#now presenting: the chapter that nearly killed me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dwaekkilinos · 6 months

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savior complex (pt. 1) | bang chan

summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 19.9K chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came. warnings/notes: zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: i know the end (and it knows me) ( series masterlist | next → )

Sometimes you felt like a ghost. It happened when the world was so silent that you could almost hear the beat of your unsteady heart pounding in your chest; when everyone else was asleep and you stayed up, eyes watchful and searching for threats. That was when you felt like the lost faces that haunted you.

It hadn't always been this way, at least not until the world ended. Most of the time you tried not to think about it. You tried not to think about much except survival these days.

Because that was smart. Surviving was smart. Anything else was stupid; anything else would get you killed.

Ironic, how you used to fear that very thing. Death. Now it was all you knew.

The apocalypse had come.

You knew how it sounded. Honestly, you didn't believe it when it first happened. You had been too afraid to admit it; too scared that if you did, you could never go back. There was no going back anyway. That was something you wished you had known back then. And as you sat on a log in the middle of those dark woods, overlooking your group who all slept silently while you stayed up, bloody knife in hand, and eyes watching for threats, it was hard to ignore the fact that this was your cruel reality.

Because the reality of it all was: you were living on borrowed time, trying your best to do right by your father and keep your family alive. You'd faltered that night, dotting the line between protection and predation.

And now . . . now you couldn't help but think about the beginning. How you would've never ended up like this if things had been different. But things hadn't been different. Things had happened exactly the way they had, and it'd left you with rot in your bloodstream and hate in your heart.

That was what made you clutch the knife closer, nearly cutting your own flesh. Because things hadn’t been different, but they also hadn’t always been this way. You hadn’t always been like . . . this.

You supposed it was because it was easy to kneel when you were just a girl. It was easy to ignore the ever-present scabs on your knees when you didn’t know any better. It was easy to tear yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs when you knew it’d all be re-sewn by morning. It was easy back then when the world hadn’t died.

From the moment you were brought into the world, barely kicking and silently screaming like it was a sin to voice your pain, you had been taught to be that girl; that easy, complacent girl with not so much as a rotten thought. From the moment you were born, you had been taught the foundation of the Church and its vocation, and it had carved its way into your rotten flesh even when the world was no more.

At age four, you were in the pews, listening to the words of God while creating imaginary friends in the statues. At age seven, communion. Then at age eight, you had begun to become an altar girl, fetching and carrying, ringing the altar bell, bringing up the gifts and the book, among other things—essentially being a servant to God. At age fourteen, confirmation. At fifteen, your mother doused you in holy water before your first date with a boy from school. Sixteen, heartbreak, praying to God and begging for him to help ease it all, only to be left with no response . . . even after all you had done for him.

Seventeen and the stitches down your legs remained undone, the scriptures now more of a question than a statement. Then . . . eighteen, the timer clicked into place, and you felt yourself begin to rot along with the world, forcing you to realize your entire life was just a cycle of kneeling before God, praying, and asking for forgiveness for your sins.

It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better. And then it happened.

It.

Armageddon.

The Rapture.

The fucking apocalypse.

It didn’t matter what you called it. Doomsday was still doomsday even dressed up with fancy scriptures and sacred wine.

The apocalypse had come. Humans were deemed horrible creatures by some almighty who you didn't give a fuck to acknowledge. It didn't matter. Someone or something had deemed the human race unworthy.

The apocalypse had come, and you were deemed worthless. You were made to die. It was inevitable.

The apocalypse had come. There was talk that it had begun in the North. But much wasn’t known in your town. Now you realized they tried to keep it a secret. It was a way of controlling everyone, you supposed, but not like it mattered much now.

That was just how things were. Your mother refused to let you and your younger sister watch the news, refused to let you search anything about what was going on in the world, adamant that everything was lies and those lies would cloud your mind. A religious town bordering on a commune that resembled a cult perhaps just a tad too much. You realized all this now, of course, but back then your knees were still covered in scabs from kneeling before a God who would never come. Back then your mother kept you kneeling until the final bell tolled, her hand firmly clutching your shoulder to keep you in place.

You were only eighteen then. And while the outside world was torn apart month by month, its people haunted by death piled upon death, your town continued on as it always had. The whispers of a war that would end the world were just whispers, covered up by scriptures that the local preacher would sight every Sunday morning just after you’d collected the eggs from the chicken coop and put on your best dress like your mother had always taught you.

But it was different for you, even back then. Because while it had been easy to kneel when you were a girl, you had begun to grow. Eighteen then, but you had begun to see the flaws within the Church when you were sixteen. And by eighteen, you knew better.

