself apart at the seams, there was still hope.

The code was gone, yes, but not unraveled, not destroyed. Merely... transported. Moved. Like a file being sent from one computer to another, or a player teleporting between servers. Tommy's code vanishing like that was cause for alarm, yes, but somewhere out there in the vastness of the Void, it lingered still- and it had left a faint impression of itself in its wake. That meant there was hope.

Evil X- and by proxy, his twin Xisuma- were voidwalkers, beings specifically designed to see, understand, and even modify the world's code. Were he anything else, he surely would have perished by now, his consciousness scattered across the Void as it was. And having been in exile for so long, he had gotten to be adept at seeing the seams between worlds and reading the truths of existence as the Void had intended for her children. If anyone could follow that faint trail, could get Tommy back, it would be him.

For the first time in a long time, Evil X had hope. And hope is a vicious motivator indeed.

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TBC :)

#fanfiction #my writing #minecraft #dream smp #hermitcraft #hermit tommy au #heartstone #i'm pretty pleased with this

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vannahfanfics · 3 years ago

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What Heroes Do

Category: Action, Drama

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Eijirou Kirishima

Hello, everyone! I’m super excited to post my piece for the @kirishimabigbang! I hope you all enjoy this action-packed piece about how Eijirou adjusts to life as a pro hero!

A low growl rumbled in Eijirou’s throat as sweat beaded on his flushed skin and his muscles ached with exertion. Even with his full body hardened, he could not escape the effects of the strain he was forced to endure at the moment. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, letting out little puffs of air before sucking fresh breaths in. Easy does it, Eijirou. Come on, body! Don’t quit on me now! he encouraged himself, his feet sliding a little across the concrete as he braced himself better. His biceps flexed powerfully as they strained to continue holding up the fire-engine-red automobile he currently had lifted up by its bumper.

Whatever you do, you can’t drop this car! He thought as he clenched his teeth, his vermillion eyes flickering to the pair of legs sticking out from the underside of the car. Though Eijirou preached “mind over matter” to himself like a mantra, his body had reached its limit after holding up the automobile for a nearly hour-long operation. His arms began to quake, and the car squeaked a little as he dropped it a good six inches. He groaned loudly, hunching down into a squat and pushing his palms into the underside of the bumper so hard that his hardened skin scratched the paint. Just as he was about to warn that his strength was going to give out, the would-be mechanic pushed himself out from underneath the vehicle.

“Phew! Thank ya, Red Riot. I can’t believe I forgot the jack at home. What a day to get an oil leak, eh?” The civilian laughed as he wiped oil off his brow, smudging the thick brown-black liquid across his forehead. Eijirou released a wheedling breath as he half-dropped, half-set the car back down on the ground. Using the trunk of the vehicle to support his weight, he took a minute to catch his breath, sucking in big gulps of air. He managed to find the strength to give the man a dismissive wave.

“No… No problem…” he wheezed, deactivating his Quirk. He flinched at the all-too-familiar sensation of sweat sticking to his hot skin. “That’s what heroes are for, after all… No problem’s too small…” He smiled charmingly as he flicked his sweat-soaked bangs out of his face and looked up at the man. When the civilian opened the driver’s side door, ensuring that everything was in proper order, Eijirou muttered several curses under his breath and allowed the pain pulsing through his muscles to show through an agonized scowl. As soon as the man turned back, he painted that cheesy shark-toothed smile on his face.

“I can’t thank you enough,” the man insisted, his face shining pink with both exertion and gratitude. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir? A coffee, perhaps, or some lunch?”

Eijirou’s weary smile widened and he gave another nonchalant wave, finally finding the strength to straighten up to his full— and impressive— height. Clearly unnerved by Eijirou’s six-foot-something musclebound figure, the small civilian compulsively straightened as well, though his head probably only just barely brushed the underside of the hero's metal faceplate-bound chin.

“No, that isn’t necessary. Just get home safe,” Eijirou replied with a laugh, falling into a lunge to work out his aching calf and thigh muscles. After a bit of stretching, the fierce burn in his body dwindled a bit, and he gave the man a jovial wave. “All right, I’m off. Watch that car of yours, okay?” He winked before whirling on his heel to trot down the sidewalk. The man called after him, though Eijirou didn’t hear what he said.

As soon as he turned the corner into a deserted alleyway, he stopped to heave a sigh and plank against the grimy, damp wall. A muffled scream leaked out between his clenched teeth, and the iron of his face plate banged against the brick as he hit his forehead against the wall a few times. The frustration that had bubbled up inside his body dwindled as soon as it came, leaving him achy and blue. With lidded eyes, he gazed down at the fabric of his pants and his metal-plated shoes.

“I never imagined I would be using my totally manly Quirk and costume to help guys fix holes in their oil tanks on the side of the road,” he grumbled, and a flush of guilt immediately followed. With another sigh, he flopped around so his back was now to the wall; the brick scraped his skin as he slowly sunk down into a crouch, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

He knew that he shouldn’t be complaining; he’d only graduated a short time ago, after all, so it made sense that he would be sent out to do the grunt work while the higher-ups tackled the big jobs. Nonetheless, Eijirou just couldn’t help but feel unfulfilled. The most exciting thing he’d seen in the several months since he’d joined the agency was a stick-up of a candy store because some thirteen-year-old with a very realistic water gun wanted to nick some chocolate bars without paying. He knew it was wrong of him to wish trouble on anyone, but he craved the adrenaline, the thrill of the chase and the takedown. Groaning, he tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, meaning his shift would be ending soon.

“So ends another day in paradise.” He smiled wanly before pushing himself to his feet and trudging down the path back towards the agency.

His return was just as uneventful as the rest of his hero duty, so he soon found himself showered, changed, and on the bullet train home. He blinked sleepily as he clutched the silver handrail above his head. In his state of exhaustion, the gently rocking of the train car and the hum of conversation lulled him into drowsiness. His eyes drooped and he stifled a yawn with his free hand. I can’t wait to get in bed, he thought, smiling sleepily as he envisioned the embrace of his mattress and comforter. Just as his eyes shut and his body began to sway with the onset of sleep, the train lurched violently.

“What the—?” His exclamation was drowned out by the startled screams of the other passengers. Eijirou expected to hear the screeching of the brakes echoing through the bullet train tunnel, but instead, he felt the train lurch the other way— it was speeding up? As his mind whirled with confusion, the overhead speaker system buzzed to life.

“Attention passengers. This is not your captain speaking.”

A confused and frightened hush descended over the train car. His instincts buzzing, Eijirou gripped the handle as he leaned forward, eyes narrowed as he trained his ears on the voice echoing down from the gray speaker just above the door.

“You are now our hostages.”

Another chorus of screams and gasps rippled across the crowd. Children looked to their mothers in fright, tears beading in their eyes as they began to bawl and cling to sleeves and skirts. Many of the stout men paled as nervous sweat appeared on their foreheads, and quite a few of them clasped the hands of their significant others to squeeze them painfully tight. An old woman seemed unbothered by the threat, continuing her sudoku puzzle as if it were just another evening train ride.

“This train is now hurtling at rising speed. Inevitably, it will derail, causing catastrophic damage and countless casualties. Most, if not all, of you will perish in a maelstrom of steel and fire.” As more of the civilians began to openly weep, Eijirou felt his body flush hot with anger at the trainjacker’s mocking theatrics. The young hero also felt a cold rush of guilt follow, quenching the heat to turn his blood to ice. That selfish, selfish part of him had wished for something like this— and, even worse, he was enjoying it. His body sung with adrenaline, pumping through his veins to send every part of him on high-alert. He twitched incessantly, gripping the handlebar above his head and involuntarily activating his Quirk. Sparks rained down in his hair as his hardened skin scraped the metal.

Hurry up and finish your speech already, jerk, so I can kick your ass!

“What can you do? The answer is nothing. We have taken the train engineers hostage, and within each train car are several of my henchmen who are ready to deal with anyone who decides to get… rowdy. I advise you all to simply sit quietly and ponder whether the Japanese government considers your lives worth several hundred million yen.” With a cruel laugh, the villain cut off the speaker feed, leaving the train car deathly quiet. A few broken sobs and petulant whispers echoed in the metal box as the civilians looked around, wondering which of them could be the devils in disguise.

Eijirou dropped his arms to roll his shoulders, craning his head to the left and right to crack his vertebrae. He bounced on his heels, grinning widely as he allowed the adrenaline to overtake him. There was no time to worry about his selfish wishes and the universe’s dramatic answer… Right now, there were people who needed saving. As he extended his back, groaning in satisfaction as his vertebrae popped, a large man in a beanie, gray sweater, black cargo pants, and combat boots rose from where he was sitting. The fabric of his hat brushed the top of the roof as he squinted at Eijirou, who straightened up with a smirk.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” the stranger growled.

“Gettin’ rowdy,” the redhead replied cheerfully before socking the villain right in the jaw with a hardened fist. The man spun on his heel, his head snapping to the side with an audible crack. His jaw dangled uselessly as he stumbled in place in a daze before he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. It seemed he was the only villain stationed in this train car because no one rose to avenge him— or they simply were too frightened to bother after Eijirou had cold-cocked the hulking man without flinching. As shocked gasps, sobs of relief, and nervous reproach rippled through the train car, Eijirou rose his hands placatingly.

“It’s all right, everyone! I’m a pro hero!” he assured them with his signature shark-toothed grin. “Everything is going to be all right.” While a few of them sank into their seats in relief, most of them looked at the eighteen-year-old with doubt. Eijirou tried to hide the droop in his smile as he debated on what to do. The hostage negotiators were probably bickering with the villains, but there was no guarantee that they would succeed; worse, it could all be one big farce, and the psychopaths could have no intentions of letting anyone escape the train alive. The only sure-fire way to know what’s going on is to head to the front of the train! he decided.

“Are you gonna go fight the bad guys?” a little boy piped up as Eijirou began moving toward the door adjoining the next car. Grinning, Eijirou spun around to give the child a thumbs-up.

“That’s right! That’s what heroes do, after all!”

The little boy sucked in an awed breath, his eyes blowing wide with admiration. Invigorated by the plucky lad, Eijirou’s chest swelled as he strutted confidently up to the door, pausing to peer through the window. Another lone man stood in the middle of the aisle, with a strange purple gas floating around them. All the passengers were slumped over in their seats or crumpled to the floor, apparently asleep.

That’s one way to keep people from getting rowdy, Eijirou frowned, ripping off a large chunk of his tee shirt. A couple of high school girls sitting near him could barely suppress their squeals as the action revealed the chiseled planes of his abs, and he tossed them a wink before tying the fabric around the bottom half of his face. It wouldn’t prevent all of the strange mist from entering his system, but would hopefully buy him enough time to subdue the enemy and slip into the next train car.

He carefully watched the man’s movements until he inevitably turned his back. Sucking in a breath, Eijirou swung the car door open and bum-rushed the man, charging down the aisle like a linebacker. By the time the villain had turned around, Eijirou was driving his hardened elbow right into his solar plexus. The man wheezed, eyes rolling into the back of his head and spittle flying from his mouth as the breath was knocked from his body. He flew backward, slamming into the door with his head colliding with the glass window. As it shattered around the crown of his scalp, he crumpled, bleeding and unconscious.

The noise attracted the attention of the occupants of the next car, including the villain’s lackeys; Eijirou wasted no time, careening down the aisle and throwing the next door open. He vaulted over the unconscious man to land in the middle of the aisle, grabbing the two startled men by their heads to knock them together. As they reeled, eyes rolling, Eijirou shoved one to the ground to punch the other in the face. The villain howled as blood spurted from his nose— so Eijirou punched him until he stopped howling and flopped back, only held up by Eijirou’s grip on his shirt.

When Eijirou dropped the villain to look down at the other, who was still lying on the floor, the man slowly raised his arms in surrender.

“Look, man, they just told me I was gonna get paid.”

“I advise looking into a new career field,” Eijirou snorted and gave him a stern point. “Don’t make me come back here.” The man nodded vigorously at the warning, so Eijirou decided to let him be, stomping off down the aisle to the next door. He paused as the windows, which had previously shown the dark gray-black walls of the tunnel they were traveling through, suddenly blared with bright light. The picturesque countryside now stretched on before him, but he could barely enjoy it as the scenery was nothing but smudged green. The train was already precariously hurtling, gaining speed with every passing second and inching closer to fiery catastrophe.

“Damn lunatics,” he grumbled as he opened the door.

For a group capable of successfully hijacking a bullet train, Eijirou found their manpower sorely lacking. He proceeded from one train car to the next with little difficulty, either dispatching his enemies or frightening them into submission with his raw displays of power. He’d reached the front one-third of the passenger train before the loudspeaker screeched to life again, and he paused in the middle of pummeling another lackey to listen.

“It has come to my attention that we have a young pro hero on board. My apologies for not addressing you sooner; I don’t know of many pro heroes so poor that they have to take public transportation.”

Eijirou scowled at the blatant insult, unconsciously wrapping his hand tighter around the villain’s throat. He was oblivious to the man’s squirms and whimpers, too honed in on the calm and sadistic voice bleeding from the speaker above his head.

“It seems you are hell-bent on making it to the front of this train. I admire your grit, so I have pulled all of my underlings into the engineers’ room in the car attached to the control room. If you manage to fight your way through my entire group of henchmen, then I suppose you’ve earned the right to challenge the final boss, little hero. Good luck.”

As the speaker cut off, Eijirou released the villain, who sunk to the ground and gulped down greedy breaths. Smirking and tugging down the strip of tee-shirt he still had tied around his slightly sweaty face, the young hero grinned defiantly.

“All right then, asshole. Challenge accepted.”

As promised, there were no villains occupying the anterior cars of the train. Eijirou still skulked through them suspiciously, his red eyes searching the sea of passengers in case one of them was a villain in disguise looking to get the jump on him. His keen gaze saw no hostility, only fear, anxiety, and— when they clapped eyes on the unassuming hero— hope. Their expressions of trust and adoration filled Eijirou with vigor, prompting him to increase his stride and head toward the engineer’s car with as much speed as he could manage without exhausting himself. As he reached the final car— at least, what he thought to be as he noticed the lights were off in the next one— he paused as he realized something.

I’ve seen that expression countless times before. And it wasn’t just in crises like this— he’d seen it on the man’s face when he walked up to his car pulled up on the side of the road today. He’d seen it on a little girl’s face last week when he helped her find her lost cat. He’d seen it on an old woman’s face, too, when he helped her bring her groceries to her car across the entire supermarket parking lot. Hope, relief, trust… These were emotions he saw every single day as humble citizens looked to him to serve all their needs, big or small.

Smiling ruefully, Eijirou leaned his forehead against the door. I’ve been a big, fat idiot, haven’t I? All this time I’ve been too caught up in the glory that I totally forgot what matters… How unmanly. Taking a moment for the epiphany to sink in, he closed his eyes, feeling the way his muscles were humming and his blood vessels were singing with epinephrine. Sure, the high was nice, but… He also really wished he could be in his bed, enjoying a cup of something warm to drink while he watched the news report on some mundane event from the day. Right now, the populace was probably glued to the screens watching the train hijacking unfold in real-time.

From this moment on, Eijirou was going to wish that every day was as boring as it possibly could be— because boredom meant peace, and peace meant security for the most vulnerable, the most in need of saving.

And the only way to restore peace is to give this jerk and his lackeys a good old-fashioned Red Riot walloping! Eijirou grinned devilishly, stepping back and throwing the door open. In the gloom of the engineer’s car, which only housed modest wall-mounted cots, a mini-fridge, and some other odds and ends, about a dozen and a half plainclothes bozos turned their gaze upon him.

“All right, then. Who’s first?” Eijirou chirped.

They all sprang at him.

“Hey, hey, hey, that’s not fair!” the redhead cried, ducking a swing and delivering a blow to an assailant. Eijirou grimaced at the familiar thunk of Kevlar against his fist; so, this lot was a bit more prepared than the goons occupying the latter portion of the train. Grunting, Eijirou danced around another grunt who lashed out at him, her fingernails morphed into wicked-sharp, several-inch-long claws. He hopped up onto a cot and grabbed the curtain railing attached to the ceiling, pulling himself up to kick out both his legs. His boots plowed into the middle of two of the lackey’s faces, sending them stumbling back into the crowd. Another five surged forward to take their place.

“Man, this is a lot more exhausting than in the action movies!” Eijirou puffed as he dropped down onto the cloth to avoid the onslaught of quills a porcupine-like Quirk user had shot at him. He yanked one out of the wall to jab another in the nose, making him yowl and whip his head around. The lackeys all gave a wide berth to avoid being poked, allowing Eijirou to wrench the minifridge out of the wall and heft it over his head.

“Snack time!” he grinned before chucking it. It beamed one guy in the chest before bouncing off and crashing on another’s foot. As the first lackey collapsed against one of the beds, holding his likely cracked ribs, the other howled in pain and pushed the minifridge off his foot so he could cradle it, bouncing around in a circle on the other. All it took was an accidental shove for him to trip over his compatriot and bang his head against a pole, knocking him out cold.

All of the villains looked at him, then at Eijirou, who ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and made a “come on” gesture.

“I ain’t got all day, ya know!” he challenged.

“Do you think we’re getting paid enough to deal with this?” one of the grunts huffed, making Eijirou rear back in surprise. A ripple of unease traveled through the small group before another, a short blond-haired youth who looked like he wasn’t even out of high school, dropped the crowbar he had been wielding.

“Come to think of it, did he ever tell you guys how much he was gonna pay us?” The young man frowned. Another ripple of mutters and grumbles went around before a few of them tentatively shook their heads. In utter disbelief, Eijirou couldn’t help but speak up.

“Wait, wait, wait— you guys hijacked a train for this guy even though you had no idea how much you were getting paid?” he blurted, mouth falling open.

“We didn’t even know we were hijacking the train until we were on the train! He just told us he needed some grunts for a job!” one of the men complained, kicking the floor with the toe of his boot. “Man, I just wanted some cash to buy my daughter a nice birthday present…”

“I wanted to buy my lady some flowers,” another sighed wistfully, “and maybe one of those big giant teddy bears that are super squishy and soft…”

Eijirou reeled in confusion, reeling from the whiplash effect of the sudden development. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he held up his hand as if he could stop time to allow him to process what the hell was happening.

“Look, you guys… Whatever your motives are, you do realize that, if this train doesn’t stop, as soon as we hit a curve in the tracks it’ll derail, and there won’t be any cash because everyone will be dead or dying?” He sighed, cracking an eye open to see them gaping uncomprehendingly at him.

“But… The boss won’t let that happen, right? He just wants the ransom.”

“Are you sure about that? Have any of you seen him on a phone call? Hell, you don’t even know what he’s promising you, so it sounds kind of fishy to me.”

“The beefcake has a point.” A young woman frowned, rubbing her chin.

“Are ya telling me we’ve been conned?!” another man growled, stamping his foot with steam blowing out of his nose as his face reddened darkly. Probably, if this guy could talk you simpletons into hijacking a train without promising a solid figure of money, Eijirou thought, but he held his tongue; he was winning the villains over, after all, so he didn’t need to go and piss them off. They were beginning to dissolve into a mutinous uproar, yelling and shouting and fuming.

“All right, all right,” Eijirou shouted over the din, waving his hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s not get all bent out of shape, now.” He looked nervously to the door leading to the adjacent car, worried their superior heard the outburst. When no one came through, he continued in a quiet voice, “I’m sure none of you really want to be involved in a mass murder— right?” Staring owlishly at him, all of them feverishly shook their heads. Thank goodness, Eijirou thought with an inward groan, keeping the saccharine smile on his face. “So, I’ll cut you all a deal. If you let me pass to deal with this guy, I’ll downplay your involvement to the authorities. We can get you set up real nice— rehab programs, halfway houses, you know, ways to make your life better, yeah? How’s that sound?”

The crowd of grunts looked at one another uncertainly, then back at Eijirou, who was smiling so hard in his attempt to seem genuine and helpful that his facial muscles ached. He wasn’t lying anyway, but it was critical that he won them over, because he really was wasting time. Out of the corners of his eyes, he watched the landscape shooting by beyond the windows; the gray smudges against the horizon were probably mountains, which meant the tracks were going to begin to curve. Hitting them at this speed would be disastrous, so Eijirou had to stop the runaway train as soon as possible.

He breathed a small sigh of relief as the lackeys parted, giving him a wide berth to the door.

“Thank you, guys. You’re doing the right thing,” he encouraged brightly, patting them on the shoulders as he passed. A few of them blushed and shuffled their feet shyly; it made Eijirou burn with anger, the knowledge that someone manipulated downtrodden souls for such nefarious ends. As he got to the door, he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, loosening up his body for the final fight. He sucked in a breath, then pulled the door to the control room open.