By eighteen, you could see the sweat beading along the preacher’s forehead. By eighteen, you could hear wavering in your mother’s voice when she proclaimed that this was just a test. That this was meant to happen. That the Bible had always predicted this, and if you remained faithful, then you would be saved . . . spared.

But by eighteen, you knew better.

It took one quiet night and a hammering heart for you to sneak into your father’s study and head straight for this desktop. It took even less time to discover what had become of the world. One. Two. Three clicks and then . . .

You remembered the choking feeling bubbling up your chest as your eyes scanned the news articles. A virus. One so horrible and unforgiving that it could take a healthy vessel, and within twenty-four hours, the body would succumb to death. But, you’d seen stuff like this before, right? You knew there had been plenty of diseases and viruses and they all had cures. They all had to have cures. They had to.

That was just the thing: no matter how hard you looked, you couldn’t find any article that explained how this virus came about. It was unknown, deadly, spreading rapidly, and there was no way of telling when it’d reach your town. It was just . . . just . . . (It was the first time you truly felt helpless.)

You remembered staying up with the sun, looking for answers, only to come out empty-handed. And when your father discovered you in his study that morning, you nearly confessed right away, sobbing into his arms. But no shame was brought upon you that day.

Your father had been a good man. He had loved you so. He had loved his family, no matter the consequences or conditions.

This town, your town, was small. It consisted of around only three thousand people give or take, all of which were either Christian, secluded, or . . . your father. In all the years you had been alive, not once had your father stepped into the Church. You never asked. You never worried. Your mother just always told you your father was busy every single time, and you believed her because back then, you’d trusted her with all of you.

As you grew, your suspicions of him did, too, but you remained silent as you always had in life. And it was only until that morning when he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his shoulder, did you realize why he never entered the Church, why he never spoke the prayers your mother praised, why neighbors would talk of his name only in hushed conversations.

He didn’t believe.

No, he believed in something just not . . . this sacred word your town so desperately worshipped. And that morning, he told you the truth. From his childhood to how he ended up in a town like this. He told you it all, and then he told you the truth. He told you how your mother was scared (how she always had been) and how one day he hoped with enough trying, she’d see the world for what it was ( . . . she never did). And then he told you about the virus, and everything was so much clearer.

The town had everyone convinced this was some kind of test. There was no virus to them. This was the reaping. The scriptures were true to them. And so every Sunday, you were forced to acknowledge that Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death—the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse had come to earth with the power to destroy humanity.

That was how it had been explained to your town, and all its people believed. A sickness had struck the world, yes, they told that much truth, but they chalked it all up to being some kind of plot point in God’s plan. To top it off, it was said that if the townspeople all repented and did right by his name, then salvation would be given.

That was what was told, and that was what was believed.

You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.

Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.

— Revelation 6:1–2

That scripture haunted you just as your father’s face did, but back then you hadn’t realized the detriment it would have on you. Back then, you played your part. Back then, you dressed as your mother advised, went to church, and listened, and then, when all was said and done and your mother had gone to her room, you snuck off to accompany your father on his hunts. And during those times, you’d learn the truth.

While the two of you hunkered down, waiting for deer to pass through your side of the woods, he told you about what was going on with the rest of the world. He explained how the CDC had claimed this thing; Pestilence (as your town believed) was some kind of virus, yes, only they wouldn't release the survival rate except for a few things that stated it was deadly, spread rapidly, and anyone could have it, but by the time symptoms had started to kick in, it would be too late.

As the weeks went by, as the more hunting extravaganzas you went on with your father piled up, his news became more worrisome. At first, the virus was contained in the North of the world, but as it took more lives and less information about it was being provided to the public . . . people began to panic. Hysteria spread throughout the world. Cases of this unknown virus peaked, and the government released statement after statement informing the public that face masks would be required to prevent the virus from spreading and travel restrictions would soon be put into place.

Only by that time, it was too late.

Carriers of this unknown virus had already traveled far and near, spreading the disease throughout the world. This so-called Pestilence might have only been given reign to a quarter of the world, but his disease had spread farther than his radius.

And while you had been young, you realized that this virus had only one purpose: to kill. There was no survival rate. No hope.

The world shut down soon after more and more people started dropping like flies, succumbing to the miserable disease that left them with boils and blisters covering their skin. Hospitals became overrun. Schools were wiped out with kids coming home with this deadly virus. Workplaces were abandoned, the people wishing to stay at home with their families, too afraid to step outside without any real knowledge of how this virus worked.

Your town remained oblivious, too, as the region shut down, gates being made so no one could enter or leave. It was safer that way they claimed. All of those who could be saved would be saved and helping those seeking a refuge was against the rules. It all felt like some kind of sick plan if you had anything to say about it.

By the time your father had taught you how to shoot your first deer without you sniffling in fear, Vaccines were finally attempted, but nothing worked; the disease only spread, and more people died.

Then . . . it all just stopped.

But your town continued to spread its lies.

The story remained the same even all these years later. You remembered how while you had learned the virus was supposedly coming to an end, your town still painted the picture of the Horsemen. Tales of Pestilence’s reign still remained.

They went on and on about how he rose from the depths of Hell. Pestilence had come. He, who sat on his white steed, had a bow, a crown that had been gifted to him by his gods had come, and when he had, he went out conquering. And so he did.

Until he was put to rest; until his conquering had come to an end. You listened with half a heart as the preacher went on and on about how his time had ended, yes, but this was not the end. All you had to do was keep praying, keep repenting, keep . . . kneeling, and you’d be saved.

But you knew better.

While others would attend midnight mass in addition to morning, you claimed you had to pray on your own, and when your mother had left with your sister on her hip, you snuck off with your father to learn of the world. You snuck off to better your shooting arm, to seek comfort in the only person who seemed to have their head screwed on right, to shoot ducks and geese and deer and everything in order to keep your town fed while everyone else prayed to a God that wasn’t doing half your work. And yet, every time, every kill, your father knelt beside the animal and prayed, until you had begun to do the same.

You weren’t sure why he did it. You had never asked. You never thought you needed to. (Now you would’ve done anything to know the answer.)

And so . . . life went on like that. Completely cut off from the world without the help of the internet your father provided for the two of you, life went on.

The virus no longer spread further, and many believed it was all just some hoax. News stations came to life again, but not much else was restored. That was how everyone found out the virus had concluded. Hell, even you remember being twenty-one years old, having your first legal shot with your father in the middle of the woods while the two of you watched news reporter after news reporter claim the virus had mutated and mutated so much to the point our bodies had accumulated a natural resistance to it.

But you couldn't believe it.

Three whole years of this deadly disease taking out population upon population, and then it all ceased. It felt almost too good to be true.

Of course, the town believed this too. Pestilence had conquered, and that was just the problem.

Every day, day in and day out, words spread throughout the hollow, the word in the Church mutated each week, even your mother who had spent the last three years praying to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary; your mother who had gone through rosary after rosary begging for God to have mercy on your family; your mother who had always forced you to attend those days at church on Sunday went around the house, boarding up the windows and hiding the special silverware in the basement, claiming that he would come next.

He has conquered, she had hissed over your shoulder when you and your father came back from one of your hunts.

Pestilence's reign had ended (according to your mother, who you were almost certain had a few screws loose). You didn’t believe it for a second, ignoring your mother's desperate ramblings.

War will come, she warned.

War will come.

But . . . you knew if something did come, it wouldn’t be this War.

And then . . . then he did.

The first sighting of the dead coming back was spotted just months after the virus that had plagued millions had ceased. And this time . . . the town allowed its folk to see the reports. Even your mother had brought the television from the basement to witness the dead rise . . . or rather . . . War. The news stations had captured a recording of these . . . people; people who had suffered from the virus coming back, and then with only their teeth, tearing any live thing apart. The recording was aired all across the world, fear, and hysteria spreading like wildfire.

The government was still up and running at this point with only one mission: to shoot down these seemingly reanimated corpses before they could cause more harm. People believed this to be a fluke, but your mother's words had stuck with you.

War will come.

It was all a little hazy now, but you remembered bits and pieces of the world back then. War had been quick, ruthless, and determined.

This was no man. This was War.

And it all became clear soon after.

While Pestilence had been silent, War had wanted an audience.

The things he could do; the people he could hurt . . . it was all so gutting. Those lost to the virus kept coming back, all with one purpose: destruction. With one bite, their victims would soon fall ill to that same virus, and then once it had taken their body, they’d come back, reanimated with the same gruesome purpose.

The government finally fell when the dead could no longer be stopped. Quarantines dropped, people ran, and everything just . . . stopped. These creatures tore through cities, sinking their teeth into civilians. And you watched it all on the television, until that, too fell, leaving the rest of the world in the dark.

That was when you realized just how real all of this was. That was when you realized the past three years of hunting with your father was not just something the two of you would look back on and laugh about one day when this virus was over. No . . . it seemed . . . it seemed you couldn’t quite see the end or maybe . . . maybe you could and that was the problem all along.