He found a man in khaki slacks, a white button-up, polished shoes, and wire-rimmed glasses holding a gun to the train engineer’s head.

“Well, well,” the man quipped and used his free hand to push his glasses up his nose, “I didn’t realize I was being besieged by an upstart.”

“Who are you callin’ an upstart?!”

“My, what a brute you are. There’s no need to yell.”

“I’m yellin’ ‘cuz you hijacked a train!” Eijirou fumed, a vein bulging in his forehead. The man rolled his eyes as if Eijirou’s ire was completely unwarranted, casually flicking his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Whatever! Slow down this train, right now!” he ordered, taking a step towards him. The man immediately pointed his gun at him, making him freeze in his tracks. He knew his Quirk would reflect the bullet, but in these close quarters, there was no guarantee the ricochet wouldn’t kill the hostage, or the villain, for that matter.

“No, that won’t do. You see, I absolutely need this train to derail.”

Eijirou looked at him dumbfoundedly.

“You mean… You have no intentions of stopping? You want to kill everyone on board?”

“Yes, precisely,” the man said disinterestedly. Eijirou blinked as his head swam, struggling to process the ludicrous notion. “I can see you’re having difficulty comprehending why someone would want to cold-bloodedly end the lives of hundreds of men, women, and children, so I’ll spell it out for you, so you can have some closure before you perish.” The man smiled like he was doing Eijirou a favor. A chill traveled down the redhead’s spine; even though he’d fought monsters like the League of Villains, he’d never seen such open malice.

This guy was a true sociopath.

“You see, I’m just a humble office worker,” the man said, flourishing his arm as he continued to point the pistol at Eijirou; he kept his peripheral vision on the engineer, a silent warning not to tamper with the controls under any circumstances. “I grew up with a loving mother and father, the middle child of three. I went to an average high school, had average grades, went to an average college and graduated with an average degree, and got an average-paying desk job. By all respects, I suppose you could call me more successful than some.” He shrugged, his tone betraying the fact he didn’t believe his words at all.

“That’s just it. My life is so average that it’s unfulfilling. I have no special talents or interests. I’m too plain for anyone to notice; I’m passed over for promotions, and I don’t catch girls’ attention. Do you realize how infuriating it is to see everyone parading how special and unique they are? Everyone is always talking about the need to fit in, yet, when you fit in too well, you don’t fit in at all.”

“I won’t be remembered when I die— at least, not living the life I have. But you know what people always remember? Tragedies, catastrophes, major accidents. You know who people remember? Great minds, villains of heinous proportions. So you see, young hero, I will be remembered now. They’re going to remember me as the mastermind who hijacked this train and led its occupants to a fiery death,” he said as a sickeningly elated grin spread across his face and his eyes lit with twisted pride.

“You’re vile,” Eijirou breathed, shaking his head with a completely amazed expression.

“Perhaps, but they remember vile people, too.” The man shrugged and pulled the trigger.

Eijirou managed to harden his chest just in time. The bullet bounced off his rock-hard skin, and he dove for the engineer on instinct, smooshing him against the control panel. The small compartment rang with a series of dings as the bullet bounced off the metal walls, and then the gun-wielding man let out pained yelp. Eijirou glanced down to see him curled up on the ground, clutching his thigh as it bled profusely and stained his pressed slacks a dark burgundy.

Eijirou kicked the gun away, sending it skittering to the far side of the room, before planting his foot on the office worker’s back.

“Stay down, if you know what’s good for you,” he snarled before pulling himself off the engineer. The train worker shook his head, a little dazed, before fluttering his hands over the controls.

“No! I won’t let you!” the villain screeched. His burst of fury and adrenaline allowed him to temporarily overpower Eijirou. He lunged up and grabbed the lever controlling the train’s speed, bending it at an odd angle and snapping it in half. Eijirou shoved him to the ground and wrenched his hand behind his back, but it was too late.

“Oh no! It’s jammed!” the train manager wailed, wrenching on the small stub of lever still remaining; in his effort, his hand slipped, and the jagged metal sliced open his palm. Red blood splashed across the controls as he curled in on himself, whimpering. Eijirou stepped off the villain, who was cackling maniacally, to rush to the window; he could see the curve leading into the mountains fast approaching. “We can’t stop the train now… He tore out the wires for the emergency brake system as well!” the train engineer lamented, pointing at a busted panel in the control bench with wires sticking out of it.

“Can you rewire it?” Eijirou asked as he looked back, eyebrows cinched with concern as his mind whirled. When the man shook his head, his heart plummeted and a sense of doom began to fill his belly.

“I can.”

Eijirou whirled around with a gasp to see the young blond-haired villain from earlier sauntering in, crowbar resting on his shoulder. The office worker, now pale from blood loss as it continued to leak out of his leg, looked at his former lackey in betrayal. “I’ve been hotwiring cars since I was eleven.” The youth grinned, thumbing the underside of his nose. “I should be able to get it working again, no problem.”

“Even if you manage to get it working, if we don’t have enough track between us and the curve and still hit it too fast, we’re doomed! The train is traveling upwards of 250 miles an hour right now!” the engineer cried as the boy squatted down and began fiddling with the wires.

“We just need to slow it down enough for me to get in front of it!” Eijirou said, watching the young man play with the wires. His deft fingers carefully entwined them back together, sparks jumping near the pads of his fingers. “If we can slow it down, I can use my Quirk and—”

“Got it!” the young boy cried, and the engineer immediately slammed down on a large blue button on the control panel. Eijirou looked up as a digital screen lit up, displaying a green schematic of the train deploying air resistance panels on its roof. The train immediately jerked back as the wind slammed against the large metal panels, and Eijirou saw the speedometer jump down below two hundred miles per hour.

“It’s working!” the engineer declared in glee. Eijirou planted his foot on the office worker’s back as he began to squirm.

“My Quirk allows me to harden my body. How slow does the train need to be going to make sure I don’t get squashed trying to push it to a stop?”

“I-I’m not sure, but, I would say at least under one hundred and fifty miles an hour, but that’s still incredibly fast—” the engineer muttered uncertainly, scratching his head. Eijirou ignored his apprehension, red eyes glued to the speedometer. As soon as the twitching dial reached the “150” marker, Eijirou whipped around to yank open the control car window.

The wind immediately rushed in, snatching at their clothes and hair. Eijirou stuck out his head, squinting as the fierce gale blasted into his face; through the tears welling up in his stinging eyes, he managed to make out the fast-approaching bend in the tracks as they snaked into the mountain range. Come on, Ei! You can do this! You have to slow the train! He encouraged himself, sucking in a breath and bouncing on his heels to psych himself up. Even with his Quirk, it was still pretty terrifying to be climbing on the front of a speeding bullet train. After a few seconds, he hauled himself up to sit in the window before he could change his mind.

“All right. Easy does it,” he grunted, kicking off his shoes and socks before hardening his fingers and toes into jagged, sharp edges. He reached up to dig his fingers into the metal side of the train; the smooth steel crunched under his grip, allowing him to get purchase on the otherwise sleek vehicle. After ensuring that both his hands wouldn’t slip with a few vigorous tugs, he swung his legs out the window. He yelped as the wind snatched at them, leaving him desperately kicking against the train until he managed to drive his hardened feet into the metal. He took a minute to collect himself, sweat dripping down his face, before slowly inching around to the front of the train.

Soon enough he was splayed out on the curved front of the train, with the wind blasting against him as he wondered how things could have possibly turned out this way. He sucked in a few breaths as the anxiety threatened to take over, using the cool wind to slow the nervous sweat blooming on his skin. It’s all good, Ei, he told himself with a weak smile as he hardened his entire body, the ridges of his skin bulging against his clothes. You just gotta drop down and slow the train. It’s fine. It’s cool. It’ll be one of those super-manly action scenes you see in the movies! You can tell everyone all about it! It’ll make a great story! Now, get… down… there!

Before he could stop himself, he slid down the front of the train. He caught himself at the last minute by slamming his hands into the metal, wincing at the heat bleeding out from the overheated engine. His feet slammed down into the wooden slats of the tracks and into the fresh earth beneath; the wood splintered immediately as Eijirou’s legs plowed through them, leaving bits of wood and scours in the earth in his wake.

A keening groan slipped through his clenched teeth as his entire body jarred, rattling his bones and shaking his brain around in his skull. Still, he held fast, throwing his weight against the train and digging in his feet until bits of earth and wood were flying around his calves. The massive vehicle groaned and whined at the assault, but Eijirou could hear the wheels squealing as they slowed. It’s working! He thought, relief making him almost euphoric— or, perhaps, it was his brain turning to jelly from behind knocked around in his cranium.

Above the squealing train, the buffeting wind, and the snapping wood, Eijirou thought he heard the whirling of helicopter blades. Sure enough, when he glanced out of the corners of his eyes, he saw the ovoid black form in his peripherals, keeping speed with the front of the train. It then reared up, coming over the top of the train, and Eijirou craned his head back as a lithe, blonde figure hopped down onto the roof.

“Hey, kiddo! Need a hand?” Mt. Lady winked at him. Eijirou couldn’t manage a response with how violently his body was shaking, but the pro hero wasn’t seeking one. As she grew to her gargantuan size, she slid off the side of the train to plant her feet down on the earth and wrap her arms around the vehicle. As she slid, she uprooted trees and bushes as her feet dug great trenches into the ground. Eijirou cried out as the train gave a mighty jerk backward, slowing ten or twenty miles per hour already. With Mt. Lady’s help, it didn’t take long for the train to smoothly glide to a stop, just a few yards from the bend in the curve leading into the mountains.

Eijirou slid bonelessly to a heap, trembling as his muscles burned from the strain. After shrinking down to her normal size, Mt. Lady rounded the front of the train to see him lying in a crumpled mess, panting heavily and shining with sweat. “You all right, kid?” she smiled down at him, hands planted on her hips. He gave a half-hearted flop of his hand in answer, making her chuckle. “You did a good job holding your own while we were on our way. The helicopter couldn’t match the speed of the train. If you hadn’t slowed it down for us, who knows what would have happened!” she said as she squatted down beside him.

Eijirou rolled his head to the side as he heard more helicopter blades and crunching tires. The bullet train was now surrounded by an entire fleet of personnel— military vehicles and soldiers, police officers and pro heroes, government officials. Although his entire body felt like a melted pile of goop, Eijirou forced himself to roll over and half-stumble, half walk around the front of the train.

“Hey, hey, wait!” he called hoarsely as they were unloading handcuffed villains from the engineer car. “Not those guys. Those guys are good.”

“What?” the officer asked with a look of bewilderment. Several other higher-ranking officials came to listen while Eijirou explained. Thankfully, there wasn’t too much argument; the Hero Commission representatives agreed to uphold Eijirou’s promise, and led them away uncuffed to hopefully a better future. The blond-haired kid threw him a wink and a thumbs up as he was paraded by.

“Phew! I’m tired,” Eijirou groaned as he flopped against the train. He cracked an eye open as the mastermind of the entire operation was wheeled out on a stretcher, stoically blank-faced. When he caught Eijirou’s eye, however, he grinned widely.

“They’ll remember me still, won’t they?”

Eijirou stared at him a second, then looked down the train, where the rattled passengers were being led to safety by the first responders. They probably would remember, but Eijirou didn’t want to give the sicko the satisfaction.

“Nope,” he quipped, looking back at him with a stony expression. “In time, all bad things are replaced by good things instead. You’ll be nothing but an afterthought.”

The man stared at him incredulously for a minute, mouth hanging open. Then, with a screech, he started bucking up against the leather restraints holding him down to the stretcher. The EMTs wordlessly wheeled him to the ambulance, giving no heed to his deranged ramblings. Sighing, Eijirou slumped back against the train, leaning his head and enjoying the way the metal cooled his sweaty, heated skin. He found himself drifting into a light doze, exhausted from all the chaos of the train ride.

He imagined the embrace of soft sheets, a warm comforter, and a fluffy pillow, making him smile dreamily. There was nothing like crawling into bed after a day like this. But… I’d much rather crawl in bed after a peaceful day, he thought drowsily, peeking at the crowd of civilians who’d had to endure the fruits of his selfish beseech to the heavens. When they crawled into bed tonight, would their sleep be plagued by nightmares? Would they have to hold their loved ones close to feel safe?

Indeed, Eijirou had been remiss in wishing for something exciting, but that was okay. He’d make up for it by being the best hero he could be. He’d put his all into every task at hand—whether it be rescuing a cat from a tree or preventing catastrophic destruction—because, regardless, that meant saving the day for somebody. He would attend to everyone in need, no matter if that need was big or small, because that’s what heroes do.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#eijirou kirishima #kirishima eijirou #my hero academia #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha

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dolokhoded · 4 years ago

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me starting to actually write this even though it still very obviously has some plot wholes

that ralbert au where race commits war crimes

i think it's really cute

so pulitzer is the big bad guy here for i'm basic reasons

has created some,, weird ass dumb ass evil empire

destroyed a couple towns

caused some battles

divided the world

y'know. stuff like that.

starting off with some spicy unfinished plot 🤩 but lbh it doesn't really matter anyways we're all just here for ralbert

anyways, race and al's families? pretty big part of that.

they're both supposed to take over their fathers' jobs when they grow up

said jobs basically being,, in charge of,,, unleashing people to raid entire towns and burn them to the ground

they grew up side by side, have always been best friends, never seen without each other

but understandably when they started growing up and understanding what was going on around them it,,,,,,, troubled them

and they dealed with it Very Differently

albert did Not like it

he was angry, and he was sad that this was what he was supposed to become and he was already never close with his family so it wasn't really hard for him to decide he didn't want anything to do with them anymore

race,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, okay look

deep inside him race knew what was going on was,,, s o wrong

but race was also from a big tight family, it was so much easier for him to just,,,,,, shut all of that out and pretend he was just doing what was better for them

it was hard for him, it was his family

still you can understand how well it went for them when albert left and race refused to go with him

they were 17 at the time

people against pulitzer's whole thing were obviously not very,,,,,,,,, well appreciated?

the moment albert ran away he was art of the defiance. he was a traitor.

but he was also still dasilva's son and they wanted them on their side, so they wouldn't seriously hurt him

doesn't mean they stopped looking for him

he shared an apartment with romeo and finch for a while, it was in a pretty lowkey neighborhood and they covered for him

and through them he met the rest of the newsies :) who actively helped in trying to help people who's homes were destroyed by pulitzer

there were people actively fighting him too but the newsies were mostly in charge of that

well, until albert and his non-existent impulse control arrived anyways

cause look,,,,, race was being trained for a reason, and eventually he took over

so when you see this ur ex-best friend who you're in love with but have a lot of repressed feelings for, both good and bad, that you decide to dump in the 'im angry' pile and just pretend you hate him and no longer care about him,,,,, fighting occurs

and there was a bit of controversy about albert joining them because "it's the dasilva boy romeo he was specifically trained to kick our asses" but that slowly turns into "yea ok he's very legit but for the love of god someone s t o p him the next time he tries to kiLL SOMEONE-"

that's a hyperbole, of course. even as rivals, albert wouldn't kill race. he barely even hurts him.

if anything, he even kind of looks out for him

he knows he's not supposed to but somehow he still can't bring himself to let race get hurt

besides let's be honest, most of their encounters are just an excuse to bitch at each other, they'd never do anything they know would seriously hurt the other

they know each other pretty well, they grew up together, they know each other's strengths and weaknesses

which is a pretty big advantage for them, honestly

enter,,,, albert dasilva's galaxy brain and the newsies' favorite game

Is Albert A Strategic Genius Or Is He Just In Love With Race

"no i've got this i know race!! i can use that against him!!!! i can guess his every move!!!! that's how well i know him!!!! i can recognize him in a room of like a billion people!!!!! it's my ultra strategic mind!!!! i can tell the sound of his voice from miles away!!!! it's because im so invested!!!!"

specs is like "in the mission or in race"

and albert is like "WHATEVER ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT IT'S MY STRATEGIC MIND"

"I AM A MACHINE SPECS"

"you're chronically dumb"

"S T R A T E G I C M I N D."

albert really came in like well race's plan's gonna be ruined cause IM IN LOVE WITH HIM >:) what a fuckin loser

all this aside,,,,,,, albert never stops trying to get race on their side .

now RACETRACK,,,,,,,,,

we have a WHOLE LOT of being an asshole as a defense mechanism from this boy

in race's eyes, albert abandoned him

in race's eyes, he was given up on. he just wasn't enough to keep him there.

he can't see anything but that and never in a million years would he bring himself to believe albert still cares about him

he'd be getting his hopes too high and letting down his guard, and he can't afford to do that.

race doesn't notice albert trying to help him, he doesn't notice albert very carefully avoiding injuring him, he doesn't notice how albert will never say anything that would hurt him

albert's always protective of race, regardless of if he's beside or against him

which leads us to how once race eventually does get hurt, seriously hurt, literally no one bats an eye when albert returns with race unconscious, demanding they get him help

which they do, cause albert has not shut up about race for like one second, the newsies might as well know as much about him as albert did

naturally when race woke up he,,, had questions

and then he saw albert

he was sat on a chair next to him, sleeping

and this is the first time he's seen him like this in ages

and he gets a little chocked up because holy shit he almost forgot albert was,,,,,like,,, a person

and it wasn't necessary to only see him when fighting

he still had a life and friends and people he loved and he wasn't just this dude who left them because he didn't give a shit about anyone

he could genuinely care for people and he could love people and race just remembered how much he wished he could be one of those people

and how much he wished he could be albert's favorite person again and just sit and talk and laugh with him like they used to

cause that's a part of albert he'd forced himself to just forget about

and then al wakes up and he sees him looking up at him and he's like

"how're you feeling"

and then he's sad cause it's much harder to know albert is a good person with real feelings and he's capable of loving so much and race thinks he's just one of the people who will never get that side of him and he just

"fuck off"

they fight

because of course they do

they're not really sure on what terms they are at this point, and there's so much they need to get out there

at first race is just,,,, stubborn

he won't listen, he demands they let him go back

"we can just let you go, idiot, i shouldn't have ever brought you here in the first place!"

"then why did you?"

and al just shrugs it away as if he hasn't been in love with him for years and would never forgive himself if he left him there to bleed

they just go yelling at each other back and forth for a while until inevitably albert's non-existent impulse control makes his return

and he,,,,, very angrily tells him he loves him

and everything just stops cause that's the one thing race though he'd never hear him say again

and race is literally holding his breath cause he's scared he'll ruin it if he moves in the slightest and it'll all turn out to be in his head but it's not cause when he tells albert he loves him back he's still there and he just,,

takes race's face in his hands and kisses him so softly it's like they weren't just screaming at each other's faces

romeo just fuckin pokes his head in like "i heard yelling but i also heard i love you so i'll assume some of those unresolved feelings were let out and we're all ready to have a nice long healthy chat, yeah? :D"

so they do

they talk. for,,,,,,,,, a long time.

needless to say, race stays

he loves his family and maybe he'll be back for them, maybe he'll help them but he recognizes what's the priority here

plus it's a little clearer now that he doesn't have all those feelings to worry about, and it's been a while since he was actually accepted and loved, which the newsies did instantly. it's pretty obvious where he belongs now.

this au still has,,,,, SO much to unpack, holy shit, but i decided to leave this post here cause,,,,, i can't do all of that now. i might at some point though, if people actually are interested, there's a lot of hurt/comfort from this point. there's the nightmares part which is v soft and i adore it, THERE'S JUST A LOT TO UNPACK. so yeah, i'm finally posting this, ralbert stans, come get y'all's juice.

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alderaani · 4 years ago

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the shape of silence

this little fic is a gift for @hobiiwan as part of the @starwarssecretsanta event - i really hope that you like it! thanks so much to @lilhawkeye3 for organising the event, it has been a really lovely thing to look forward to 🥰

summary: it has been two weeks since Nevarro, and Din is still trying to wrap his head around the quest he’s been given. he lands the Crest on a remote, wintery planet so that he can regroup and get his bearings | also readable on AO3

warnings: none, this is just a little fluffy winter-themed piece!

It’s too quiet. There’s the rumbling of the engine of course, the ever-present beat of the Crest’s mechanical heart, but apart from that…there is nothing. The deafening quiet of space lingers on the edge of his mind, like a predator hovering just out of sight. It sounds like it always does, after the bounty has been brought on board and sealed in carbonite, when Din is left exactly how he likes things. Alone, with his own thoughts.

Except this time, he isn’t. Silence, it turns out, can be very deceptive.