Your father, the man he was, tried to remind you that this was not War; that this was not the supposed God’s plan everyone was convinced of in your godforsaken hollow. And you tried to hear him, but for a while, you wished to be like everyone else in the town. You wished you could believe this was some greater plan. You wished you could believe that this was all because of some Horseman . . . but you knew better, and your father seemed to know this as well.

(And yet, when you thought back on it now, the stages in which the world ended still presented themselves as the Horsemen in your troubled mind.)

Because, well, you supposed that was truly when the world had ended—the day War came.

War will come, your mother had warned, and you knew that to be true the day the electricity stopped working. War had come, and he'd taken civilization with him. And while he reigned over the quarter of the world he'd been gifted, the rest of the world lay in the dark, trying to navigate throughout this new world.

From time to time you had heard talk of distant wars. You, however, had never seen one.

But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.

There was no news or contact with the outside world other than the people you could see with your own eyes. No transportation, no government, no nothing. It was said that cars had even been abandoned on highways as people tried to leave town to find their families. But they never got far; not with this newfound order bestowed upon the earth.

Because truly . . . War did not need to come to earth to corrupt it.

The government had fallen, the world had ended, the apocalypse had begun and that was all it took for chaos to ensue. People became their worst selves at the end of the world, you'd been told all your life through media upon media. But you had to disagree. You thought, perhaps, the end of the world brought out who people truly were deep inside. It allowed people to let go of civility.

And you discovered people really were perhaps even worse than this supposed War himself. Or rather a product of War and his righteous hand.

(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)

While War reigned, the rest of the world scavenged. Your family stood stagnant in your childhood home, holding up there for as long as you could. It was still warm when the second wave hit. You knew you'd need to find a different shelter when the time came.

The cold wasn't your only problem either. People were at their worst. When the news broke out in your town, the scriptures they held so dear began to fall apart. A lot left, some stayed, and others turned on each other, leaving houses with bloodstained splatters and a fear of thy neighbor. Your family stayed, however. Your mother read scriptures every day. Your father recited the truth. And they argued, while you sat by the window, terrified out of your mind as you watched the empty streets.

That was when you realized another truth about yourself. You were just about to turn twenty-two, the world had gone to shit, and you had never been so scared. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Their names raged on inside your head and it was as if you were still just a young girl, kneeling in church despite the scabs. Except now, you were a girl who could no longer kneel in church, and yet you were still so scared.

It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.

The scriptures had predicted this—the four harbingers coming down to scorn the earth. But you hadn't believed it. You were forced to now.

It was War’s reign back then. But Death would come one day. He had come to kill you all; to finish off everything his brothers hadn't touched, and one day he would.

It had been predicted. The words stuck in your head even now.

When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.

— Revelation 6:7–8

Your mother told you long ago of these scriptures. When you were a child, you'd cover your head with your blankets, hiding from the mysteries of the night. Somewhere in your innocent mind, you'd convinced yourself the devil himself would find his way into your room, wrap his bony hand around your ankle, and drag you to the pits of Hell.

Back then you'd feared death. You'd done everything to steer far from its clutches.

She’s afraid of the world, your peers would hiss under their breath, not knowing you'd heard every word. And you knew they were right. You knew you had always been a scared kid, trying your hardest to keep the monsters at bay.

You wished you'd realized there had been no real monsters . . . yet. You would've lived more. Now you knew the consequences.

Now there was no more living, just surviving.

Still, sometimes you found yourself missing it; missing life. It was a bitter thought—what could've been had the world not ended all those years ago.

Back then—before the end—you'd feared death.

How far will this go? you remembered thinking back then when it was still War’s reign. How long until things are normal?

You didn't have the stomach back then to come to terms with the truth. You barely remembered it now.

But you did remember the day everything truly changed for you.

Up until that day, you'd been following your father's orders, huddling up in your home with your mother and little sister as the four of you survived day by day. Then . . . your house had been broken into, the intruder coming in through your window.

Back then you had feared death. You had thought you were going to die.

You'd thought this up until the very last scream ripped through your throat just as your father emerged from the shadows, a look on his face you’d never seen, moments before everything went red. You remembered that to this day. While everything else was blurry, that moment was clear. You could still feel the blood splatter on your face as you watched your father—the man who used to tie your shoes for you before you hopped on the school bus—kill a man before your very eyes, ripping out his jugular with his bare teeth.

Once a girl who could no longer kneel in church, became one painted with the blood from another. And you remembered a small part of you—the part that had once knelt so much her knees had turned to scabs—that this was all War’s fault.

You thought it until you watched the man pale, falling to your childhood bedroom floor with a thud. You remembered how his eyes stayed wide open, locked on you as he gurgled and choked on his blood, bleeding out onto your pink carpet. He didn't blink. Not once. Not even at all. They stayed cold and empty as your father breathed heavily above him.