There is a clank somewhere deep in the hold and Din jumps, tripping over the corner of a storage crate and dropping the tarp he’d been trying to look under.

“Come on, kid…” he mutters, running a flustered hand over the top of his helmet. “Don’t do this to me.”

Something else rattles, ringing sharply through the durasteel. Somewhere in the gloom a little satisfied giggle echoes, a funny trilling sound that makes him smile through the sharp exasperation in his chest. Din sighs, slumping against the crate.

“I know you’re in there,” he tells the selection of equipment around him. There is no answer, but the silence feels bated, interested. Like someone is listening. “You’ve got to come out sooner or later.”

There is another giggle and the sound of many small things tinkling as they fall. Din groans and tips his head back.

“Anything you spill, you clean up on this ship,” he says, trying to be threatening, but even he can hear the defeat in his own voice. When there is more suspiciously long silence, he sighs again and crouches, lifting up the edge of the tarp and turning his heat sensors back on. Cold blue shapes swim muzzily on the HUD, and he’s just about to give up again and move on when a patch of orange flashes by. The little womp rat is back here all right, just as he suspected. A little bloom of relief spreads headily through him, but it’s not enough to dull the panic that has plagued him for the past several hours, from the moment he turned around in the pilot’s chair and realised the kid had vanished.

The orange blur solidifies into a dense blob of red as the child comes out from behind more of the junk that Din has accumulated on jobs. Odds and ends mostly, things bounties had with them when they were taken and he’d kept because they’d looked useful. Boxes of scrap so that he can put the Crest back together when it is inevitably damaged. Stuff one absolutely would not want a small, overly curious infant to have full unrestrained access to. Din has seen the kid put a live frog into his mouth, so his opinion of the little gremlin’s judgement is not especially high. He keeps meaning to clear up, but he has yet to figure out how to baby proof a ship when the baby in question can move things with his mind.

The Razor Crest is not a big ship, but Din has quickly learned that that is very much a matter of perspective. He’d buckle the kid down if he thought it would work, but those little fingers are fast; he figured out the controls on his sleeping pod almost before Din did. The fact of the matter is that the child does not get put anywhere. He will tolerate being placed, if Din is lucky. Today he wasn’t.

The patch of glowing red shifts as Din watches. The child stoops, one small clawed hand reaching out to paw at the ground.

“I can see you, kid.” The red blob straightens, and then the shape of two large ears rotate in his direction. “Yeah, that’s right. We’re landing soon, get out here.”

There is a questioning chirp, and then the child is moving, emerging from the gloom. Din flicks off the heat sensors and looks down into a pair of large brown eyes as a body shuffles up to his leg and latches on to the fabric of his trousers with one hand. The other is closed tight, but Din catches a glint of silver through his fingers.

“Hey, what have you got there?” He plucks the kid up by the back of his robe and tucks him into the crook of one arm, then holds his free hand in front of his face, palm up. “Come on, hand it over.”

The kid makes no verbal response, but his ears flick down once, a dismissal if Din has ever seen one.

“I’m not negotiating,” Din says sternly, but it’s all a lie. He’s already starting to sweat a little at the look the kid gives him.

The child’s ears flicker again before he looks impassively out across the hold, hand held protectively against his midriff. Din keeps up the stalemate for a few moments, then hears something beep urgently in the cockpit. He sighs.

“Look, you give me whatever that is and I feed you. Sound good?”

This makes the child look up almost instantly, shifting in Din’s arms with a soft eager crowing noise. His hand twitches, and Din holds his breath. Then the cockpit beeps again and Din curses, half turning back towards the ladder. The kid has started making innocent burbling noises and is sitting placidly in Din’s arms, as if he hasn’t just dragged a seasoned bounty hunter on a several hour goose chase through the hull.

“I’ll double the jerky,” he pleads, patting the pouch on his belt for emphasis. “Come on kid, work with me here.”

The child grins. His little hand comes up and releases a collection of knuts and wire ends into Din’s palm, which he stows quickly into a pocket. He knows that he lost this round, but he’ll take whatever he can get at this point, so long keeps the kid alive and relatively out of trouble.

They get back into the cockpit just in time for the Crest to drop out of hyperspace, a shuddering rumble and then a familiar lurch sending him scrambling for the controls. There is a breathless, weightless moment as the sweeping dome of a planet materialises below, blotting out the stars. Din studies it quickly. Swirling grey clouds roiling within atmo, and where they break, mottled landscapes of white and green. He checks the navi-computer again for its name: Ayarth 4, cold, settled by mining colonies, covered in forest. Remote enough that not even Din knows it, because bounties clearly don’t stray here often. Perfect, in other words, for anyone that wants to lay low for a while.

As he sits in the pilot’s seat and sets the controls back to manual, Din feels a slight tugging on his boots and glances down to find the kid scaling his leg. He huffs out a laugh and moves his thigh so the womp rat can get a better grip, then can’t help the smile that spreads across his face when the kid drags himself into his lap and promptly sprawls, huffing as he draws his feet up under his robe out of the cold.

“You actually gonna take a nap, huh?” he asks, by now starting to recognise the sleepy droop to the child’s big brown eyes. It never happens when he hopes it will, but right now suits him just fine. The kid doesn’t say anything, but he curls his hand over the lip of Din’s thigh guard and rests his head on the exposed fabric, which seems answer enough.

As he lowers the ship into atmo and starts scanning the frozen ground for signs of civilization, Din reaches down to gently worry one of the baby’s ears between his fingers, sighing heavily to himself. The child weighs next to nothing, but he feels every ounce of the small body curled into his.

The silence presses back in, interrupted this time by the roaring wind outside and the whining groan of the engines, but Din feels it all the same. He’s never minded quiet; when they were young Paz had always been the talker when necessary, happy to utilise the attention his size bestowed upon him so naturally. Din has always preferred to watch. He can read a person’s body, know exactly how they will move next in a fight, but words have too many faces.

Now though...now the silence feels too empty. He knows the deep abyss of space intimately - the feeling of great nothingness and infinite possibility stretching out in front of him. Has welcomed it, even. But there has always been something to go back to, in the past. A tether binding him to the rest of the galaxy throughout the solitary weeks and months drifting through stars. Now though, the covert is gone. They might reassemble, in time, but he has no way to find them even if they do, and so many will be gone. He has his mission, and that alone has kept him going through the two lonely weeks since Nevarro, the image of those piles of empty beskar seared into his mind.

He’s self aware enough to know that he’s running, though. Panicking, almost. When they left, he was just trying to put as much distance between himself and the planet below in case of any straggling imperials that might try to follow their trail. Now they’re just drifting between fuel stations as he tries to fit his head around finding a people he has never heard of, let alone seen. A ‘race of enemy sorcerers’ no less...all he has to work with is a name, Jedi, and the way the kid’s ears perk up when he says it. He’s good at tracking people, good at chasing them to the far reaches of the galaxy and dragging them back to wherever they belong. But this feels like catching smoke.

The kid snuffles in his sleep and his ears twitch as debris thumps against the hull. Din watches his eyelids flicker as he dreams and sighs, directing the Crest down towards a clearing. It’s maybe a mile away from where he can see lights and dwellings nestled among the trees. Far enough away to be discrete, close enough that they can run if he needs.

Dusk is falling when he lands, casting long blue shadows against the white ground. The sky, fractured and fragmented by trees, is bleeding purple and orange from a blood red sun. As the Crest settles the snow hisses, steam billowing up around the hot engines and drifting across the windshield. The baby stirs, blinking sleepily up at Din as he runs cool down checks and flips the safety switches, locking out his codes and setting everything to standby.

“Sorry, kid,” he murmurs, settling one hand at the back of his head. It’s too much to hope that he will go back to sleep. Already his ears are pricking, his head swivelling to focus on the little of the landscape visible through the transparisteel. Din thinks that his eyes are distant sometimes - not absent, but focusing on things that he cannot see. Going beyond. It wouldn’t surprise him if the baby’s strange powers allowed him to see through walls. He can already lift beasts, strangle people and heal them with his mind - what’s one more impossible thing?

Din lifts the child off his lap and sets him in his pod, leaving him to wake up more fully as he heads back into the hold and opens the weapons cache, gearing up in quick, practised motions. The new weight of the jetpack on his shoulders is still a thrill. His last blessing from Armourer. An affirmation that this is the right path, wherever it leads.

As he slings his rifle over his shoulder there is a little chirp. He looks down in time to see the kid’s pod bump gently into the open cache door; the child has his eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration, his hand raised. Din looks at his gauntlet and sees a little red light blinking on the pod control panel, one that he definitely did not switch on, and sighs, feeling his heart sink.

“Very clever, kid,” he says, even as he resigns himself to never being able to find the child again. “I take it that means you’re ready to go?”

The kid chirps again, giving him a toothy grin that falters into open amazement as the ramp hisses and lowers, revealing a world of muffled, glittering white. Snow has started falling again, a breaker of clouds rolling in to chase out the sunset and bringing the weather change with it. Din stops to wedge a spare scrap of fabric into the pod, looking critically at the child’s ears. He usually keeps the scraps on hand to clean his blasters, but they’ll do for this purpose too.

The kid makes a funny crowing noise, reaching towards all that white, and tilts his head up at Din in silent demand.

“You’ve never seen snow before, huh? It’s cold, so keep that on. And let me know if your ears hurt.” He steps forward and fiddles with the pod controls so that that baby will stay level with him. “Best way to explain it is just to get out there. Come on.”

He finds himself almost excited as he steps out from under the metal plates of the Crest’s belly, keeping half an eye on the kid as he scans their surroundings for any hidden threat. The kid’s mouth opens in toothy delight, his brown eyes going big and dark and intense as he stares up into the darkening sky and the maze of swirling white. His little breaths puff up into the air and he reaches for it, babbling when it slides through his fingers and dissipates into the dusk.

Then, his ears twitch, a quick reflexive motion. The kid turns to look behind him, then makes a disgruntled noise when there’s nothing there. His head tilts as he turns back to this new, interesting landscape, then his ears twitch again, flapping in a manner reminiscent of a sneeze. Din feels a smile creep onto his face as a large snowflake lands on the curve of the baby’s left ear, waiting with bated breath. He can’t stop the laugh ripping out of his throat when sure enough, the ears twitch again.

The kid whines, reaching up to cover his ears with his claws.

“It’s just the snow. It’s like rain, see?” Din says, still chuckling. He lets several flakes settle onto the back of one glove and holds it in front of the kid’s face, watching those clever little eyes latch onto the melting spots of white. The child reaches out to touch and makes a noise of consternation when the snow vanishes, bringing his hand to his mouth. “Yeah you got it, kid. It’s just water.”

He turns back to the Crest and makes sure the ramp retracts, listening for the tell-tale triple click that means the lock has engaged. Mining communities tend to be insular, but not unpleasant. Not scavengers. He doubts there will be any trouble, but then, he thought that the kid would be a regular job, if high stakes. He’s quite done with surprises.

His breath bounces around the inside of his helmet, his boots creaking as they break through the frozen shell of the snow. It’s been a long time since he saw a view like this, even longer since he got to enjoy it.

“I say we head into the settlement and see if we can get some food. What do you think?” He says, turning back to the kid. He’s in time to see his closed eyes, to hear a coo of deep concentration - but what really gets his attention is the small wall of snow shooting towards the child’s outstretched hand.

“No, kid - wait!”

It’s too late. The force of the incoming snow sends the pod skittering, the child within flying backwards with a squeal as he is painted head to toe in white. He shakes his head like a dog, ears springing free. It’s the most disgruntled Din has ever seen him.

“Bet you’re not gonna do that again, huh?” he chuckles, righting the pod and sweeping out the worst of the mess.

The kid just holds his arms out, ears drooping as a lump of snow slides off the tip of his nose. Din huffs out a laugh and picks him up, tucking him under one arm and fishing out the blanket to drape over his legs.

“When we come back later I’ll show you how to make snowballs. You had the right idea, but we’ve gotta work on your technique.” The kid huffs. “You’ve got to admit it was a little bit funny. Now, how about that food?”

The kid coos and settles his weight down, ears lifting as they set off through the trees. Din hones in on the distant flashes of strung up lights and squat houses, a warm orange glow fracturing off the ice. The child curls into the crook of his arm, now content to watch this new world unveil itself instead of bringing it to him, his face scrunching with every breath of wind. As they walk, he winds one small hand around Din’s thumb, his fingers worrying at the smooth orange leather.

Silence falls again, amplified by the way snow muffles everything, suspending them in a long unblemished moment.

But this time, with the kid in his arms and the path stretching out in front of them, Din’s mind settles, crystallizing around the most important truth.

Wherever it may take him, this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #grogu #baby yoda #din djarin #gen fic #S01e08: the redemption #the redemption #swsecretsanta2020 #hobiiwan #alderwrites

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purplehairedwonder · 4 years ago

Text

Hearts With(out) Chains Chapter 2

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen (eventual Lawlu) Words: 3297 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Penguin, Shachi, Bepo, Jean Bart, Boa Hancock, Emporio Ivankov, Jimbei, Silvers Rayleigh, Donquixote Doflamingo Note: I’m taking my turn at the Corazon!Law AU because my brain won’t leave me alone until this is written down. Tags will be updated as the chapters come out.

The story title is based on the Ellie Goulding song “Hearts Without Chains.”

Summary: Law is reclaimed by the Family when he’s 17 and, with Doflamingo holding the lives of his crew as collateral for his good behavior, eventually becomes the third Corazon. Years later, trapped by his impossible situation, Law can’t help but resent Monkey D. Luffy for offering a glimpse of something he’s repeatedly had ripped away from him: hope.

Previous chapters: Prologue | 1

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

Law stared out over the Calm Belt, the forbidden land of Amazon Lily at his back. His crew puttered about around him, regularly complaining about not being able to go further onto the Isle of Women. Law, for his part, had bigger concerns; despite being on the Calm Belt and in the territory of another Warlord, he still half-expected the familiar sails of one of Doflamingo’s ships to appear on the horizon.

The aged straw hat in his grip felt fragile somehow—like its owner currently was—as Law absently turned it over, the crackling of the woven straw grounding him in a way he couldn’t explain. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t let it out of his sight since it had been thrown his way as the Polar Tang prepared to dive in its escape.

It had been two weeks since Law had rescued Straw Hat Luffy from the battlefield of Marineford; the boy was still unconscious, though Law suspected that was more to do with his spirit than his body at this point. Though Straw Hat’s recovery still had a long way to go, Law felt confident he would survive—physically, anyway. Immediately after the surgery, Law would have given his chances at, optimistically, fifty-fifty, but each day his heart continued to beat in his repaired chest improved his odds.

As for when he’d wake up, well… the teen had suffered an immense trauma, his body falling into unconsciousness as a defense mechanism before Law had even arrived. The emotional pain of losing his brother wasn’t something Law could do anything for. (He was hardly the poster boy for healthy coping mechanisms anyway.)

And so, an entire island waited with bated breath.

The more stable Straw Hat’s condition became, the less Law needed to monitor him, which gave him more time to think; according to his crew, that was never a good thing. They were probably right. Law still had no idea how to explain his actions to Doflamingo. He knew neither he nor his crew would escape this unscathed, but Law found himself contemplating how to minimize the inevitable punishment.

On the day of the execution, Law and his crew had waited aboard the Tang at Sabaody in case Doflamingo called for them, watching the broadcast in the meantime. The moment Straw Hat Luffy had burst onto the battlefield, something had startled in Law’s chest. The revelation that he was not only Fire Fist’s brother but also the son of Dragon had sent shockwaves through the entire archipelago, but as Straw Hat fought for his brother’s life, all Law could think of was that middle initial he’d taken note of at the auction house.

Monkey D. Luffy.

“There have often been people who have the name D. who gained public notoriety, and old people would frown and mutter, ‘D. will surely bring us another storm,’” Cora-san had told him. “And in some places, there are people who call the Family of D. sworn enemy of the gods.”

There was one specific “god” that Law very much wanted to take down, though he was in no position to do so himself.

But maybe…

Well, a storm sure seemed to describe a boy who would punch a Celestial Dragon in the face for harming one of his friends, damn the consequences, and would fight every single Marine, if necessary, to rescue his adopted brother from execution.

And when the broadcast of the battle was cut, the feeling in Law’s chest turned into a tug so insistent that he’d ordered his crew to set sail for Marineford.

“Did Doflamingo call for us, Captain?” Penguin asked once they had submerged.

“No.”

Penguin shot him a confused look. “Then why…?”

But Law hadn’t been able to explain the feeling in his chest, the absolute certainty that he was needed there, until the broadcast returned, and the Hearts watched Fire Fist fall and Straw Hat mortally wounded.

Law knew he’d drawn attention once the Polar Tang surfaced, undoubtedly looking like reinforcements for the Marines as the second-in-command of the Donquixote Pirates, but then he’d called for that idiot clown to give Straw Hat to him—and it had taken less convincing than it probably should have for him to throw Jimbei and Straw Hat down to the Tang. (Coward.) Law had no idea how anyone else, particularly Doflamingo, had reacted, as he’d been hyper-focused on getting his patients below deck with that tug in his chest demanding he act. The arrival of Red Hair had given them room to escape.

Other than removing Amber Lead from his body as a dying teenager who’d only had his Devil Fruit for a few days, the surgery to save Straw Hat was the most difficult of Law’s life. Operating for sixteen hours with Room activated nearly the entire time had completely drained Law—two weeks later, and he was still feeling the effects, his Rooms flickering out quickly when he summoned them—but he knew somehow that nothing less would satisfy the pull in his chest, whatever it was.

Though he would have liked nothing more than to sleep for days afterward, the presence of a Marine ship when the Polar Tang surfaced had forced him to stumble onto the deck and meet the wary eye of Boa Hancock. As he approached the door, he could hear her asking his crew about Straw Hat’s condition.

“I’ve done all I can,” Law said, wiping his hands on a towel as he came out on deck, willing himself upright in the face of another Warlord. “He was in bad shape. It’s up to him and his will to survive now.” He suppressed a grimace as he considered the damage he’d repaired in the boy’s chest. It was a miracle he was still alive by the time Law had gotten to him.

Hancock eyed him, her expression suspicious. It probably should have concerned him, having her full attention like that, but he was too tired to care.

“And why did you help him?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this another one of Doflamingo’s plots? What does he want with Luffy?”

“I acted on my own.”

“Why?” That was Emporio Ivankov, who’d jumped down from the Marine vessel. Law, long past the point of wondering where these people were coming from, idly marveled at Straw Hat Luffy having friends like a current and former Warlord and a high-ranking Revolutionary (in addition to a father leading the Revolutionaries) that they would track Law to check on his condition but pushed it aside for another time. “Are you a friend of Straw Hat Boy?”

“No.” Law frowned. He might not be a believer anymore, but he’d been raised with religion and those teachings had never fully left him. The pull in his chest had felt like a sign—something the sisters at school would have said was important to follow. But these people didn’t need to know that. “It was a whim, nothing more.”

“A whim,” Hancock echoed flatly.

But Ivankov chuckled knowingly in a way that made Law feel transparent somehow. “Sometimes instinct drives us to do unexpected things.”

Despite her—entirely appropriate, Law knew—misgivings at working alongside the second-in-command of another Warlord, Hancock had brought the Hearts to Amazon Lily, leaving Straw Hat’s treatment in Law’s hands. It was likely Jimbei’s presence that gave Hancock any peace of mind at Law’s presence.

Law looked up when he heard a light cough. He shook himself as Jimbei came up next to him; he’d been so caught up in his reverie, he hadn’t noticed the former Warlord’s approach.

“May I sit?”

Law grunted, which Jimbei took as acquiescence. He sat down and allowed silence settle between them before breaking it.

“Will you be in trouble with your boss for helping Luffy?” he asked.

Law’s eye twitched. “I fail to see how that’s any of your concern.”

“I was thrown in Impel Down for refusing to fight alongside the other Warlords at Marineford,” Jimbei said. “The World Government won’t appreciate another Warlord’s second-in-command rescuing two enemies out from under their nose.”

Law found his grip tightening around the straw hat in his hand and loosened his fingers. Jimbei hadn’t said anything Law didn’t already know. “What is your point, Jimbei-ya?”

“Doflamingo won’t be pleased.”

“Unlikely,” Law agreed.

“But you will return to him.” It wasn’t a question.

Law looked out toward the Tang, where the boy still slept. “When Straw Hat-ya is well enough, yes.”

“Is that a good idea?”