And then you looked at him.

Your father was a good man. He was kind and just, despite the town. He believed in science and facts. He wanted the truth. But none of that mattered if his family was at stake.

Your father was a good man. He loved you, and he would’ve done anything for you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had ripped out another man’s jugular in front of you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had killed someone.

This was the end. You knew it, and it knew you, too.

(It wasn’t talked about, and you never brought it up again. He simply embraced you in a tight hug and kissed your forehead, leaving a smudge of blood from the man in doing so, and whispered apologies that would never sink deeper than your skin.

(Now you wished you would’ve told him you understood. Now you would’ve looked at him and seen an image of yourself staring right back. Now you would’ve hugged him back.))

That was all it took before your father took it upon himself to gather your mother and little sister, put all necessities in the car, and collect enough portable gasoline as he could before the four of you set off down the road. Where you were going was undetermined. There was no knowing . . . because there was nowhere to go.

The world had ended. There was nothing left. You just had to go.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff, your father said to you that night on the road while your mother and little sister were fast asleep in the back of the car. One day I might not be here to protect you. You have to learn to protect yourself.

And you'd promised him you would. Because you had to. You had been old enough then, after all. You had been twenty-one . . . technically an adult.

(Now, however, you realized you had still been too young. Twenty-one wasn't old enough to face the end of the world.)

But . . . what happens when a scared young girl is forced to grow up too soon? She turns into a machine.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

Your father had borne that burden back then, when you first set off on the road. The car hadn't lasted long. Not that it mattered. The world was a wasteland anyway. Walking from town to town on the vacant streets and highways was nothing new now.

You just have to survive, he kept telling you. Survive long enough to keep them alive.

And you always knew what he meant. He was training you for the day when he would be no more. Because when that day came, you would be the one left in charge. He'd turned you into a machine because that was the world you lived in. You were the oldest. Your sister was barely five years old back then. And your mother . . . your mother who once believed this was all some greater plan, was now convinced that if she prayed hard enough it'd stop Famine from following after his ruthless brother.

It was your job to remember what your father had taught you when Pestilence first came to reign—how to hunt, how to shoot a shotgun, and now . . . how to survive.

And when Famine came; when you caught sight of the words Famine has risen spray painted on a billboard on the side of a highway, reminding you of your sick home. It was then you finally learned how to survive. You didn't realize how hard it would be until a year after Famine's birth, your father had passed because of you (because of a stupid decision that you had made which you still couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge).

Survival became all that you knew after that.

Your father was gone. It was just like he had warned. You were in charge now, and you had one purpose: keep your family alive.

The burden became yours to bear.

This was your purgatory and you'd do well to repent for what you'd done; for the man you'd sent out to die; for the father you'd lost.

Survive, survive, survive. It was all you knew.

And when the final Horseman rose, you knew what you had to do. It didn’t matter if it killed you, you couldn’t let your family die at the hands of one of those . . . creatures.

Death had risen. The entire world was a wasteland filled with undead and wars made by man.

If you crossed paths with one of those creatures and let them lay a finger on your family, your oath to your father would be broken. Death would kill you all.

So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.

Because you had to. For him. For your father. For the ghosts that haunted you.

Your father had wielded you to become a machine. And a machine you would become.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

The routine was ingrained in your brain, going on and on like a mantra. You couldn't escape that. Not that it mattered. Survival mattered. Keeping your group, your sister, your mother, and your family alive mattered. They were all that mattered. You would skip as many meals as your body would let you if it meant they'd stay fed.

Sometimes you found yourself laughing at how naive you had been in the past. At twenty-five now, you were equal parts machine and woman, still oozing blood when wounded despite your protests. You didn't tremble at the sight of blood now. You didn't fear death.

When you were a kid, death was your greatest fear. Now, you envied it. Envied the fact you had to walk the earth; the same earth the dead destroyed. Because you couldn't die. That was the harsh truth: you couldn't die.

You'd feared death for so long and now as you sat awake, keeping watch while your group slept, you yearned for the clutches of death to drag you into nothingness. It was almost laughable.

In a world where people now fought for their lives, trying to outrun the dead, you wished to succumb to death. You knew it was wrong, and you'd never speak it aloud, but you yearned for it. This world was shit. Complete and utter shit, and you wanted to give up. Everything in you wanted to just wait like some brainless sitting duck and let Death or disease or even those wretched beasts you heard groaning in the dead of night have their way with your hollow body.

But you couldn't . . . not when you promised your father you'd protect them. He'd died for you, and it was your duty to keep your family safe. Your duty.

You couldn't die, not when you had to keep them alive.

So you let yourself turn into a machine.

And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.

That night had been enough evidence of this. Because that night as you sat on a log, slowly dragging yourself out of the past and into the present, you realized one thing. A bloody knife sat in your hand while you watched over your sleeping group, eyes searching for any sign of the dead, and that was when it dawned on you that you had been right all those years ago—the end of the world brought out who people truly were.

You were a machine. You didn't feel. You couldn't.

Glancing down at the bloody knife in your hand, you realized you hadn't felt anything that night.

That night you'd done something you never thought you would. That night your group was attacked by a man with a gun; a man who wanted to harm; a man who had put his hands on your little sister. She was only eight going on nine, and she was your responsibility, and as soon as his hand clamped down over her shoulder while he held a gun to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless you gave up all your food, you lost it.

Everything went black. You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think. You just felt this pure blinding rage.

When you finally regained your sight, you realized what you'd done—you'd killed the man.

No, killed was too vague.

Like the true machine you had become, you had slaughtered him; the bloody knife in your hand was evidence enough of that.

The man was dead, a chunk of his jugular ripped out while he clutched the many stab wounds piercing his stomach. And you . . . you stood above him, eyes wide, bloody knife in hand, and the bitter taste of blood on your tongue.

You'd never killed anyone before. You'd put people out of their misery, but you'd never taken another life like this. You'd never had to.

But you had that night.

And now you paid the consequences.

It had been hours since then. No one had spoken a word since. And your sister . . . your little sister had only looked at you once since then, and you could see the utter terror her round eyes held. Normally she would sleep by your side, but she'd curled up next to your mother that night.

She was afraid of you, and you couldn't blame her. You had once given your father the same look.

So you sat alone on that damned log, bloody knife in hand as you thought back on how you managed to end up in this Hell. Sometimes you felt like a ghost, and now you knew why.

Your brows pinched together. You couldn't help but think: is this what your father had intended?

How much of a machine had he meant for you to become? Were you supposed to clutch onto the part of yourself that was still human? Or had becoming a monster been part of the deal when you'd signed off your soul for machine parts?

You weren't sure. You weren't really sure of anything anymore.

Your sister had looked at you like you were one of the monsters that plagued your earth, slowly destroying it region by region.

Were you no better than the dead to her?

You swallowed hard.

Had you become a monster?

“You did what you had to do,” you heard a deep voice from behind you, perhaps answering your thoughts.

But you didn't jump as you turned to see Felix sit down on the log beside you, exhaustion weaving through his delicate features. You didn't speak a word, just stared at the side of his face for a second before you glanced back down at the bloody knife in your hand.

You did what you had to do.

You nearly laughed. It was just like him to say such things.

You see: Lee Felix had joined your group around the same time Famine took his reign, and ever since then he'd been following you around like your own personal shadow. That was three years ago now. Your father had saved him, offering him to join your family on the road. Perhaps your father had seen something in him. Or maybe he had just saved him simply because that was just who your father was: a hero.

Not that it mattered. You'd taken a liking to Felix, too. He was kind.

Kind had been rare back then. It still was.

And Felix stayed kind.

When your father passed, Felix stuck by you. Your mother had begun to look at you as if you were a stranger, and your little sister still had been too young to understand much. Felix had made life easier.

You'd taught him everything you knew partly because you needed to and partly because you liked being around him as if he were the younger brother you’d never had. Little bird, you called him . . . because you'd taught him everything. You'd taught him how to survive. And sometimes you thought maybe you would've been friends outside of this. If things were different, if you'd met in a world where the apocalypse hadn't happened . . . then you'd like to think you could have met; that your paths would've crossed.

But things weren't different. You weren't even sure if you could let him in entirely. Your friendship would surely put him in some sort of jeopardy. Because, really, it all came down to survival, and you needed him to live. You didn't care what happened to yourself. You just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure they'd all make it.

That still didn't stop the feeling of relief that washed over you as soon as you felt him lean into you, arm touching yours. He was trying to comfort you in the way that he knew, and you couldn't help but lean against him further.

He was still just as kind as the day you'd crossed paths.

But you?

Well . . .

“I ripped his throat out . . . " you heard yourself roughly mutter before you felt the words tumble from your tongue. You lifted a hand to your blood-stained lips and swallowed. “I ripped . . . throat . . . his . . . with my teeth.” You swallowed once again, harder this time as your eyes drifted to your little sister's sleeping figure. She had been so scared. You had done that. You had scared her. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”

”You’re not."

“Lix."