Law huffed a humorless laugh, returning his gaze to Jimbei. “Whether it’s a good idea or not is irrelevant. When Straw Hat-ya no longer requires my care, I will return to Dressrosa and my captain.” He knew better than anyone that there would be consequences for his actions—and that he had no choice but to face them.

Though he knew there would be consequences for what he’d done, it was Doffy’s silence over the last two weeks that left Law the most off-balance. He’d expected the man to bombard Law with calls, if not follow Law himself; the Calm Belt would be little more than an inconvenience in the face of what he wanted.

But there had been nothing.

He supposed this was one of Doflamingo’s mind games. He would force Law to reach out to him first, to crawl back to him, draped in repentance. Doflamingo undoubtedly felt secure in Law’s eventual return because he forced Law to leave at least three members of his crew behind whenever he went out on a mission. Currently, Ikkaku, Clione, and Uni were back in Dressrosa. Law had felt comfortable leaving them since he’d expected the trip to Sabaody to be quick, an errand he could handle with minimal backup. That had been nearly a month ago. And Doflamingo was right; Law wouldn’t abandon his nakama, so even if he went dark for weeks, the Warlord could be confident his second would return.

Law just hoped those three hadn’t already been punished for his actions.

Jimbei frowned and opened his mouth to say more, but he was interrupted by a banshee scream coming from the Polar Tang.

“Ace!”

In mere moments, Straw Hat had somehow escaped the infirmary on the Tang (Law tried not to think about what he would find when he boarded his ship again) and made his way to land. As Straw Hat rampaged through the camp, Law caught a look at his face and flinched. The wide-eyed, glassy expression of grief over a pain too great to process was one Law was intimately familiar with; he’d worn it himself, first after Flevance and again after Cora-san.

“Where’s Ace?”

Law’s crew chased after the raging teen, trying to calm him down. Law exchanged looks with Jimbei.

“What’ll happen if we just leave him like that?” Jimbei asked as Straw Hat threw off Law’s crewmates and stormed further inland.

Law sighed, weariness hitting him square in the chest. “It’s simple. If he reopens his wounds, he could die.”

Jimbei grimaced and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll go.”

“Your wounds could also reopen,” Law pointed out. Not that anyone seemed to care about his professional opinion.

“Better me than him.”

Law blinked at Jimbei’s back as the former Warlord followed Straw Hat’s path. He shook his head, once more wondering at the allies Straw Hat found himself with, and turned away. He continued looking out over the water, clenching his jaw at the sounds of Straw Hat’s rampage in the forest. He suppressed the urge to cover his ears, the pained sounds echoing through him and digging at Law’s own shallowly buried grief.

Eventually, the cacophony faded out, leaving the cliffside eerily quiet. His crew started moving around once more, though they were subdued in the wake of what they’d just witnessed.

“What the hell is that?” Shachi said suddenly, pointing out over the water.

Law frowned. There was some kind of commotion in the bay. What the hell?

“Is that a Sea King?” Penguin asked, joining Shachi.

“Is something fighting it?” Shachi yelped as Bepo and Jean Bart came up behind him.

The commotion came to an end almost as quickly as it started. One moment, the beast was thrashing violently, the next it was still.

“It’s dead,” Jean Bart murmured. “What could do that in the Calm Belt?”

There was a splash just below the cliff. Looked like they were going to find out. Law readied himself to make a Room—it wouldn’t be as big as usual and wouldn’t last long, but it would be something—but dropped his hand as Silvers Rayleigh climbed over the ledge, dripping water. Law watched the man warily as he explained that he’d swum through the Calm Belt. Monster.

Eventually, Rayleigh’s gaze turned back to Law. “You’ve created quite the stir, saving Luffy like that.” He smiled, though there was something in his eyes that made Law straighten. “Luffy is here, right?”

“I doubt you would have come all this way unless you knew the answer to that question already, Rayleigh-ya,” Law replied.

Rayleigh chuckled. “Fair enough. How is he?”

Law studied the older pirate for a moment then made a decision. “He just woke up. He’s still in rough shape; he’ll need to rest for at least two more weeks so his wounds close properly.” The grief, on the other hand, would take much longer to heal, but Law left that unsaid. Someone like Rayleigh would know that well.

Rayleigh nodded thoughtfully. “But his life is out of danger?”

“As long as he lets his wounds close, yes.”

“Good.”

Law’s lips twitched. “I take it we’re being dismissed, Rayleigh-ya?”

Rayleigh outright laughed at that. “Well, that’s not how I would have put it.”

“But you’re here to take over,” Law surmised.

“I’m here to offer Luffy a proposal.”

“And you expect him to accept. I get it.” Law pushed himself to his feet and closed the gap with Rayleigh. He held out the straw hat.

Rayleigh’s expression turned distant for a moment before he came back to himself and took the proffered object with understanding.

“Two weeks,” Law reiterated. “If he pushes it, he could die.” And Law didn’t want the danger he’d selfishly put his crew into to be for nothing.

-----

Once the Polar Tang had set sail, Bepo setting their course based on their eternal pose to Dressrosa, Law grabbed the long-range Den Den Mushi and retreated to his cabin. He placed it on his desk and stared at it as he debated how to approach the call. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he started when there was a knock at his door.

“Captain?”

Law’s shoulder’s slumped at Bepo’s voice. “Come in,” he replied.

The door opened, revealing Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin. The trio filed into Law’s room, shutting the door behind them. Law swiveled in his desk chair to face them.

“Calling him?” Shachi asked, gesturing at the snail.

Law nodded. “Can’t put it off any longer.”

“What will you say?” Bepo asked.

Law’s mouth moved but nothing came out. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I caused him a lot of trouble, and he’s going to be furious. But he won’t take it out on me.” Not all of it, anyway.

“We’re with you, Law.”

Law blinked at the use of his given name; he was so used to hearing his title, even from his crew, that his name sounded odd even to his own ears. It made the already-tight ball of guilt in his chest clench.

“I made a selfish choice, and now you guys are going to pay for it. I’m sorry.”

“Why did you save him?” Bepo asked. There was no judgment in his oldest friend’s eyes, just curiosity and trust.

“It was…” Law cast about the best way to describe the tug in his chest because if anyone deserved the truth, it was these three. “It was just a feeling,” he finally settled on. It sounded lame to his own ears as he said it. “I don’t know how to explain it. Like something was telling me it was important.”

The other three exchanged looks, and Law felt his stomach drop. It wasn’t good enough, not for the danger he’d put them in…

“Okay,” Bepo said after a moment.

“Okay?” Law echoed, taken aback.

“Okay,” Penguin confirmed.

“If you thought it was important, then we trust you,” Shachi added. “You’re our captain, Doflamingo be damned.”

“The others feel the same,” Penguin added. “We’ll be okay, Captain. Whatever happens.”

Fuck. What had Law done to deserve them?

Once the trio left his cabin, Law turned back to the Den Den Mushi on his desk. He took a breath and dialed the familiar number. It rang longer than Law expected, but he knew this was another of Doffy’s games, making sure Law would stay on the line—as though he didn’t have the ultimate bargaining chip for Law’s loyalty already. Finally, the other man picked up.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the prodigal son. I was starting to worry, Corazon.”

“My apologies, Young Master,” Law replied, deciding deferential was his best tone at the moment. “I called as soon as I was able.”

Doflamingo snorted. “I’m sure you did.” In other words, he knew Law was lying, but he didn’t care enough to challenge the lie. “Where are you?” he asked instead.

“En route to Dressrosa,” Law said, debating how much to reveal of his whereabouts for the last two weeks. Would Hancock reveal Law had been there? Doflamingo would be furious if he heard it from her first. On the other hand… Law decided to err on the side of sharing as little as possible; it made the most sense for Hancock to keep Straw Hat’s presence a secret, as allying—or even appearing to ally—with a rival pirate crew was enough to cost a Warlord their status. “We should be there within the week.”

“And Dragon’s son?”

“Alive. As is Jimbei.” No point in lying about that.

Doflamingo made an impressed sound. “Straw Hat took direct hits from Kizaru and Sakazuki, and you were able to save him? I should really stop being surprised by your abilities after all these years, Corazon.”

Law hummed in response, recognizing the trap in Doflamingo’s words. Nothing he could say here would turn out well for him, whether he accepted the praise or demurred; no response was his best option.

“As impressive as your skills as a doctor are,” Doflamingo went on when he realized Law wasn’t rising to the bait, “they’ve caused me some serious problems.”

And there it was. Law needed to tread very carefully here.

“I had to convince the World Government that my subordinate acted on his own and that I was still a good little Warlord.” His voice had turned into a sneer, and Law could picture the bulging vein in his forehead. “And promise my subordinate would be appropriately disciplined for his indiscretion.”

“Of course,” Law said. “I’m sorry for causing you difficulties, Young Master. I will, of course, accept my punishment.”

Doflamingo chuckled, though there was no warmth to it. “I’m sure you will. You’re ever the loyal one, aren’t you, Law?”

Law’s breath caught in his throat, his body going cold.

“See you in a week.” With that Doflamingo hung up.

Doflamingo had stopped using Law’s name when he became an executive four years ago, even in private, so hearing it now… His tone was such a contrast to the way his friends had used his name less than an hour earlier, theirs so full of warmth and trust while Doflamingo’s was full of implication and threat…

Law ran a tired hand over his face. “Fuck.”

Next chapter

#Caitlin's fic #Trafalgar Law #Heart Pirates #Donquixote Doflamingo #One Piece #One Piece fanfic #one piece fanfiction

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casualmaraudering · 5 years ago

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so me and @remywrites5 have been talking about a random au, children came up, and the thought of Sirius and Remus having a family fills me with incredible joy and i just cannot handle it so for once, I wrote some fluff, enjoy!

It takes a twenty minute long delay in traffic, a gigantic puddle of mud being splashed all over the side of his car, and a gaggle of too many teenagers running through the street before Sirius gets home, at 7.14 in the morning.

He is, to put it simply, exhausted. Twelve hours of dealing with weird rashes, people vomiting blood on the floor (three times, it happened three fucking times during Sirius’s shift that night), and this one teenager that broke his arm so badly even Sirius flinched at the sight. And he’s been running on almost no sleep all night, too, with that being his first night shift of the new rotation. Always the worst out of all of them, since he needs to adjust to the pattern.

Sirius steps out of the car and drags himself inside the house with a deep sigh, already kicking off his shoes and throwing his jacket onto the nearest available surface (which just happens to be a small cabinet full of random crap that Sirius promised to clean out but never did). The house is quiet when he’s walking through the corridor and into the bathroom - an unusual thing. Typically when he’s back home after nights, it’s already noisy.

He quickly steps into the shower, washes himself, and then hops into a fresh change of clothes; it’s all mechanical by that point. He’s way too tired to recognise what he’s doing, so he lets his muscle memory lead the way. And once he actually smells like a normal person, and his hair is semi-dry, he finally jogs upstairs to the bedroom, ready to sleep the night off and forget all about it til he inevitably has to go back to work in the evening.

Though, as Sirius is stepping into the bedroom, he’s not greeted with the usual messy and very empty bed, no. There’s a sight that makes his chest warm and heart beat quicker.

“Hey,” Remus says to him, smiling in that gentle way he does whenever Sirius is back from the hospital. He’s laid on the bed, atop of the covers, still in his pj’s. “We thought we’d wait here for you today. We missed you.” A loud pair of giggles follows, Remus nodding in agreement to them with a chuckle.

Sirius can’t not smile at the sight of his husband and their children, one laying on Remus’s chest, the other half-sitting against a pillow (Sirius can’t believe they actually sit, almost by themselves by now; it feels like yesterday when they couldn’t even roll around lying down). He hardly ever sees them all when he’s got work; with shifts that last 10-12 hours, then having to sleep it all off. After that, there’s so few hours left to spend time with his family before he’s due to be back in the A&E. It never feels like he’s home long enough.

He immediately scoops Leo up from the bed and into his arms, dropping small kisses all over the boy’s face, cherishing the sound of little, six month old laughter filling up the room.

“Missing out on playtime just to say hi to daddy, huh?” Sirius says, his voice high and affectionate as he holds Leo up to squint at him with a smile.

“Bwah!” is Leo’s only reply, followed by more giggles. Sirius’s smile is so wide it hurts.

There’s a little sniffling sound followed by a very upset noise of protest, and Sirius finds himself laughing as he shifts Leo to his hip, so he can then sit on the bed and scoop up Nix as well.

“It’s fine, don’t fuss, I didn’t forget about you,” he kisses her little cheeks, earning a laugh in return. “Have you been good, huh? Didn’t give your daddy trouble at night?”

“Not at all,” Remus replies, sitting up, now that he can. He sits resting against the wall and watches the three of them. “There’s been some disagreements about bedtime, but overall it was a good night.”

“Oh, you two are so big now you don’t have to stick to your bedtime, huh?” Sirius maneuvers so the twins are seated at his lap, slightly bouncing them in place. “Two little grownups, I see.”

“I think they’ve just missed you. Not quite the same with just me reading the bedtime stories.”

“You just don’t do the voices quite right. I didn’t do that one semester of musical theatre for nothing.”

Remus rolls his eyes with a sigh, but he’s got a warm smile on his face. “Good day at work?”

“As exhausting as usual. Nothing terrible, though. Some gross stuff, if you feel up for that later.”

Remus laughs. “Always. You know I love to hear all about those fun rashes when we have dinner.” He then leans forward to kiss Sirius shortly. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too. I’ve got the weekend free though, and then a week of just the afternoon.”

“Can’t wait. You’re on nappy duties.”

Sirius laughs, his eyes going down to the twins happily bouncing on his knees.

“No problem for me there. And we can go to the park, too, if the weather is nice.”

“I’ll ask Lily if she wants to make it a play date with Harry.”

Sirius is leaning forward to kiss his husband again, this time longer. He’s met with a very unhappy noise; not from Remus though. He leans back laughing.

“Is someone jealous?” he tickles Phoenix’s stomach, making the girl squirm and giggle. “Don’t like your dads kissing, huh? Nooo, you want all the kisses to yourself, I assume. Greedy little thing.”

“She’s got that after you.”

“Hey!” he elbows Remus slightly. He means to bite back, but a yawn escapes him instead.

“Ah, that’s our cue. We’re going downstairs now.” Remus crawls to the other side of the bed, standing up and taking Leo, then letting Sirius hand him Nix. “Daddy’s had a long night, we’re gonna go play on our own.”

“Wake me up in a few? Before lunch?”

Remus kisses his forehead with a sigh. “You’ve been working all night-”

“I know. I just don’t wanna leave you to deal with them all by yourself when I’m home. You know I hate that.”

“You’re working hard, I can handle them while you’re sleeping it off, it’s fine.”

Sirius collapses onto the bed in a manner that’s entirely too dramatic, making Remus chuckle. “I’ve decided I’m asking for a year off when my boss gets back from her holiday. And you can’t change my mind about it. I’d much rather change nappies than pull out batteries from people’s-”

“Okay, we’re going to leave now, don’t need them to hear that.”

Sirius chuckles and waves as Remus finally exits the bedroom, talking to Nix and Leo about all the things they’re going to be doing downstairs, leaving Sirius to himself.

He falls asleep to the faint sounds of a Disney movie and rattling of toys, thinking about just how lucky he is to have his family.

#some emotional mush for yall #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #sirius x remus #the marauders fanfiction #my tag #my writing tag #would you look at that. she knows how to write fluff #unbelievable #just gays being dads featuring oc twins #im procrastinating on literally everything and wrote this instead

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chroniclackofselfpreservation · 4 years ago

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Creatures of the Night

Chapter 1 - for it is important that awake people be awake

Next chapter >

AO3 (go to AO3 for complete list of tags for this fic)

Masterlist

(TW: violence/graphic imagery, guns, snakes, fear)

(The title for this chapter comes from “A Ritual to Read to Each Other” by William E. Stafford.)

Roman's gut twisted painfully and his eyes snapped open. He sat up. His room was still dark, the heavy curtains blocking out whatever moonlight would have fallen across his bed, but he didn’t need it. He’d lain his clothes and equipment out before going to sleep a few hours earlier. The routine was so ingrained into his mind at this point, light became arbitrary.

Roman’s movements were almost mechanical as he folded back the covers and slipped into his shirt, pants, and armor with long-earned efficiency. The armor was a gift from Logan, who stood as the only person Roman had ever told about his nightly endeavors. It was made of a tough but flexible leather that wasn’t as protective as metal, but far quieter—which Roman found worked to his advantage most nights. Logan, being the obsessive problem-solver he so often was, hated the fact that there was nothing he could do to alleviate the curse. It had been sealed in Roman’s own blood—against his will, of course, but it made no difference. According to the dragon witch, whose brilliant plan it was to have Roman fight a demon for the rest of his life, had told him that he was the only one capable of keeping it at bay.

Yeah, right, he thought sourly as he wrapped a ruby amulet around his bicep. Another “gift” from that blasted dragon witch. Roman had given up pestering her for a remedy for the curse several months ago, finding the long haul up into the mountains far too much work just to be rejected. He couldn’t even kill the stupid thing. It was immortal. He could weaken it, sure, and make things easier for himself for a few weeks, but it always came back.

Sometimes stronger.

What did the dragon witch expect to happen? Eventually, he would die. Whether it was the demon’s doing was yet to be seen, but he definitely wouldn’t outlive it. What then? Would she simply pass the curse on to another? Continue the viscous cycle of torment? Stop complaining, he scolded himself, pressing his lips into a thin line and cinching the leather guard tight about his forearm. It’s been a year. You should be over this by now.

Picking up the pace, Roman holstered his two pistols on either side of his belt, slipped a dagger into a sheath secured around his stomach beneath his shirt, and picked up his sword. He was best with the blade, though he wasn’t foolish enough to go in without back up weaponry. He despised the guns most of all. They were loud and clunky and gave him a headache to use, but more often than not they got him out of perilous situations, so he kept them. The sword was heavy, though Roman was so used to it now, it felt comfortably weighted.

Doing a quick double-check to make sure he had everything he needed, he opened his door and stepped out into the hallway. He closed the door behind him with a soft click. Roman had grown accustomed to traversing their house in silence, dreading the possibility of Patton or Virgil discovering him sneaking out loaded with weapons. He turned a corner, about to head down the stairs, when he noticed a warm amber glow trailing up the wall. Someone was still up—or they’d left the light on, at least. Was Virgil having trouble sleeping again? Or was Patton indulging in some late-night baking? Both options were likely. Could Roman manage to sneak by without being noticed? Thoughts raced through his head a mile a minute. Something inside him pulled, like someone plucking a bow string drawn dangerously taut. The curse compelled him forward, and he nearly stumbled down the steps as he pulled back. He had no choice; he had to leave. Could he sneak out his room window? It was a long way to the ground and the only tree was by Patton’s bedroom window. He’d risk injuring himself by jumping, which could put his life in jeopardy later. He’d have to try and sneak past whoever was out there. It wasn’t worth having to face the demon with a twisted ankle. Perhaps he could knock them out and convince them it was all a dream? He shook his head. He couldn’t attack any of them. It would eat him up inside.

Slowly, he peeked out over the banister. A short reading lamp sat on an end table beside the couch, barely light enough to keep the shadows in the corners of the room at bay. Bathed in gold light, the figure in the chair turned out to be Logan, hands clasped in his lap and eyes staring vaguely at the wall, deep in thought. Relaxing somewhat, Roman straightened and continued down the stairs as quietly as possible. The third one down was always squeaky. Logan hadn’t noticed him yet, and even as Roman approached, he stared at the wall, chewing on his bottom lip and mouthing silent thoughts to himself. Roman couldn’t help but smile.

“Logan,” he said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Logan jumped, startled. “Wha—oh, it’s you. I was wondering when you’d leave.”

“What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.”

Logan cocked his head to the side, considering. “The sun sets at nine p.m. and rises at seven-fifteen a.m.. By all accounts, we are less than halfway into the night,” he said, gesturing to the otherwise dark and empty house. He cleared his throat. “I, er, wanted to see you off before you... left.”

“I’ll be back before the sun rises, Lo,” Roman said, waving a dismissive hand and trying to hide the strain in his voice. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you can’t stay up like this every night.”

“I think you’ll find there are many things I can do,” Logan said, his normal sternness hardening into something akin to anger. “One being making sure you arrive back home in one piece. Are you positive I cannot accompany you? I’m sure there are options we haven’t explored yet.”

“Logan, you—“ Roman tripped forward into Logan as the curse tugged at him once again, endlessly insistent. Logan caught him, but Roman quickly righted himself again, struggling to keep the pain from showing on his face. He cleared his throat. “You know I can’t do that. You being there would only distract me and put me in more danger. I’d be too worried about you getting hurt.”

Logan studied his face for a moment before sighing and letting him go. “Very well, but you better come back.”

Roman put on a smile, chuckling. “Of course I will. Have a little faith, Lo.”

“I shall try,” he muttered as Roman opened the front door. He glanced back one last time only to see Logan lower himself back into the arm chair and lose himself in pained thought.

* * * * * * * * * *

The forest was only two blocks away from their house, so Roman didn’t have to walk very far. He’d devised a route through the neighborhood that led him behind houses and between backyard fences to lessen the probability of someone spotting him waltzing around dressed like a walking armory. Most nights, however, were largely uneventful save the occasional barking dog. The sudden noise used to scare Roman.

Now, he had bigger things to be scared of.

The forest dampened every noise as soon as Roman stepped through the tree line. Though he could still see civilization through the trees, he felt a thousand miles from any sort of help were something to happen. The curse wouldn't allow him to leave until the first signs of dawn—he would know, he'd tested it. Many times. The beginning was always the most dangerous part. The demon knew exactly where he was, and at what time he'd be there. The trick would be escaping into the darkness of the woods and losing him along the way. He shook off the nerves breeding in the pit of his stomach, and trudged deeper into the darkness, sword at the ready.

Ah, the darkness. He’d brought a flashlight only once before, and had barely escaped the night with his life. Turns out, a bright beam of light does more to give oneself away than to help locate a possible predator. He never made the mistake again. Since then, he’d become quite familiar with the dark. However, it was less of an old friend and more an impartial entity desiring entertainment regardless of who ended up on the wrong end of it. He took no solace in it, but rather treated it with deference and wary reverence.

Something shifted in the trees above him. Roman froze. Dense fog clung to the ground, curling around his legs like ghosts desperate for living touch. The moon was nothing more than a sliver, denying Roman what little light he usually counted on. The heavy slithering bounced around him, as if it couldn’t decide which direction it came from. Roman pressed his back up against a tree and held his sword in front of him.

“So brave,” a chilling voice hissed. Roman’s stomach dropped. “Have you not bored of this constant battle, yet, little prince?” Roman kept his eyes on the canopies and his mouth shut. He’d never figured out why both the dragon witch and the demon called him a prince, but he’d rather that than his own name. Roman refused to give it that power.

“I tire of this endless game. You drag out the inevitable,” the demon sighed. It sounded vaguely human, though if that human had swallowed shards of glass and gargled with shrapnel. The sound of the beast dragging its enormous body through the branches still eluded Roman, jumping around his head like he wore headphones that kept shorting out.

“Why?” it breathed so close to Roman’s ear, he could feel it. He tensed, swinging his sword around. It sunk into something solid. It took Roman a split second to realize that it wasn't a giant serpentine head, but the tree trunk. He tugged. It didn't budge. Terror swept through him in the same second as a grating laugh echoed around the trees. He abandoned the sword and hadn't so much as taken a step away when a wall of cold, hard scales slammed him back into the tree. He could feel the creature's muscles undulating and constricting beneath the smooth plating, slowly crushing him into the wood. It was dark, yes, but Roman had seen it before on nights with a full moon: a gold scaled beast with a body several times thicker than the trees and a head the size of a small car. Eyes like pools of molten lead the size of Roman's whole face and fangs longer than his arm. He'd only been caught by it a few times in the last year. Each time he'd nearly died. Though, he was ashamed to admit, they didn't usually happen quite this fast.

He'd definitely set a new personal record.

Luckily, he'd managed to pin his arms in front of his chest, so he could somewhat resist the creature's constricting. He took short shallow breaths and pushed outward with all of his strength, but it was a futile effort. The constricting halted, and the monster lowered it's head to meet Roman's eyes.

"Tell me why."

"You think I want to be here?" he spat. "A dragon witch cursed me."

"Dragon witch?"

"Yes, the dragon witch named Ursula. You know, after a whole year of barely five words to me, you're suddenly really chatty," Roman said derisively, hoping to distract the beast from the fact that he was slowly reaching for one of his pistols. Not exactly easy when your arms are being crushed by a gigantic reptile, but progress was being made nonetheless.

"All this time and she still holds onto that ridiculous nickname. You'd think she'd have learned to imprison me with more than a sniveling child," it hissed, baring its enormous fangs. Roman paled, wriggling his arm toward the holster a little faster now. It reared up its head and tightened its hold. Roman cried out, the air slowly forced out of his lungs. He saw stars.

"I am no troublesome pixie that can be held over by a simple curse. She will pay for this insul—"

BANG!

Roman drew and fired the pistol faster than he'd ever before. It hit just below the demon's eye, ricocheting off its scales and off into the night. The snake hissed angrily and released him, retreating in a spiral up the tree and into the canopies once more. It knew better than to stay in close range while the guns were out, regardless of it's tough armor. Roman may not like guns, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to use one. So far, the mouth and the eyes were the only weak spots he'd located.

He dropped to the ground, heaving and retching. Roman scrambled to his feet. There was no time for recovery. He tore his sword from the tree and sprinted deeper into the forest. He needed to find shelter or somewhere to hide. While he couldn't see the serpent as well when it was in the trees, it couldn't move nearly as fast. If he managed to lose it, he may just have a chance.

Calm down, Roman. You've been doing this for three hundred and sixty-five nights, and you haven't lost a single one. Don't make tonight any different.

The battle was nowhere near over, and the night had only just begun.

* * * * * * * * * *

Roman fumbled for the key beneath the place mat. It was almost five-thirty in the morning, and though the sun hadn't technically risen yet, his curse had seen fit to release him as soon as the first hints of light played at the horizon. It was still relatively dark, the skyline glowing a pale blue-green against the starry indigo above it. His ribs ached, his knees and elbows were scraped, his clothes and face were streaked with mud, and he was covered in blood up to his elbows. Not his own. Last he checked, his blood was red, not black. It was the demon's, from when he'd driven his sword through the underside of its mouth. He hadn't seen his reflection yet, but he could imagine the horror show that was his appearance. The stuff never really dried, either. It remained sticky like tar and was an absolute nightmare to try and get out of the leather armor Logan made him—not to mention his own hair.

Eventually, his sloppy fingers found the spare key and managed to stick it into the lock. He turned it, replaced it beneath the mat, and pushed the door open. The house smelled of cinnamon and happiness, due in great part to Patton's baking yesterday. The lamp still sat on in the living room, illuminating Logan's sleeping features. His glasses hung askew across his nose and some fancy-pants scientific book lay open on his lap. Roman closed the front door behind him as softly as he could manage, then froze with his foot inches above the floor. Virgil had just mopped last night. If Roman took one step off the front rug, he'd track mud, dirt, and demon blood through the entire house. Cursing under his breath, he leaned forward, reaching for the coat closet. He nearly fell on his face and woke the entire house, but in the end he'd acquired what he'd been looking for: his old jacket. It was worn, fraying, and impossibly comfortable, and would do exactly what Roman needed it to. He could always wash it later, right? Laying it open on the floor, Roman stepped onto it and proceeded to shuffle his way down the hall toward the stairs. True, he could have simply taken off his boots, but they were laced up tight and sticky with blood he didn't have the patience to deal with in the middle of the house. He'd see to it once he got to the bathroom and didn't have to worry about anyone seeing him. He passed by Logan, who had fallen asleep in the arm chair, snoring softly.

It was a long, tenuous journey, but he eventually made it to the base of the stairs. There, he was met with a new problem. How was he supposed to make it upstairs on his jacket?

"Roman?" Logan muttered groggily, squinting at him.

"Nothing, go back to sleep," Roman whispered, waving a hand at him.

"What's all over your—is that blood?"

"Yes, but be quiet!" Roman hissed. "You're going to wake up everyone else!"

Logan stood. "What do you mean yes? Are you hurt?" He reached a curious hand out toward the black goo covering his arms.

"Don't touch it," Roman snapped. His temper was worn thin after the night he'd had, and the last thing he needed right now was a scientific analysis of demon blood. He sighed, "Sorry, Lo. I just... need to get to the bathroom. Could you get some towels or something to lay on the stairs so I can—" he started, but Logan apparently had other ideas. In one swift motion, he hooked an arm under Roman's knees and scooped him up into his arms.

"What are you doing?" Roman demanded, "You're going to get it all over you."

"Irrelevant," Logan said, though his nose crinkled slightly at the stench of death covering his friend. "I shall simply carry you upstairs. It will be faster and more efficient. Don't worry about the jacket, I'll take care of it. Now," he shifted his grip, "are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Yeah," Roman said, though it came out as a strangled gasp. The way Logan was holding him put pressure on a bruise he'd gotten while the overgrown worm had tried smothering him in a swath of mud. Logan cocked an eyebrow and didn't move. Sighing dejectedly, Roman instructed him where he could place his hands to cause him the least amount of pain. After a few moments of readjusting, Logan set off up the stairs. Roman was impressed at how steady Logan was despite carrying his entire weight up the stairs.

"Watch the wall," he grunted, and Roman tucked his feet in to keep from leaving streaks of mud down the hallway. They passed Patton's room, then Virgil's, then arrived at the bathroom. Logan set him down on the tile flooring, promising to fetch him a clean pair of clothes and a bag to place all of the blood spattered articles in. After one last concerned look, he closed the door and left Roman alone in the bathroom.

He grimaced as he glanced at his reflection. Roman looked like he'd been run over by a garbage truck. Blood, dark and glossy as pitch, speckled his face and neck and clumped in his hair. It covered both forearms up to his elbows, as if he'd dipped his arms in black paint. Contrastingly, his own crimson blood had dried across his upper lip and chin from the bloody nose he'd received when flung into a tree. Sickly gray mud clung to the rest of him like plaster. Carefully, he peeled his clothes off and tossed them into a pile near the door. He'd had hopes of the washing machine saving them, but looking at them in a pathetic heap on the floor, he doubted anything could be done. He'd have to burn them later.

Returning his attention to the mirror, his throat constricted. His torso was mottled with a myriad of purple and green bruises, or maybe that was just more mud. They certainly felt like bruises. His eyes trailed down his shoulders, then came to rest on the grimy amulet still tied to his upper arm. He turned it over in his hand, wiping the dirt from its surface.

Think of it as insurance, the dragon witch had written in a nice, instructional letter on how to handle his curse. Insurance that you don't go dying on me too soon. Any injuries you sustain while wearing the amulet will heal as soon as you take it off. You won't even need to sleep, my prince. Easy as that.

Scowling, he undid the clasp and pulled the necklace from his arm. Immediately, burning cold energy coursed through his body. He bowed forward and rested his elbows on the counter, biting his fist to keep from making a sound. It took a considerable amount of self control not to collapse to the floor and itch his gradually healing skin bloody. It felt like a million spiders with needles for legs crawling around inside him.

Some healing magic, Roman thought venomously, breathing hard through his nose. Feels worse than healing normally.

But it was faster. And Roman couldn't risk Patton or Virgil finding out simply because they touched a tender spot. There was a knock at the door.

"Roman? I've got some new clothes and a trash bag, can I come in?"

"Hold on," he choked through gritted teeth. The sound was more like a whimper than Roman would have wished, but there were far more pressing matters for him to deal with than a measly voice crack. An entire year of this, and he still wasn't used to the feeling. How pathetic. He stumbled into the shower and pulled the curtain.

"All right," he said, leaning heavily against the tiled wall. He wasn't going to pass out. He been in worse shape on previous nights. This was nothing. Roman heard Logan open the door slowly, then silence. He heard the faint scrape of him picking up the amulet. Roman had explained its purpose to him the night he'd found out. Mainly because Logan had demanded to know how he wasn't a pile of mush every single night. No one could take a beating like that every twelve hours and still be walking, let alone acting like nothing was going on.

"Are you going to be okay, Roman? Do you require any assistance?" He came closer to the curtain.

"I'm fine. Thank you, Logan." Please don't look, you'll only worry. Don't look.

A pause. "Very well. I will await you downstairs when you are done cleaning up." Another long silence as Roman clenched and unclenched his fist as the healing magic completed its circuit around his body. The feeling eventually faded into a dull prickling. Logan sighed, set the amulet back down on the counter, and left.

Roman let out a breath and cranked the faucet as far to the hot side as it would go. The water was scalding, but he didn't care. The demon blood slowly dissolved from his skin and hair, swirling down the drain in a disgusting black soup of mud and dirt. He wished he could wash it all away, scrub the demon from his pores and the pain from behind his ears.

Clean water streamed down Roman's face in the place of the tears he did not shed.

Thanks for reading!! You can find the rest of this fic on AO3, here.

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treatian · 4 years ago

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The Chronicles of the Dark One: Breaking the Curse

Chapter 60: Not Part of the Plan

He didn't go back to the shop after claiming the egg for himself. He couldn't. He had a gun, but he didn't have magic, and that meant that at the end of the day, Emma and Regina were still faster than he was. The elevator wouldn't hold Emma up for long. She'd climb out, she'd free Regina, and they'd come looking for him, for the egg. The first place they'd look would inevitably be the shop. And so that was undoubtedly the one place he could not go.

The trouble was that he needed to go into the shop. He hadn't planned as well as he thought he had. And he realized it too late.

In a perfect world, he would have removed the potion and gone up into the woods with it right then and there, avoiding Emma and Regina, keeping them firmly one step behind him. But in his planning, he'd forgotten something important. The key. He knew where it was in the shop, but before he'd left for the library he'd been so concerned, worrying about his plan to get the egg that he hadn't worried so much about what he'd do after getting it. He hadn't thought this through well enough. If he could go back, he would have thought to slip the damn thing into his pocket before going to the library, but there was no use whining over his own mistakes, not when he was closer than he'd ever been in his life. A small delay in his morning hike wouldn't be a terrible thing. In fact, it might even be helpful. The sun beginning to rise reminded him that he hadn't thought to bring a flashlight with him when he'd left either. At least this way, by the time he finally got back into the shop and got the egg open, it would be morning.

So, instead of going into the shop to fetch the key, he hid himself. In the alley on the other side of the shop, close to the back door, he stood, and he waited with the understanding that if he could manage to avoid the women when they searched the premises, then the second they were done, he could go back inside and finish what he'd started. But in the gray morning light, as he carefully concealed himself in the alley with his prize, he watched from a distance as something unexpected happened.

Emma and Regina left the library together. But they didn't cross the street to his shop. Instead, he watched as they hurried away, down the road, toward Granny's. He waited where he was, not daring to move even a little bit closer for fear it was some kind of trick. And then he saw Emma's yellow bug speed down the street away from him and his house and any inkling they might have of where he'd be.

That was unexpected.

Completely.

Egg in hand, he let himself sneak away from the back of the alley and slowly approached the street. When he looked down, Emma's bug continued to speed quickly out of view, but he was able to make out that both women were in the car. They were going in the direction of the hospital. He glanced down at the egg in his hand, took a breath, and then nodded to himself in determination.

He didn't know what was going on, but he knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Speeding away like that gave him at least a few minutes to get into the shop, get the key, check the potion and go. Sooner was better than later. He had to take his chance.

Inside the shop, he hobbled quickly into the back room. The sun had risen, letting bright light into the room, but he still turned on his overhead light and set the egg down on a clean velvet mat to examine it like he might any valuable antique. It was untouched. Unbreeched. Which meant that if he opened it up…

He swallowed as he reached over into a small tool kit he kept on the table. Inside one of the top draws, the golden key gleamed. A key he'd kept for twenty-eight years because Mr. Gold had always worried the moment he threw it away, its lock would reappear. Funny, it was almost as if the Curse wanted to be broken. He tried to remain calm, to still his racing heart as he inserted the key perfectly into the lock then gave it a few twists until he felt the mechanism inside click. And then he opened it…

It was perfect.

The bottle, the potion, even the felted protective covering. Everything was just as he remembered putting it in decades ago, years before Emma had ever been born, all for this moment. He could have wept with joy.

Ever so carefully, with hands as steady as he could make them, he removed the bottle from its home for these past many years and examined what was left.

It wasn't much. As he held it up to the light, he realized that was perhaps the only difference. The Curse, it seemed, had gotten to some of it, been able to use some of it as its battery, but not all of it. There wasn't a lot of it left, barely a single swallow, but if he could put it in the right place, it wouldn't matter. It was the most powerful potion in the world. It would do its job.

He flinched at the sound of the bell ringing in the front of the shop. Then paused for a second, certain that if Emma and Regina had come back, they would have called out his name. No name meant it might not be them, but there was no promise of that. Quickly he swallowed, pocketed the potion for safety, then turned his back to hide the egg and the key in a small trunk he had on the table behind him. If it was Emma and Regina, they might see him get away without the egg and search for it. That might buy him some time to-

"Excuse me, are you Mr. Gold?"

He sighed in relief. It was neither Emma nor Regina's voice. Probably just some stranger out for some early shopping who hadn't taken note of the "closed" sign on his door. He probably should have locked himself in when he arrived. That was his own fault. He'd lock it on the way out.

"Yes, I am. But I'm afraid the shop's…closed…"

He turned.

The world stopped.

Heartbeat.

Breath.

Time.

Pawnshop.

Everything was gone. Obliterated.

It was gone because what he was seeing couldn't possibly be real.

"I was uh…I was told to…to find you and…tell you that Regina locked me up," the girl stuttered awkwardly with an accent and voice his ears recognized but hadn't heard in decades. His blood had chilled in his veins, and his fingers and toes were numb as he took her in. The last time he'd seen her…it had been longer than the potion had been around. Her hair was unkempt. She wore some awful hospital gown and sneakers that had to be too big for her, a coat that reeked so badly of mothballs he could smell it even from this distance.

But it didn't matter. None of those things mattered.

She was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever beheld in his very long life.

"Does…does that mean anything to you?" she questioned hopefully.

Belle.

His Belle.

But...how?

He stared at her slack-jawed, feeling slowly returning to his body. It was only then that he realized he was moving, step by step closer to where the person stood.

It was a trick. It had to be. What he was seeing wasn't real. It was magic. To see her again, like this or not, was magical, so there was no other explanation besides magic.

Except for the problem that magic still wasn't in Storybrooke. To create an illusion like that…that would require great magic. Magic this world didn't have, magic that this Curse would have swallowed up to keep itself running. If not magic, then…hallucination? A ghost?

He swallowed hard. He hesitated. His hand was shaking as he hadn't allowed it to when he uncovered the potion, and his mouth was dry. But finally, he forced himself to reach out his hand and grasp her shoulder.

He was worried, half expected that his hand would go straight through her; that he'd find she was a ghost or a trick, a person in very convincing make-up. He was afraid she'd disappear again.

But no matter how hard he squeezed, she remained in front of him, a solid, living being, looking nearly as baffled as he felt.

He felt dizzy. There was no explanation.

Except…

"You're real…"

It had to be real.

She was real.

He didn't have his magic yet to try and sense any kind of Dark Magic on her, something that would have been necessary to create what a trick as convincing as she was, but he already knew that she wasn't a lie or a trick. There was no Dark Magic this strong available during the Curse that would conjure her.

She was real. She had to be.

"You're alive."

There was no explanation for it outside of her being here, alive, living and breathing in front of him.

She wasn't a hallucination. If she were, she would have appeared before him as he knew her to be, in a blue dress with a beautiful smile and perfectly groomed hair.

She wasn't a magical illusion. If she were, then he wouldn't have been able to touch her, to squeeze her shoulder as he had.

She wasn't made of magic. There wasn't enough magic in the town, to begin with, and there also was only one person in the town that knew about her and could have had the power to conjure her. That was Regina.

But he knew it wasn't Regina.

First of all, when Belle appeared, he'd just seen Regina drive off with Emma in the opposite direction. There wouldn't have been time to access her magic and create this. Second of all…there was what she'd said. "Are you Mr. Gold," no mention of his true name. "Regina locked me up. Does that mean anything to you" because it meant nothing to her.

If Regina was going to create her from magic to torment him, there was no reason to dress her as she was and leave her with no memories of him, not a clue who he was or where she was, in a clearly Cursed state. And then there was the implication of the words she'd said. "I was told…" She'd been told to find him. Told her to tell him that Regina had locked her up. That was the nail in the coffin, though, wasn't it? She wasn't a lie or a trick. Someone had released her to get revenge. Someone had released her from someplace she'd been where she'd been…what? A chess piece? A card to play?

He didn't know who had released her, but he knew who had kept her like this all these years.

Regina.

"She did this to you?"

Regina had her. How could he have not known? How could he have been so stupid! It was Regina who had told him that she'd died all those years ago knowing he wouldn't explore it; knowing he'd believe her father was as awful as he believed; knowing that he wouldn't find her because the very woman who had told him all that was the very woman who had her locked away. From him! Probably ever since she'd left.