“You’re not,” he reiterated, his voice as harsh as he could manage (which was not harsh at all) while he clutched your blood-stained hand and took it into his. “You did what you had to do.”

Your eyes flicked down to your hands. But you didn't look at him. You couldn't. You just kept thinking and thinking and seeing that look on your sister's face. And then . . . then you felt yourself say. ”She says all life is precious. She cries when we have to put down a squirrel for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”

”She’s just a kid."

“I didn’t have to kill him,” you continued. “There was a point where I could’ve knocked him out. I thought about it. And I still killed him.” Your eyes finally snapped to his then. “I wanted to kill him, Lix.”

A muscle in Felix’s jaw twitched. ”It’s people like him that make me wonder if this world got it all right,” he admitted after a second. “I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I could’ve been the one to do it.”

Your breath hitched at his words, not because they'd shocked you . . . but rather because you found yourself agreeing. But that wasn't . . . right. Felix was kind. You were not. He was good, and you . . .

”You don’t mean that,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You’re not . . . “

”Not what?” Felix countered, eyes searching yours. “Hmm? Not what?”

You blinked, your throat constricting. ”Too far gone,” you choked out.

His brows twitched, his expression softening. ”Neither are you."

His hand touched your face a second later, his thumb wiping the dried blood from your chin. You weren't a monster in his eyes. You were just his friend. He didn't fear you, but you knew he should've.

But for a second, you let yourself forget this. Instead, you closed your eyes, allowing him to clean your face of the man's spilled blood. And when he was done, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him try to reach for the knife in your hand, probably to release it from your tight hold.

However, you shifted it out of his grasp. His eyes snapped to yours then, questioning.

You offered a weak smile—something you didn't do often, but would for him. ”Sleep,” you hummed, patting his shoulder. “We need your brute strength in the morning.”

”We need your brain more,” he countered, tapping a finger to your forehead.

”Sleep, little bird."

He rolled those round brown eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

Nevertheless, Felix listened to you. He shifted down onto the ground, resting his head on the log, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes closed. And you watched him until you were sure he was resting soundly. Then, your eyes went back to watching, making sure to keep your promise to your father.

But just as you were sure it was just you and the silence of the night again, you heard Felix’s voice filter through your ears, ”You’re not too far gone."

You swallowed hard but said nothing.

You're not too far gone.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

As if like some sort of phantom, your knees had begun to itch like they used to after mass all those years ago. For the first few days, you tried to ignore it, writing it off as poison ivy or not bathing for a few weeks, but even when you’d scratch, the itch would remain. You came to realize that this wasn’t something you could write off; this wasn’t something that hadn’t been caused by anything other than . . . you.

A few nights ago, you’d killed a man. You’d ripped out his throat with his teeth, and for a second too long, you’d enjoyed it. Now . . . now you wondered just how deep your guilt ran. Now you wondered if given the chance, would you do it again?

But you already knew the answer.

Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .

And you tried to ignore it. Honest, you did, but his screams; how easy it was to bite into his flesh; the bitter taste of metallic blood on your tongue which oddly tasted too similar to honey; the life in his eyes quickly dissipating as you towered over him like a predator to its prey; all of it kept playing in your head over and over again. You couldn’t escape it, not even when night came and you were forced to close your eyes.

His face was always there.

Sometimes you wondered if any of it had actually happened. Sometimes you wondered if none of this was real or if you even were. Sometimes you wondered if this man had been Death; if the tales your town preached had been real and this was your test.

Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.

And you knew you had.

At night, you could hear your mother whispering prayers under her breath, pleading to the heavens that she and her daughter would be spared. And every time, you knew which daughter she meant. Every time you knew she was praying to be spared from you. Every time you knew it was you who she feared the most in this world. And every time you wondered if one day he’d finally answer her prayers.

You couldn’t even blame her, because a few nights ago you’d done the one thing you’d never thought you’d have to do—kill a man. You knew you were some kind of fucked for that alone.

Then, last night, you began to wonder if this was how your father had felt. You began to wonder if this was why he was dead and not you. You wondered if he’d done it to save you, and to put himself out of his own misery.

And then you began to pray, too. You’d stopped believing in God years ago, but it was an old habit that you sometimes indulged in for some sick kind of comfort. And this time, in the dead of night, you’d shut your eyes and beg for your father’s ghost to return to you. You begged for just one more minute. One more minute and he could tell you how to deal with this; how to survive this, too, just as he had taught you how to endure everything else.

But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.

Your father was gone, and it was all your fault. Guilt was your ghost, not him.

He would still be here if you hadn't—

"Mom thinks you've been possessed by the devil," your little sister's voice brought you out of your mind.