Where?

How?

All questions he didn't have answers to yet. She'd kept her locked up, probably in the hospital from the looks of it, after the Curse had taken effect, waiting for the right moment to play this card. But someone had gotten to her first. Who had freed her, who had told her to say that Regina had her, that he'd protect her…he didn't know. Judging by the state of her, they'd done her a great favor.

They'd done him a great favor.

He wanted to know everything.

"I was told you'd protect me…"

Her hesitant words forced him out of his brain and back into what was right in front of him.

Right in front of him…

Just as she'd been once before! Before he'd…

Oh, he'd had the opportunity to prevent this, to protect her once before. He'd given it up, and now this…this was all his fault.

Not again. Never again.

"Oh, yes," he choked. And without giving himself permission, he did the one thing he'd never done in their time together. He flung himself at her, pulled her into his arms, and held her against his chest. "Yes, I'll protect you!"

He wept with overwhelming joy. Because she was real. Because she was alive. Because she was here. He'd never let anything happen to her again!

This time he wasn't going to let her go.

But suddenly, he felt her go stiff against him, felt her push and step away, not out of his grasp but just enough to break his embrace.

"I'm…I'm sorry. Do…do I know you?" she questioned, squinting at him confused and hopefully all at once again.

Suddenly he recognized what had just happened in a most uncomfortable way. They'd been here before, several times, when the tables had been turned. How many times had she hugged him in the Enchanted Forest? How many times had she reached out in joy and thrown her arms around him? And how often had he stood there stiff as a board? Uncomfortable? Unsure of where to put his hands or how to respond because he didn't know what she was to him?

Every time.

He'd denied her every single fucking time.

He had to fix it. He had to fix it now, and it all started with the potion in his pocket.

"No," he whispered, trying to give her a gentle and reassuring smile. Everything she knew about him was based on these moments. For now. "But you will."

He wanted to know everything. He wanted her to know everything. He wanted to stay and hold her, stare at her, memorize the features he hadn't seen in decades, have a moment he'd only dreamed about. But not now. His heart had stopped when he'd seen her, but he was suddenly ever aware of a clock ticking behind him. Time had started again.

Regina and Emma had driven away, but he had no assurance they wouldn't come back. He wanted to be long gone by the time that happened.

He brushed his hand over his pocket again, making sure he had what he needed. Then on instinct reached for her hand to guide her out with him.

But she pulled it free. She dug her heels in, stubborn as ever, just as he remembered her.

"Come with me," he muttered before placing a hand on her back instead. She obeyed his touch and followed him back out into the shop. "There's something we have to do, but everything…everything will be clear soon enough. I promise, I'll answer all your questions soon."

It was unfair of him to ask that he trust her so soon. But it had to be done. They had to go. He was so close to succeeding. He could make this work. He could protect her and finish this plan.

He had to.

#Rumbelle #Rumple #Rumpelstiltskin #Dark One #Mr. Gold #Belle #Regina Mills #Evil Queen #Emma Swan #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfic

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adobe-outdesign · 5 years ago

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What do you imagine the studio employees' childhoods were like?

Henry: Pretty average. Had two parents, was homeschooled. Everyone liked him fine but he didn’t have very many friends due to how introverted he was. Doodled in class a lot.

Joey: Older child. Went to public school, got okay grades.Used to deliver papers when he was younger - did a lot of early business ventures as a kid in general, like opening lemonade stands and the like.

Sammy: Single child. Went to private school and then moved into a specialized school to hone his music talents. Kind of spoiled as a kid, grew out of it as he got older.

Jack: Quiet as a kid, was bullied a lot. Super nice, the kind of guy to give people food just because they’re hungry and the like. Used to write a lot of poetry in his spare time (which he still does).

Susie: Part of the local Popular Girl Group in her school. Lots of breakups and romance drama. Science kid, interested in biology. Always entered the talent contest.

Allison: Born on a farm, grew up going to a small school and helping out around the place. Super friendly to everyone and was very popular. Def was in the Girl Scouts for a few years

Wally: Grew up with a bunch of sisters. Was always breaking something and generally injuring himself while having fun. Took home wild animals a lot and got in trouble with his parents for it

Norman: Quiet and didn’t really ever talk to people as a kid. Lost both of his parents when he was fairly young, so he grew up fast.

Thomas: Only kid. Helped his father out repairing cars and the like. Was less of a hardass when he was younger, though still not the easiest person to get along with. Wen to public school and then college later on, getting a degree in mechanical engineering.

Shawn: Grew up with his mom and younger brother back in Ireland, then immigrated to America as a teen. Was def the type of kid to get others in trouble by suggesting they do something stupid then blame it on them when something inevitably bad happens

Grant: Much less depressed as a kid. Took to business fairly quickly and honed his skills in logical planning and math.Takes after his dad, who was also a businessman Went to school and got a degree later on.

Bertrum: Grew up with a sister who was introverted and anti-social, leaving him to soak up all the attention. Was very social and very much a showoff as a kid.

Lacie: Figured out she was trans in her early adulthood and left her house shortly after because her parents kicked her out. She’s always been fairly aloof, though she was a little more argumentative and opinionated as a kid. Worked on a much of misc. mechanical repairs for a few cents a pop

#bendy and the ink machine #joey drew #shawn flynn #wally franks #bertrum piedmont #outdesign has headcanons #Anonymous #Ask

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wanna-b-poet31 · 5 years ago

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Gabriel: He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell

I felt like clarifying my earlier Meta on Gabriel’s Gaslighting in Good Omens.

So like, we know that Gabriel is a dick but what makes him worse (and abusive), is how he uses his position of privilege and power over Aziraphale.

Even though I’ve read some amazing metas that assert Aziraphale would be canonically higher ranked than the archangels, the bureaucracy favors Gabriel. While Aziraphale may have been given troops to command and a garden to protect, Michael refers to Gabriel’s choices when confronting the evidence against Aziraphale for his demonic “boyfriend”, Sandalphon allows Gabriel to direct the “surprise” meeting in the bookshop, and Gabriel appears at the airfield, in a position equal to Beelzebub, Prince of Hell. So even if it isn’t a God-ordained position of power, he clearly is treated as the authority figure over Heaven.

His abuse is rooted in the desire to gain and maintain power and control over Aziraphale. And like real talk, Show!Gabriel is sickeningly effective at emotionally abusing Aziraphale, and his most insidious tool is gaslighting.

Broadly, what I mean is that Gabriel is (trying to) reshape Aziraphale’s perception of reality using techniques like:

pretending not to understand why Aziraphale is so worried about being unable to stop the war (Withholding);

purposefully making Aziraphale’s feelings/interests feel insignificant (Trivializing);

Changing topics when Aziraphale starts to question his or Heaven’s motives for the war(Diverting);

Forgetting or denying events that have previously happened (Denial)

Purposefully questioning the victim’s memory/even despite knowing their account of events to be true (Countering)

Gaslighting IS abuse. Full Stop.

Although it can masquerade as genuine confusion or concern, the National Domestic Violence Hotline reminds us how over time, these abusive patterns of behaviors lead to a victim who “can become confused, anxious, isolated and depressed while losing all sense of what is actually happening. Then, the victim may start relying on the abusive partner more and more to define reality, which creates a very difficult situation to escape”

Affect on Aziraphale

Because? Honestly? Gabriel’s behavior is not nice, or innocent.

Who here can honestly say that Aziraphale doesn’t constantly second-guess himself? And that he doesn’t have trouble making decisions?

Or ask himself if he’s too sensitive? too soft?

Maybe that he’s confused, or crazy? That he has to apologize for Heaven/Gabriel’s behavior to friends? That he feels like he has to withhold information to avoid making excuses or explaining Heaven/Gabriel’s behavior?

Does anyone think he’s happy despite apparently “good” things happening for angels? That he should feel happier for his circumstances? Or that he knows something is terribly wrong, but unable to express what it is? To Gabriel? To God? To Crowley? Even To himself?

We already know he uses lying as a coping mechanism to avoid put-downs! And When he’s away from Heaven he’s a radically different person. That he’s more confident, more fun-loving, more relaxed when away from his abusers.

He’s absolutely joyless around Gabriel,

and been made to feel he can’t do anything right.

These are all the symptoms of being gaslit (gaslighted?), and it takes a heavy psychological toll on Aziraphale’s mental health.

He is being controlled.

Through gaslighting, Gabriel can control Aziraphale’s perception of reality and consequently control his actions.

Gabriel’s Guilting Pleasure

Gabriel cares about humanity about as much as one cares about their obligatory dental appointment. They do it, sure, but through requirement, and clinical distance. He doesn’t choose to love humanity, he chooses to manage Humanity. He chooses to treat them like cattle: to be kept in a pen [earth], kept for slaughter. He yearns for control, and that control extends to the angels who depend on him for leadership.

Contrast that with how Aziraphale >and Crowely< who unabashedly choose to love humanity.

Aziraphale is, at heart, a lover of food. He finds genuine joy and pleasure from eating, and in many ways, it’s an intimate part of who Aziraphale IS. It’s not that Aziraphale is a glutton, but it sparks joy in him.

Crowley clearly takes note of this, and on more than one occasion has gone out of his way to eat with him. Book!Crowley explicitly shares food with Aziraphale, purposefully ordering desserts that his angel can steal bites. It’s tender, it’s sweet, and it clearly shows the mutual respect the two share.

When unconstrained by the bounds of Heaven, we can see in the above GIF, just how relaxed Aziraphale can be. He has a soft calm smile, unafraid features. and a body language that to me communicates the feeling of safety. This is an entity who unabashedly happy, but not just about Sushi. He has a semblance of freedom here.

But, the scene abruptly changes when a Wild Gabriel appears!

Aziraphale goes from relaxed, care-free, to tense in 0.01 seconds. Once he finishes *appreciating the sushi* there’s a magical jingling sound, Aziraphale almost instinctually turns left because Crowley is always on his left, and Gabriel’s face greets him in the mirror.

We have a few precious seconds where we can see Aziraphale’s face journey: relax joy turns to expectant smile:

Look at the crinkled eyes, the flared nostrils, the look of joy. He’s clearly expecting pleasant company to join him.

In the below gif, we get a slice of the impact of Gabriel’s control. Once it’s revealed to be Gabriel, not Crowley, who asks to join him, his entire face falls. Notice how the smile is long gone, and his glance at the food is hesitant like he’s doing something wrong by being there.

Gabriel then asks: “Why do you consume that? You’re an angel” with palatable judgment. Mean, but harmless right?

No.

Aziraphale instantly starts making excuses, hiding an integral part of who he is, because he is trying to avoid the inevitable ridicule from someone who is supposed to support him and love him unconditionally.

Gabriel is asking a question that he can infer an answer from: that either Aziraphale deems eating necessary, or he enjoys doing it. He’s feigning forgetfulness and calling Aziraphale’s choices into question.

Further, by bringing attention to the “you’re an angel” Gabriel is drawing a line in the sand, defining that to be an Angel, at least a good angel, you can’t eat, lest they “desecrate” their holiness. You can see Aziraphale’s face IMMEDIATELY fall.

We, the audience, can see this is untrue. There’s no reason to believe food is harmful to supernatural entities, and more importantly, it brings so much unbridled JOY to Aziraphale. So why point it out? Why deliberately trivialize our favorite Angel’s feelings like that?

Control.

Trivializing Aziraphale’s passions allow him to impose his own agenda.

Gaslighting the War

Okay, so Aziraphale lies ALOT, but we know for a fact that he’s told Gabriel his intentions to try stopping the war. Several times. Over the course of 11 years. It should be no surprise to Gabriel that Aziraphale has a singular goal: saving humanity.

Although Aziraphale conveniently forgets to mention Crowley’s role in helping prevent the war, Gabriel knows the general gist of Aziraphale’s plan to “prevent” the war. Aziraphale has made his intentions excruciatingly clear.

However, besides blatantly lying to him about Heaven’s position on saving the world, he trivializes the very real concerns Aziraphale poses. It’s not just that he thinks Aziraphale can’t stop the war, it’s that Gabriel deliberately misleads him. Aziraphale up until the end of Episode 4, firmly believes his “side” will sanction the salvation of humanity. And Gabriel specifically strings him along, letting our angel believe that if he successfully climbs his mountain, he would be accepted by Heaven. (He’s not)

Then, in the above GIF, he dismisses Aziraphale’s transparent, clear plea for help.

CONTEXT: This is how Episode 4 opens. Aziraphale has found the Anti-Christ, met and rejected Crowley’s offer to fly off to Alpha Centauri at the Bandstand, told the love of his life his best friend that he doesn’t even like him and is in full out freak mode. Then, apropos of nothing “runs” into Gabriel and is in dire need of support to stop the end of the world. He NEEDS a lifeline, now that he thinks Crowley is fleeing Earth, never to see him again.

He firmly asserts that humanity is worth saving and that they COULD do it, (they’re Heavenly after all), but Gabriel does not give a single flying fuck about Aziraphale’s feelings.

Instead of answering Aziraphale’s prayers, Gabriel reinforces his own interests (see: the never-ending war) and changes the conversation to focus Aziraphale’s “gut”. The glance in the below GIF is unnervingly condescending.

Look at how “disappointed” Gabriel appears glancing up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes before pointedly looking to Aziraphale’s belly. It is if, with his eyes, Gabriel is insinuating Aziraphale’s appearance is a personal failing and a somehow more important problem than stopping the end of the world.

The pivot from Aziraphale plea “we need to stop the end of the world” to “you’ need to lose the gut” is classic “Diverting” from the situation. It deflects from his own manipulative behavior and leaves Aziraphale to constantly second-guess himself. It puts the power squarely in Gabriel’s hands because the topic is no longer rooted in Aziraphale’s valid concerns or feelings.

Gabriel leaves the scene, with a visibly distraught Aziraphale and, we hear Azirgaphale say he’s soft, in a hopeless, joyless voice that’s full of self-doubt. It’s a heartbreaking moment because of how powerless Gabriel has made him feel.

He has no support system.

However, Gabriel’s gaslighting comes to a head once Aziraphale is pushed passed his breaking point.

Aziraphale Want(s) To Break Free

Gabriel doesn’t encounter Aziraphale again until after the armageddon has been thoroughly avoided (read: Aziraphale’s concerns have been validated, he’s taken steps to address his issues, and he’s reformed relationships with people his abuser pushed him to second-guess).

When Gabriel reappears, he has every reason to believe that his gaslighting will work to “control” Aziraphale. Because, while he may now be aware of Aziraphale’s friendship with Crowley, abusers will do anything to get the desired power dynamic (with them controlling all of it, and the victim none), and why abandon his most effective tool?

So he tells Aziraphale to shut up, presuming he can still control Aziraphale. That Aziraphale’s inclusion is not just unneeded, but unwanted.

Just one thing though, Aziraphale defies his abuser.

It’s HIS turn to start questioning Gabriel’s grasp of reality. To buck against not just the system, but the authority figure who has constantly been belittling and gaslighting him.

Why? What changes?

Crowley.

Crowley absolutely does not gaslight Aziraphale. Instead, he seeks to understand and validate his Angel’s concerns. Sure, occasionally they’ll fight, or push each other’s buttons, but Crowley never tries to manipulate of control Aziraphale. He remembers and encourages Aziraphale’s passions, actively seeks to participate in joint interests, and the sole act of saving Aziraphale’s books because he knows just how damn important those books are to his angel.

He’ll even go as far as to prioritize Aziraphale’s needs/comfort above his own. Is Aziraphale chained in a prison during the Reign of Terror? Sure, let’s just appear to rescue him. Aziraphale is getting double-crossed by Nazi bastards? Let’s just put ourselves in danger and walk on the consecrated ground and be to rescue him and his books.

It would be a bit of an understatement to say that Crowley cares about Aziraphale and wants to promote his wellbeing.

At the Airfield, Gabriel has never interacted with Aziraphale with Crowley around (deleted scenes notwithstanding) and able to support him. But Crowley isn’t just there, he steps up, beside Adam, besides Aziraphale and affirms Aziraphale’s sense of reality. No, he’s not crazy, and his question IS valid.

The simple act of having a support system there definitely boosts Aziraphale’s confidence and gives him the strength to make an actual choice.

Intervene.

He chooses to walk up to Beelzebub and Gabriel and ask, if they are sure of their reality, because, now Aziraphale sure as hell is. He knows where he stands and who he stands with.

He is no longer under Gabriel’s control.

Never before has Aziraphale had a single honest choice. Sure, he made the choice to enter the “arrangement” with Crowley, to raise the (wrong) anti-christ, to lie to God. But these choices are rooted in self-preservation and self-defense. Also, he’s not transparent about these choices to Gabriel.

Once Armageddon is averted, and Aziraphale’s chosen to side with Crowley, to jump out of Heaven if need be for humanity, there is very little holding Aziraphale back. And, Aziraphale is finally being lifted up.

Gabriel tries to intimidate Aziraphale into submission, to tell him the questions he’s asking are insignificant, and that his opinion doesn’t matter. But, Aziraphale no longer is blind to the gaslighting, and pushes on. Crowley, in turn, backs him up and they support each other (and Adam) as they defy their respective abusers.

TLDR: Really, Please, Fuck Off Gabriel

Thanks for coming to my Tedtalk

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overdrivels · 4 years ago

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The Way to a Heart (19)

<<Chapter 18

“We’re clear.”

Hanzo receives no acknowledgment, but he does not need it. The truck they’re tailing persists in its speed several cars ahead, unimpeded by the stretch of envious glares from people in the next lane over. Hanzo speeds up slightly, relieved to be putting more distance between himself and The Fence.

It’s fortuitous that your restaurant had such good relations with the officials at The Fence. They didn’t even check their passports—one look at the logos on their trucks and a quick glance at the fake delivery schedule gave him a free pass. If Fareeha were with him instead of Ana, he’s sure that he would have had to sit through a security operations lecture. (Luckily she’s with your ex-employees at Cœur d’Artichaut.)

When Argus handed them the keys to two of their delivery trucks and a set of delivery uniforms, and assured them they would not be subject to any checks, he was skeptical.

The team was technically human (and omnic) trafficking—and if you included the weapons they all kept on them, arms trafficking, too.

There were last minute arguments about whether or not they should be bringing their weapons as a precaution. The chances of getting arrested and having their hostages found didn’t sit well with Hanzo, but being unarmed was not a risk he wanted to take either. In the end, they all agreed to take the bare minimum. (Now that he knows they could’ve gotten through the border without being checked, he almost wished he brought everything.)

Then came the question of who would drive.

In another overabundance of caution, Zarya asked, “Do we have any Spanish speakers to distract the guards?”

“McCree speaks,” Ana offered a little too cheerfully. “Don’t you?”

Hanzo was surprised to see the face McCree made. For all the bravado he exudes and cloaks himself in, this was the one time where he does not seem to be entirely in control or feel relaxed to joke about.

With a tight smile that does not crinkle his eyes like it should, he uttered, “With all due respect ma’am, can’t go boastin’ about a man’s abilities like that when he can’t deliver.”

“Oh? When did you learn to be so modest, hm?” She raised a hand, looking ready to pinch one of his cheeks, but took his hat and replaced it with a delivery driver cap instead.

McCree doesn’t answer, taking away the bundle of clothes from Ana to change. Ana chuckles fondly to herself, handing out the rest of the uniforms to himself and Lúcio.

The set-up is simple. Two delivery trucks, the team split into two.

Hanzo and Ana will be in the second truck, trailing behind the first, and watching out for any apparent danger (and armed with sleep darts for any potentially troublesome situations). The first truck will have the hostages with Zarya and Genji riding in the back with them. McCree will be driving with Lúcio as passenger.

At first, Hanzo sincerely doubted McCree’s ability to blend in and be forgettable. He was quickly proven wrong when the only indicator of McCree’s return was the slamming of the truck door. It was mortifying to know McCree was self-aware enough to change his walking rhythm and presence, even more so for Hanzo to realize he still had blind spots in his ability.

Ana, for all her wisdom, insisted that sunglasses will be enough to throw off any facial recognition. (McCree decided to take a much more drastic route and applied a type of hardlight facial reconstruction device to his ensemble. It is not something available on the market, nor is it something cheap that he could have grabbed off the street like one of his shitty bottles of whiskey.)

Somehow, they all managed to get past The Fence without tipping off anyone or setting off any facial recognition alerts. Bewildering, really. Now he wonders if he wasted too much time in the past trying to disguise himself when a cheap pair of sunglasses would have achieved the same effect.

As though reading his mind, Ana said, “Sunglasses and a hat. Works every time.”

With the border out of the way, there is quiet.

The sights around him quickly become a blur. Amidst the silence, Hanzo manages to carve out a small space in his mind where he finds himself sucked into.

Memories of yesterday. Of Genji ordering a plate of curry which Hanzo presented without a word, of the nerves that seized him and rendered him more immobile than any other battle ever has. It robbed him of words and time as something long past yet fresh echoed in his mind: ”If your shitty curry kills me, I’ll haunt you.”

The minutes crawled by, the weight of time has never been so palpable, pulling and pulling away from him as he waited for Genji to return the dish.

Maybe Genji’ll throw it in his face or collapse in front of him and let him know that he finally finished what he couldn’t have done years ago with the very thing that might have been his only path toward repairing what was broken.

He couldn’t stomach eating dinner in the interim, too clogged with age-old ‘what-if’s and a lifetime of unrealized fear that has come back to haunt him in spades.

He couldn’t say it at the time, but he was grateful that you were there to keep him occupied. In between him plating and preparing dishes for the other straggling members on base, you put corn husks in his hands, walking him through memory lane and the makings of a tamale.

The act was repetitive and soothing in its own way. He had to take care not to overfill the tamales and fold them properly so the filling doesn’t fall out which was hard considering just how much stuff you wanted inside of them.

“This is for your mission tomorrow. I wanted to make your food to order, but Mad—Dr. Ziegler wants to do check-ups in the morning.” You didn’t quite pout, but it was evident enough in your voice. The sound was so endearing, Hanzo temporarily forgot his anxiety.

“We still have MREs, you don’t need to trouble yourself.”

You made a small noise of disgust, scrunching your face.

Hanzo laughed quietly, carefully pinching the husk closed. “You dislike MREs?”

“They’re fine for emergencies, but when you have the chance to eat a hot, homemade meal, it’s better to eat that.” Underneath your breath, you muttered, “Unlike a certain someone.”

The idle chatter lasted until Athena announced Genji’s arrival. Age-old fear gripped him anew and kept him glued to his seat in a cold sweat. At least the curry didn’t kill him. The fact that he came here to return his dish under his own power must have meant it was at least edible. And maybe, maybe Genji will leave without a word to him.

It would be what he deserved—more than what he deserved, perhaps.

But then, you have a hand on his shoulder and a poorly disguised smile on your face. “Someone wants to speak to the chef of today’s dinner.”

He couldn’t find it in himself to tear your words apart, and so gets up as slowly as he can, pretending to be reluctant to put down the work-in-progress tamale.

Something inside him begins to rattle as the distance between himself and the service window closes. There, he can see the shine of Genji’s mechanical parts, partially hidden by a hoodie. His hands were in his pockets, probably ready to strike and strangle him for feeding such a poor facismallie of their childhood curry.

Unconsciously, he laughed to himself. Not that Genji could do any better. If he recalled, Genji could barely put together a sandwich. Always receiving, never giving. Well, he gave everyone a headache, that’s for sure.

Before his thoughts could travel down its inevitable destination, the sight of the tray stopped him in his tracks.

Empty. The plate was empty.

Strangely, the sight was enough to make the buzzing anxiety in his chest melt away, replaced by an indescribable feeling of numbness. There are traces of curry on the spoon. The napkin was used.

The cheeky brat even said, "Should've added fukujinzuke,” when Hanzo could say nothing.

It’s not a ‘thank you’ or any normal expression of gratitude, but it would do. It’s something they can both agree on.

Mouth dry, Hanzo rasped, “Next time.”

“Next time,” Genji echoed, a promise that feels less like shackles and more like the comfortable weight of something keeping him grounded to this reality.

Genji left him with that. Time passed and he somehow was kneeling against the ground. The tips of his fingers and his chest were tingling until they were too numb for him to feel. Maybe he was hyperventilating or maybe he was crying without the tears; he couldn't know. He couldn't even feel his teeth.

All he knew was the warm hand you placed between his shoulder blades and your smiling voice in his ear. "A little bit of love goes a long way.”

It’s more of your ‘love’ nonsense, but strangely, he didn’t feel the need to rebuke you, nor does he feel as heavy as he did before.

That dinner didn’t fix anything, but it felt like another step in the right direction. After this mission, there might be a better chance at repairing what was broken.

Hanzo grips the steering wheel tight. He just has to resolve himself.

The open road is eerie. As they drive further and further from the large cities, a sense of agoraphobia creeps in from every spanse of empty space. He tenses each time a vehicle drives up, keeping them in his sights until they could no longer be seen.

They spiral up old roads where overgrown trees loom over them and the rock faces of cliffs threaten to spill onto the road. Their destination is an abandoned town on the other side of Parque Natural Sierra de las Nieves, one of many that sprung up far too quickly when Overwatch built Watchpoint: Gibraltar.

“When we first made Gibraltar a Watchpoint,” Ana explains in between the radio silence, pulling Hanzo from his thoughts, “there were many towns that popped up. Gibraltar isn’t very big, you see, so people started building out in Spain. It was a very popular destination.”

She laughs, the sound tinged with nostalgic sorrow. “After Overwatch fell, I suppose most of these towns must have vacated. A shame, really. I like visiting when I was stationed here.”

“I see.”

“Of course, nothing compared to Hawai’i. Have you been?”

“Twice. Once for business, another for—” A job, he wants to say, but supposes that’s the same as ‘business’ to anyone unaware of the difference. “More business,” he says with a wince.

“A hit, yes?”

He nods, and she smiles knowingly, leaning back into her seat and propping an elbow against the open window.

“Well, you should go there sometime for vacation. The view and food is very good. Though, probably not as good as a certain someone’s?”

His face drops into what he hopes is cold exasperation, but Ana only laughs. She pulls out a little package from one the drink holders in the truck and begins to unwrap it. One of the tamales you gave to them this morning before their mission.

He had one on the way as a snack. He can’t say the texture agrees with him—fluffy, but dense, and somewhat crumbly in the way that reminds him of Tracer’s shortbread cookies for some reason—but the filling is full of flavor and near bursting with sauce, enough to seep through the corn husks you’ve tried so hard to teach him how to fold. (It wasn’t difficult except when you refused to budge on the amount of filling required, but he couldn’t help failing several more times than necessary just to have your earnest instruction.)

He only hopes that the tamale does not burst in his pocket and he’ll have the chance to enjoy it on the return trip.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see her face light up as she takes her first bite. A small bulb of pride blooms in his chest to see that sort of expression on the old soldier, but that’s quickly extinguished when her own face drops. Holding out the tamale in front of her, she studies it.

“Just like old times,” Ana muses quietly to herself. There is a sense of bitterness to her voice, the wrinkles of her face deepening as she slips into thought. Soon, the desolate town comes into sight in the distance, and Hanzo’s nerves begin to rattle. A sense of foreboding sits uncomfortably in his chest like a cold, heavy stone.

Everything has been going well. It may be just paranoia or because he is still on edge from the attack a mere week ago, but he can’t help but feel something’s wrong.

Something about his body language must give him away. Beside him, Ana gives a short, inquisitive hum. She shoves the leftover husk into a pocket and readjusts her seatbelt. “Are you scared, Shimada?”

Hanzo bites back a sarcastic snort. He keeps his eyes on the road and on the speck in the distance, carefully keeping his expression neutral.

“No.” Then he asks, “Should I be?”

“I thought your sense would be sharper than this old lady’s. Don’t tell me the Shimada name is just for show.”

“Do you sense something?”

“Who knows. It could be the senseless ramblings of an old lady nearing her time.”

Of all the people he would expect to meet their end soon, it would not be her. He’d make sure of it.

Her comments do soothe some of his nerves, knowing that he is not the sole person able and responsible for keeping a lookout. Begrudgingly, even he has to admit having competent teammates is a good thing, and as he always does, he hopes he doesn’t become too accustomed to it.

In slow motion, Hanzo watches as the truck drifts. To the left. Back toward the middle. To the left again before it disappears over the horizon in a swerve.

Ana wastes no time clicking on her communicator and demanding answers. “McCree, report.”

“Lost control of vehicle. Tryin’ to get back on track. Suspected override.” Then there’s cursing and McCree mutters, “Sombra, if this is you, I’m puttin’ this on your margarita tab.”

Ana clicks her tongue and begins to dig through the bag that lies between them.

“Shimada. Stop the car.”

With a quiet screech, the truck stops. Beside him, Ana pulls out a pair of binoculars and peers through them. Whatever she sees makes her click her tongue again.

In a flurry of motion, Ana shoves the binoculars into his hands and climbs out of the truck with a look of grim irritation. “Keep an eye on them.”

Obediently, Hanzo brings the binoculars to his eyes.

From the abandoned buildings—or previously abandoned buildings—emerges several dozen Talon agents, all in their collective uniforms, fully armed and with the truck focused in their sights. Hanzo’s heart stutters in his chest as a dark figure approaches the truck.

It doesn’t seem like they’ve noticed Hanzo’s and Ana’s truck yet, or they’re just deliberately ignoring them. Even so, the situation sits poorly with him.

In his ear are quiet orders from Ana and one worded updates from McCree.

There shouldn’t have been anyway for Talon to have gotten ahead of them. A snap of anger burns inside him when he thinks that your staff must have betrayed them again.

Hanzo’s brain fumbles, clicking through a number of emotions before it lands hard on forceful calm.

No. Blaming anyone would not save them from this situation. Besides, even if your staff betrayed them today, it would not explain how Talon was so well prepared for their arrival. No one knew where they were going to go.

What could they do now?

A dip in the truck’s weight tears Hanzo’s attention away from the scene for a moment. Ana climbs back into her seat with a duffel bag. Sensing Hanzo’s curiosity, she smiles wryly and says, “You don’t expect me to be underprepared, did you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

She huffs to herself. “I’m old, not senile. Now keep watching them. Be prepared to drive.”

Taking her instruction, he looks through the binoculars again. He could only see McCree’s disguised face from his angle, but the man fiddles with something by his head for a moment and then in Hanzo’s ear, the sounds of rustling and open air filters in. He must have set his communicator to capture surrounding sounds. Then, his face seems to flicker and the full beard and everything else has returned to his usual face.

Silently, Mccree and Lúcio are forced out at gunpoint with their hands raised. They have nowhere to go. They’re out of range for them to help, outnumbered, and outgunned.

Both of them are brought out in front of the truck where someone in all black awaits them.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

A gravelly voice comes across, coarse and wispy. It’s not a voice that sounds remotely human, but neither does it sound like an omnic. It sets Hanzo’s nerves on edge.

It is the sounds of a dying man who refuses to die, hanging onto life by their teeth. It is the voice of those victims who were unfortunate enough to not die instantly, who were able to waste their last dying breaths cursing him and cohorts instead of saying their farewells or confessing their sins.

Ana’s voice is full of disdain as she spits out, “Reaper.”

Hanzo sucks in a breath and adjusts the binoculars for a better look at the masked figure.

He stands tall, dressed entirely in black except for the bone-white mask. It’s strange, but what little skin is showing has an ashen-blue quality to it, as though he were rotting.

Hanzo has heard rumors about him. The infamous mercenary known to haunt bullet-ridden battlegrounds like a vengeful ghost. He supposedly has few restraints and even fewer loyalties to anyone or anything. The number of people who have encountered him and lived to tell the tale are few and far in between.

Why would someone like him be here?

Reaper’s head does a sweeping motion at McCree, and he scoffs. “You look ridiculous.”

“Looked in a mirror lately?” McCree shoots back as though he’s had it in his back pocket the whole time. It’s an odd act of familiarity that only comes with spending long amounts of time together. Hanzo doesn’t dare to decipher the meaning behind it.

“You have something of ours. Hand them over and we will settle this. Nice and easy.”

“Didn’t know Talon had such great HR,” Lúcio mutters sarcastically.

McCree interjects. “We would’ve if y’all just waited another half hour.”

“And let you get away under such promising circumstances? Not a chance.” Reaper motions to a few of Talon’s members. “Get to the back of the truck. Open it up.”

“And what about the second truck, sir?”

Cold fear wrings Hanzo’s stomach into knots, the dragons beneath his skin clamoring. As if sensing Hanzo’s gaze, Reaper looks directly at him, the distance be damned, before he turns away.

“Ignore them.”

And the icy fear turns hot—how dare Reaper look down on him.

Reaper makes a motion with a clawed hand. Several people nod and fan out, approaching the back of the truck where Genji and Zarya were.

Hanzo is half a second away from tossing his binoculars aside and rushing out there—those two cannot be caught. Genji cannot be caught. But Ana squeezes his shoulder, urging him not to move.

“Not yet. Stick to the plan.”

‘What plan?’ he wants to hiss. It’s not like they had a specific contingency for being cut off and surrounded by one of Talon’s most elite operatives. He has half a mind to drive the truck straight through the crowd and tear out Reaper’s face for the thinly veiled insult.

But the grip on his shoulder turns painful, telling him to settle down. He grits his teeth and tries to bear it.

With another group now surrounding the back of the truck, two operatives nod at each other.

The doors open. Guns are trained at the inside of the truck, shrouded in darkness.

Hanzo waits with bated breath as they wave out the first hostage. He cautiously steps out and is pulled into the depths of the crowd where Hanzo loses sight of him. That’s one.

There’s a brief lull before the second person comes out, looking around like she can’t believe she’s free. She is also absorbed by the larger group, past the ring of gunmen. That’s two.

The third files out just as slowly.

Hanzo gnashes his teeth, his heart pounding in his ears. He needs to be patient, he knows, but with each person he counts, it’s as though he were counting to Genji’s death. Once the last person exits, there would be nothing stopping Talon from openly firing into the truck or destroying it with Genji and Zarya inside.

The fourth person exits.

There’s still no word from anyone on the communicator. No sign that Genji is even in the truck. No, the lingering glow of green that Hanzo saw through the darkness of the truck before it closed is stamped firmly in his mind. Genji is in there.

Just three more.

From the darkness, the fifth person emerges.

Hanzo finds his palms damp as he grips the binoculars just a little tighter than necessary. His mouth, on the contrary, is dry.

Two more.

A few seconds pass.

And then it stretches into a minute.

What is taking so long? With his binoculars, he can’t see into the darkness. There should have been two more people—so why have they not come out?

The answer makes itself apparent a short moment later.

The shocking pink of Zarya’s hair peeks out of the truck as she exits with one person held close. Immediately after, Genji follows with a hostage of his own, all of his lights turned off.

It’s then all the breath rushes out of Hanzo and a short wave of relief saps all the strength from his hands.

They were smart. They chose to cover themselves with the Talon operatives instead of remaining as sitting ducks, awaiting their doom. It’s a risky decision, but one that gives them a greater chance at survival. Though, with all but two of Talon’s members back in the fold, who knows if they may just forsake the two for the greater purpose of eliminating Overwatch?

Faced with the crowd, it is Genji who speaks first.

“Clear a path.” As though to emphasize the seriousness of the point, every bit of LED on his person comes to life, the once soft green now a piercing threat.

As though amused, Reaper waves a hand and a path is cleared, allowing McCree and Lúcio to join the other duo. Even reunited, Zarya and Genji did not show any signs of releasing their prisoners. Though the twist to Zarya’s face shows she’s less comfortable with this than Genji.

It’s clear to Hanzo then that it was Genji’s plan. Dastardly.

Mccree even has the audacity to ask, “So, any chance of us leaving here alive?”

“Hm.”

Reaper paces back and forth, his long jacket billowing dramatically behind him with each step. He truly looks as though he were contemplating the idea, switching between a hand on his chin and crossing his arms.

Until he stops and from nowhere, produces one long shotgun.

“No.” — “Hit the deck!”

Shots ring out, chaos erupts, and bodies blur together.

“Drive, drive!” Ana shouts.

Hanzo drops his binoculars, slams his foot on the accelerator, and drives the truck straight into the crowd. Bodies duck and jump out of the way. Bullets rain down on the truck. The sound is strange, but he has no time to think about it.

One hand over the other, Hanzo maneuvers the vehicle in a screeching circle until a large enough space has been created for them and throws open the door. He drops down to the ground just before a hail of bullets embed themselves where his head would have been. Somewhere in the truck, there’s the sounds of something breaking and he manages to catch a glimpse of the hover mechanism failing—the entire truck collapses onto the ground, no longer able to hold itself up.

The truck is useless now, he supposes.

“What is the plan?” Zarya shouts over the growing conflict.

“Gather. We have to get out of here alive. Switching channels,” Ana replies coolly. Presumably, she’s gone to call for backup. Only one more mode of transportation exists and he can’t be sure it’ll last this scruffle.

Rushing for the nearest Talon agents, he throws a kick and knocks one agent on their ass, snatching their gun away from them. Hanzo tosses one over his shoulder at Ana who snatches it out of the air and proceeds to one-up him by taking out three omnics with her bare hands and a fourth with the gun.

Even Zarya has to gawk at the sight, but that’s quickly interrupted.

“Boosti-oh, oh, oh!”

Lúcio tears through the dusty field like he owns it, skidding close to the ground one second and flipping through the air, dodging bullets the next. He is unshackled by the laws of gravity. Neither ground nor sky are his limits.

For the first time in a long time, Hanzo thinks to himself that someone else’s style of fighting is beautiful. It is not the stiff flow of forms and positions.

Instead, it is a fierce dance, it is full of dirty tricks, it is full of life. No one can touch him with that momentum and he has gathered them all too close to not hit each other with friendly fire.

Handspins, backflips, floor swipes—so much energy wasted, but he shows no signs of stopping or slowing. He blasts his opponents back with a soundwave straight into Zarya who follows up with moves that make her prematurely ended weightlifting career seem like a mistake.

Zarya even laughs, having the time to joke, “Welcome to the gun show.”

She’s well equipped even without her gravity gun. He didn’t have much time to admire any more feats of free-falling victims when Lúcio lands beside him, skating around him in a tight circle.

The vibrations that run through him makes his heart race and blood warm. It urges him forward, forward, forward. It lets him punch through people and toss omnics like they’re nothing, it lets him withstand blows that would have annoyed him.

And Genji, he’s right there with him, flipping high over the crowd and drawing their attention while the rest of them work to cull the numbers.

Minutes pass and the opponents are never ending, it seems. His fists throb and bleed, his legs burn, and his heart is playing a war song in his chest. He’s been hit several times, but the shots were all non-lethal for some reason. There is a warm rush that courses through him, intensified by the pain from his injuries. It makes him feel alive, but experience tells him it is a novelty that will soon expire.

He finds himself with his back to a building that he doesn’t remember being close to his original location. Before he knows it, he’s further away from the truck than initially expected. Scaling the building wall as quickly as he could, he catches a glimpse of the entire battlefield.

In the midst of all this chaos, Reaper stands unscathed as though he were a smudge from another world overlaid on theirs—out of place and out of touch. It’s eerie and unnatural, but there are too many people in between them for Hanzo to get close and see for himself if the man was indeed as strong as the rumors say.

Over the communicator, Ana barks, “Genji. Hanzo. McCree. Stay close; you’re straying.”

“Sorry ma’am. Just have a little business—oop.”

Click.

It’s then that everyone’s heads whip over to McCree’s position. Or at least, where he was supposed to be. Somehow, in the few minutes, McCree had closed the distance between himself and Reaper. The crowd parts for McCree and Reaper before they close ranks again.

Talon was looking to isolate the two.

But why?

Ana’s voice explodes in his ear. “McCree! Don’t chase—get back here!”

“He shut off his comms.,” Genji supplies helpfully.

“That—” The sheer anger and—was that fear—in her voice makes Hanzo start. “Shimadas, after them! McCree cannot be alone with Reaper.”

““Understood.””

No, he didn’t understand, but he didn’t have time to ask. Genji leaps over several people, knocking them down to join Hanzo.

“Lúcio. Clear their path!”

“You got it!”

The DJ slides up beside Genji, giving them both a wide smile before he speeds in front of them in a sharp swerve, straight into a crowd that has gathered to stop their advance.

“Push off!”

Even though Hanzo and Genji stand behind him, the resulting pressure from Lúcio’s strange megaphone could be felt in his chest. How the user himself didn’t manage to get knocked back at all is either a testament to his technique or to the technology. Either way, it’s impressive to watch Lúcio stand tall while everyone in front falls like cherry blossoms.

Neither of them look back, entrusting the battle to the other three.

Reaper leads McCree further and further away from the scuffle, flitting past buildings and old fences. The two of them trade occasional shots as though trying to keep up a facsimile of a fight. It’s then Hanzo catches sight of what McCree has in his hand.

Peacekeeper.

He grinds his teeth.

Of all the stupid moves—

If they had been caught at the border with it, they could have been in a different type of trouble. At least then they wouldn’t have had to face Reaper. But now isn’t the time to dwell on the could-have-beens.

The sounds of battle soon limit themselves to the two people in his sights.

“We have to cut them off,” Hanzo grumbles with a wave of his hand.

“Understood.”

To Hanzo’s bewilderment, Reaper tosses his shotguns to the side. Surely he didn’t mean to surrender.

A disgusted noise comes from McCree's throat. “You weren't given those guns to toss 'em around like trash.”

“I don’t take lessons from you,” Reaper sneers. “You don't even know who’s on our payroll.”

It is then that a frighteningly unfamiliar expression of absolute despair and shock passes through McCree’s face. His grip on his gun slackens for just a second. It is enough for Reaper.

“Die.”

“McCree!” Genji throws his shurikens. They strike Reaper’s gun, but the shots are already fired.

McCree barely gets out of the way with a hasty roll, the crunch of his knee audible even if no one can actually hear it, coming off the ground with grit teeth and pained eyes. Hanzo and Genji both rush forth. Genji skids to a stop beside McCree to help him up and Hanzo puts himself in Reaper’s path.

“The fuck are you doing this for?” McCree demands.

Reaper snorts, tone condescending and reminds Hanzo strangely of his own father. In his direct line of sight, he can now experience for himself just how fearsome Reaper is. They haven’t exchanged blows yet, but his senses tell him that Reaper is not to be underestimated.

“Brat. Always thinking you deserve an explanation.”

“You owe us.”

“You’re the one who owes me.”

“McCree. What does he mean by that?” Genji asks, urgent, shaking McCree. “What is your connection with Reaper?”

McCree does not answer, rudely shaking Genji off, eyes trained on Reaper. Even with the mask on, it is clear that he was amused by this exchange. He takes a few staggering steps forward past Hanzo, throwing out an arm to push him back.

“Both of you stay outta this. He’s mine—”

But Hanzo grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks him back, not caring whether he fell or stood. "No, he's not."

The brothers exchange a look—not that Hanzo could see Genji’s eyes, but he could feel it—and they nod, an unspoken plan conveyed between them: knock out McCree, distract Reaper, get back to the others as soon as possible.

Hanzo leaps forward while Genji leaps back.

McCree’s squawk of indignance is enough to let Hanzo know Genji was able to catch him by surprise. Hanzo has to trust that Genji is able to handle him.

Reaper, on the other hand, is less surprised, side stepping Hanzo’s lunge just enough to tease as to what could have been a solid strike. And side-stepping the next one. And the next, and the next.

With every combination of Hanzo’s punches and kicks dodged with relative ease, confirming Hanzo’s fear: Reaper is more experienced than the rumors gave him credit for. By no means is Hanzo bad at hand-to-hand combat, no, he was much better at it than long-distance combat.

But that Reaper is able to anticipate every hit, every kick is unnerving. Like he’s seen his technique before. Like he knows. Staring into the expressionless, bone-white mask, he swears Reaper is smiling.

Maybe it’s the cheeky way he deflects his attacks as though they are nothing to him or the way that he doesn’t retaliate. Each hit that fails to connect intensifies a fire inside him.

Elation floods his chest when his fist connects with Reaper’s solar plexus. His glee is fleeting. The solid muscle he hit suddenly disappears as though it no longer existed, disintegrating beneath the cloth and armor.

“What sorcer—”

Reaper slams his own fist into Hanzo’s gut, cutting off his words. Hanzo retches, vision going white and green and some colors in between. It knocks him onto his back. He struggles to breathe even as his body automatically forces him to cushion the fall and get up.

He never gets the chance to catch his breath with Reaper slamming another fist where the first landed despite Hanzo’s attempt to instinctively block it. This time, it brings Hanzo to his knees.

“Shame. Thought you’d be better than your brother,” Reaper drawls above him.

The mere mention of Genji forces him to muster all his focus to look at Reaper’s face.

“What, what do you know about my brother?” he wheezes.

Reaper looks down at him with smug silence for a moment, enough for it to get under Hanzo’s burning skin. “More than you know. I even know about your clan.”

“What.”

“We’ve offered them business before. Your father never took.” The revelation is unexpected, but not surprising. “And we’re willing to offer our help to you, too.”

Hanzo scowls. “There is nothing Talon can offer me.”

“Is that what you think?” Reaper laughs. The sound skitters up his skin, gooseflesh rising. “Talon can help restore what you’ve lost. Overwatch has nothing.”

Hanzo is then reminded of the sacrifices people have made to bring Overwatch back. People like Tracer who could have just lived her life and move past the tragedy that befell her. Retired people like Reinhardt who is forcing himself past his limits. Non-combatants like Miss Mei taking a role on the battlefield, saying she hopes to be useful in that capacity. Ordinary people like you who have given up a whole life just to cater to two dozen people.

And Genji who had recruited him, sought him out for reconciliation, in spite of what happened. In spite of knowing it wouldn’t be simple or that Hanzo would not accept it. Ten years of pain cannot be wiped away so easily, but even so, Genji was willing to try.

That isn’t nothing.

“And you expected me to join hands with you?” Hanzo looks Reaper up and down, slow and skeptical. Apparently Reaper is not one to be intimidated by such tactics, not that Hanzo expected him to be. He laughs instead.

“I expected you would pick the winning side, not sentiment.”

—”The world is changing once again, Hanzo, and it's time to pick a side.”—

“Hanzo, grenade!”

The warning moves Hanzo before he’s conscious of it. Hanzo barely managed to cover his ears and turn away, fighting against instinct to keep his mouth open. Not even a split second later, an explosion rocks the ground and rips through the air. Everything in Hanzo’s body rings and shakes as though they, too, wanted to explode.

He tentatively opens an eye and sees Reaper a distance away, struggling to get up, and a very familiar figure coming closer.

The explosion must have been a courtesy of one of McCree’s flashbangs. If they all make it out of this in one piece, Hanzo swears to see to it that McCree will not return in such a state.

“Don’t you go forgettin’ about me,” Hanzo hears McCree say once the ringing subsides to a moderate volume.

Reaper growls. “Don’t worry. I didn’t.”

He disappears into a cloud of smoke just as Genji plunges in with his sword from above.

The surprising trick—it had to have been a trick—made Hanzo stop in his tracks. He watches, speechless, as the black mass reforms into a person just a short distance away.

What the hell was that?

But more importantly—

“Why are you both here?” Hanzo demands once he catches his voice. “This isn’t a part of the plan.”

Genji and McCree should have both gotten back to Ana and the rest by now.

“New priorities, brother.”

The word ‘brother’ still digs uncomfortably into his skin, but he has no will to correct him. Not when Reaper takes out a new set of guns and has them aimed right at the three of them. Every bit of muscle shakes, the blast having done a number on him, but Hanzo pushes past all that. This is a matter of life and death, his minor pains and questions be damned.

“I take the back, you two take ‘im from the front,” McCree mutters.

“Three of you at once?” Reaper’s voice sounds more gravelly than before, a strange wheezing echo lining the edges of his voice. “How cute.”

A plume of darkness dives at them. Reaper’s face is upon them in an instant.

All three of them jump back. Bullets fire from McCree’s gun, piercing holes into the mist that becomes man. The moment he solidifies, Hanzo comes from below to take out his legs. Reaper jumps up to avoid it. In a momentary aerial fight, Genji throws a kick at Reaper’s head. It’s blocked by an arm that wraps around Genji’s legs, throwing him back onto the ground. But Genji throws a set of shurikens, two out of three slicing the edge of the hood where Reaper’s neck was. The last one flies back and Hanzo snatches it from the air, throwing it at Reaper just when his feet touch the ground.

This time, the shuriken lodges itself into one of Reaper’s gauntlets.

By the time Hanzo lands again, Genji is already stepping into Reaper’s space, forcing him back. Reaper firing shots in between either as a distraction or as a warning. Disarming him would be ideal.

Hanzo ducks in. Where Genji is not, Hanzo fills in that void with strikes of his own.

The same song and dance of their past, except now more individually refined—like the perfect ratio of milk to coffee. The comparison shocks him, to say the least.

Where he ducks, Genji is there with a leg sweeping over his head, kicking away one of the shotguns, but it still remains in Reaper’s hands. When he strikes, Genji ensures Reaper cannot retaliate.

Every other strike is connecting. With so many people to pay attention to, Reaper can’t look down on him anymore. The thought sends a vicious thrill through him.

Where there is a gap in their moves, a bullet squeezes its way in. Reaper takes those chances to dissolve himself, but even that is coming in longer stretches.

Yes. Reaper must be getting tired by now. No matter how inhuman he seems, he still has to rest. With the three of them, they can win.

“Enough of this.”

Like a drop of water in a pond, Reaper drops into a pool of mist and reemerges between all of them, and with his arms and guns out, begins to spin.

“Take cover!”

“Hanzo!” Genji leaps in front of him, wakizashi out.

“Die—”

There is no sound, only the air vibrating from the rapidfire that made his eardrums and the air on his skin shudder.

Powerful spinning lunges that sprayed the entire field in sparks. Genji deflects as many as he can.

That Genji would think of putting himself in danger for his killer’s sake paralyzes Hanzo. As though seeing everything through the lens of someone else, he doesn’t move.

“Die—”

The scene—the carnage—is surreal.

Indiscriminate. Powerful.

The sound of metal on metal pounds Hanzo's ears. Flashes of heat across his skin where bullets fly by. The change in air pressure after each shot echoes in his bones, down into his soul, shaking up the very foundations of his being.

It is death.

“Die.”

It is an order.

When rubble and dust settles, through the blinding pain in his thigh, shoulder, and somewhere in his midsection, Hanzo sees everyone else has fallen. Only he remains standing, and even then, just barely.

McCree is nowhere in sight, though his hat lays on the ground as though it were a memory of the fallen. Genji is crumpled at his feet, sparking in places a human shouldn’t, and more cracks in his armor that reveal scars that Hanzo could almost recall the origin of.

"Brother. Get out of h-hher—"

Reaper materializes between them, delivering a

“Genji—!”

“I’ll ask you one more time, Shimada.” He takes a step toward Hanzo. “Overwatch can’t give you what you want. We can. And we’d hate to see someone with so much talent waste away in Overwatch especially for a reason you don’t believe in.”

He resists the urge to glance back at Genji, knowing that any moment he takes his eyes off Reaper will be his last.

“Consider it. Your empire could be great. You can have everything you want. Respect. Power.”

The sultry promises of the empire he’s dreamed of since childhood wafts through him. It is tantalizing.

But even if they did restore it, it would besmirch his family’s name. The clan had never accepted the help of outsiders, never tied their fate to people who were not loyal to their clan or to their blood. Who was to say that he would truly be in control at the end of the day?

He’ll again be known as incapable. If the clan continues with Talon ever lurking in its shadows, he cannot have peace of mind.

If he were to join Talon, then what would have been the point of him coming to Overwatch? What would have been the point of putting himself in their service?

More fundamentally, he now has to ask himself why did he even come to Overwatch in the first place? Was it because he wanted to confirm Genji’s identity? Or because he wanted to make up for what he did by aligning himself with his brother’s cause?

Why did he want to make up for what he did to Genji? To rid himself of guilt? Or was it because he still believed he could reform Genji and bring him back to the clan and reclaim his birthright?

In which case, why did he need Genji? Why couldn’t he do it on his own? Because their father told them they had to expand together? Or because somewhere deep inside, Hanzo knew he couldn’t do this without his brother?

Questions he didn’t dare ask himself rush to the surface, clamoring his attention and his answers. Fitting that it is only now—in the face of literal death—that he is genuinely introspective and finally seeing things from a different perspective. He can only be disappointed it took him so long. The answers will have to come later. Come hell or high water, he needs to give Reaper a proper response.

“So. Your answer?”

He meets Reaper’s piercing red eyes.

“No.”

He lunges with a yell, and Reaper steps to the side. In a disgraceful heap, every wound in his body aches and burns. But so close to Genji, he can see the rise and fall of his chest. Genji still lives. That is enough.

“Pity.”

Reaper dives in in a dart of mist.

Hanzo grabs Genji’s fallen short sword. The sickeningly familiar weight of a sword in his hands pulls at his entire being. The air around him crackles as he resolves himself.

He slashes at Reaper who knocks into the blade with his gun. Hanzo’s hand burns, but he refuses to let go. Reaper’s other gun comes up and fires. Hanzo turns, feeling the heat of a near miss against the plane of his stomach.

Hanzo throws strike after strike, chaining combinations of sword, arm, elbow, shoulder, legs, and more. Strike after strike is blocked or parried. Somehow, Reaper pistol whips him with the back of his gun while Hanzo is mid-air. He falls, face swelling rapidly and mouth full of blistering heat and blood. But he is up again before his vision is able to register Reaper as one and not two.

REaper doesn't miss a chance, and the searing pain of three new bullet wounds remind him he cannot either. He forces himself to move, to raise his sword, to fight. Every blow is heavy and makes his wrists ring. His vision swims and he's taking more hits than delivering them. Amidst the suffocating pain and mental demands of the fight, a single piece of light: he has made his choice. He has no plans on losing here. Rather than jumping knowingly into a lion’s mouth, Hanzo would have better chances in the abyss where Overwatch lay. At least there is a chance of survival with them. With Genji who willingly jumped in front of his own would-be murderer to protect him. With you. He has no answers for why he is here outside of pretty words and insincere gestures, but he for certain does not want to be with Talon.

Hanzo sucks in a deep breath. Focus. Ozone crackles in the back of his teeth, flooding his mouth with the numbing taste of lightning and vibrations of thunder. Blue light spills out from his arm.

Shimada Hanzo will not go down like this.

No.

Hanzo Shimada will not go down like this.

He takes one last glance at Genji, still fallen and immobile, and makes up his mind. He raises Genji’s sword, channeling the power that swells inside him. This is his answer. This is the side he chooses.

“Ryuu ga”—he raises the sword—“waga teki wo kurau!”

He thrusts forward, releasing his attack toward Reaper.

And when he says ‘waga teki’—our enemies—he can truly mean ‘ours’. Not the enemy of the Shimada clan, not the enemy of himself and his dragons, but the enemy of himself and his brother.

From the blade, the two blue dragons haloed by green pounce forth and rip through Reaper, not even giving him a chance to escape. In an instant, the pale face of death is vaporized; black disappears in the rushing sea of blue and green. As though he were never there, the dragons continue their rampage through the little town and up toward the sky. The afternoon sky turns into night. Their roars, easily mistaken for thunder, shakes the earth and heavens.

Hanzo stares, slack-jawed. They’re dancing among the clouds. Somewhere in there, he spies a serpent in green among them. As though to mock his vision, the dragons all disappear with a joyous cry, allowing color to return as though it was never disturbed at all.

An unsettling silence is cemented in the air. There is only the sound of his own labored breathing and the dull roaring of blood rushing through his veins. Haltingly, he looks at where Reaper stood, finding nothing.

Reaper couldn’t have survived this.

Energy sucked out of him, Hanzo drops the short sword, hands shaking. It has been too long since he last held one, but his body did not forget. His dragons did not forget. They reveled and flaunted the power granted to them by their vessel.

Cold and weariness blankets the quiet that has settled in his mind. He stares out listlessly across the town where quiet reigns.

They won.

Overwatch won.

Hanzo closes his eyes for a moment, a deep breath escaping through his teeth.

They can all go home.

No sooner did he think that, black mist comes together as though attracted by some magnetic force. In horror, Hanzo watches as it takes the blurry shape of a man. The white mask floats in the void where Reaper’s head should be, stark and sharp in appearance compared to the rest of him.

“Not bad,” Reaper says, voice echoing sinisterly all around him. “But not good enough yet.”

Yet.

Something about that word raises alarms in his mind. He didn't have time to think about it. He had to do something. Every one of his limbs feels numb and heavy.

His reappearance cements a deep-seated fear. Reaper had been toying with them. Is he immortal? Is he incapable of dying?

No, that can’t be. Anything that lives must be able to die.

Hanzo sets his jaw. He just has to keep killing him. As many times as it takes.

With aching fingers and trembling hand, he picks the sword back up. He can scarcely make a fist around it.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Reaper tsks. Time slows as Reaper produces another gun from the depths of his tattered coat. It slows even more when the gun gradually becomes aligned with the trajectory to Genji’s head.

A hot snap and he yells, rushing forth.

“No!”

But something falls out of his pocket in his desperate run.

It’s a moment’s misstep. He twists to avoid stepping on it. He slips, falls. Landing face first into the ground where the pain shooting through his body and a shotgun barrel to his forehead keeps him down.

Face pressed into the dirt, he can now see what he tried to avoid.

The tamale.

Against all reason and all of his training and all the nerves in his body that scream at him to move, he simply does not. Instead, he watches a frozen Reaper with morbid curiosity. The shadows surrounding him flicker like a cat flicks its tail; inquisitive and unsure.

With the shotgun still pointed to Hanzo’s temple, Reaper leans down, now much more interested in the little husk package than the fight.

“What do we have here?” he drawls, gingerly picking the tamale up with lazy, dramatic flair.

The tamale is encaged in those obnoxious claws of his, and he takes a long, long look, inspecting it like it was a novelty deserving of dedicated scrutiny. The corn husk has been dyed red with the sauce inside, squished to the point of almost exploding.

It might have just been Hanzo’s imagination, but everything about Reaper now exudes the image of a man in memory, of someone—not a monster—that tugs at the faint whispers of a memory, of someone he thinks he might have seen before. In a movie? In a picture?

To Hanzo’s surprise, Reaper starts to laugh. Not one of his wild, unhinged laughs. It’s one of fond amusement, quiet and private like it is not meant for anyone else except himself.

“Is this your offer?”

Confused, Hanzo has no answer. What offer?

Without waiting for Hanzo to answer—Reaper announces with strangely cheerful finality, “Trade accepted.”

What.

Hanzo barely hears Reaper’s barking order for Talon to retreat. Around him, various agents are up and about, dragging their own back onto their vehicles in a flurry of activity that leaves Overwatch untouched.

Above him, he swears he hears Repair mutter, "Not yet."

It’s over too quickly.

With Reaper’s disappearance, the blissfully battlefield is silent, the evaporation of all adrenaline leaves his bones shaking and dry.

He’s alive.

Behind him, there is a wheeze.

The spell breaks.

Genji.

He scrambles on his hands and knees to turn around.

Blood gushes through his veins and out of his wounds, hot and demanding. Colors crowd the edge of his vision as the adrenaline and shock dissipates, no longer able to hold them at bay. He falls to the ground, muscles aching and barely able to lift his own head. Still, he pulls himself across the dirt just to get a little closer and make sure Genji is still alive.

That he would be spared instead of dying a noble death burns him hotter than anything he's ever felt. All strength bleeds out of him, and he’s reduced to digging his forehead into the ground, mouth full of dust and defeat.

As he lay there, struggling to draw his next breath and vision growing dim with Genji in his sights, everything in his mind seems clearer.

Feeling alive has never felt so heavy. Ten years of living in a fog from one day to the next with razor edge clarity only on the anniversary of Genji's death and the moment he fires his arrow on his targets. Thirty-eight years of reality has never been so solid and sharp, weighing him down with their stone cut clarity, digging into him and demanding his attention, slicing through the barriers he had unconsciously erected around his past.

He wanted his empire.

He wanted power and the unshakable respect that came with it.

It is something that was promised to him and that he had worked his whole life for, and it’s something he’ll probably never let go of for as long as he lives—however long that may be.

But he wanted that with his brother. Partially out of ego and partially because he wanted Genji to see just what they could accomplish together, that Genji didn’t have to act out or be such a brat to shake off the stigma of being their father’s son, that Genji could actually do whatever he set his mind to instead of letting everyone call him a failure. He wanted so much from his family that he never got and will never get.

Burning pressure wells up in his face, but his lips feel cold and numb, robbing him of words. He screws his eyes shut.

He never knew anything at all. Until the very end, he was conceited, tantalized by the promise of returning to a childhood dream. It may be his just deserts.

He makes one final attempt to reach out to Genji, but his body refuses to cooperate, leaving mere inches between himself and his brother’s fallen body. Seeing his shoulders rise and fall though is the only indication that he is alive. And that is enough. Genji is alive.

As his vision goes dark and breath grows shallow with the cold chill of certain death creeping into his bones, his father’s voice speaks to him from the depths of his mind: "With every death comes honor. With honor, redemption."

Will his death now be worth enough to redeem him from a lifetime of compounding sins?

Chapter 20>>

#my writing #the way to a heart #hanzo x reader

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