You blinked once. Then, you glanced down at her, taking note of her skeptical eyes and furrowed brows. It was almost as if she were inspecting your face, trying to decipher if you, her older sister, really were possessed as your mother had claimed.

It had been the first time your sister had spoken to you in the past week. The four of you had been walking through the woods, steering clear of the main roads ever since you’d come into contact with that man—the man whose blood you could still taste on your tongue.

She’d taken to walking hand-in-hand with your mother, just a few feet behind you and Felix as the two of you led the way into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going. You never did. That was the thing about the end of the world—the only thing that mattered was surviving day by day. There was no end-point.

But today while you led the group through the woods, eyes searching for any rodents or small animals to capture for food, your head stuck in the past, your sister had taken the chance to walk into step with you. And those . . . those had been her choice of words.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And now with the world a ghost of itself, you thought perhaps maybe your mother could be right. You’d changed. The world had changed you. The old taste of blood on your tongue was evidence enough of that.

You’d killed a man. You’d ripped out a chunk of his jugular with your teeth and plunged the very knife in your belt into his flesh over and over again until you were sure he couldn’t do more harm.

Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .

. . . You’d still killed a man.

You’d actually taken a life.

(You weren’t expecting it to haunt you this much. But it had. You could still see his face, hear his voice, smell him, feel him. He was still very much alive in your mind, haunting you like a ghost.

It didn’t matter if he was more monster than man . . . you had still killed him. You had still taken a life without a second thought. His evils didn’t matter . . . guilt still seeped in.)

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And maybe you had been.

That would’ve been easier to fathom.

But instead of voicing these thoughts aloud, you adjusted your backpack on your shoulders, touched a finger to the knife tucked into your belt to make sure it was still there and tightened your grip on your father’s shotgun in your hand before you finally spoke.

"Mom's off her meds," was all you offered. It was all you could say. And it hadn’t been what your sister was searching for.

Your sister stepped back, allowing you to walk alone. You knew you were losing her. You knew she barely trusted you now just as your mother stopped considering you a daughter.

And you couldn’t blame them.

The end of the world brought out who people truly were, and you were someone not worth saving.

The sun had begun to set when you finally declared you’d be stopping for the night. It wasn’t a solid resting place, which meant another night of no sleep on your part, but that didn’t bother you much anymore. All that mattered was there were no signs of the dead, no low groans in the distance, no immediate danger, and the small creek running just a few meters from your camp would provide just enough for you to wet your face and clean any dried blood from your skin. That was what mattered—a temporary sanctuary.

Felix had taken to accompanying your little sister to the creek, while your mother gathered small twigs and broken branches to add to the fire you had just started. But your eyes never stopped watching your little sister, keeping an eye on her to ensure no danger would reach her or Felix while you were occupied.

That was your only concern. Your second was food. There had to be some crawfish lingering in the creek that you could fry up. That was your second concern right after the fire was steady enough to last until nightfall.

With a soft sigh, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from your sister’s smiling face. You tried to ignore how she smiled at Felix while he splashed water at her. You tried to ignore the soft laughter you could still hear as you stabbed at the fire with a branch. You tried to ignore the thought that she’d never look at you like that; never laugh like that with you; never trust you like that again.

You tried to ignore how you had become more of a loose end your family needed to tie off, than a daughter or an older sister.

But you couldn’t. The thought was always there. There it would remain, you were sure of it.

Clenching your jaw, you added the branch in your hand to the fire, watching it crackle under the embers. And for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you were to reach forward and let the flames lick your fingertips.

Had he felt like this, too?

Had your father had these thoughts before he died for you?

Did he ever wonder if—

“You’re just like him, you know?” your mother nearly whispered, tearing you from your mind as she set down the pile of branches she had collected.

You glanced at her once, then glared into the fire. “Is that supposed to hurt me?”

She shook her head only once. “It should scare you,” she clarified, standing to her feet so she could tower over you once again. “God’s plan—”

“God’s plan?” you immediately spat out with a humorous scoff, now standing to your feet as well. You were taller than her now, unlike when you were a kid; unlike when you used to do everything she told you; unlike when she still considered you her daughter. “What does God’s plan have to do with my father?”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “He has protected us this far. He couldn’t save your father. I’m worried if you continue down this path, he won’t be able to save you either,” she muttered back as she clutched the cross around her neck as if she thought it would ward you off like you had become one of the evils she’d warn you about when you were just a girl.

But you were no longer small; you were no longer moldable by her hand, and now, you were only made of anger. “You think God’s the reason we’re alive?” you questioned her, eyes narrowing into slits.

Your mother remained silent but clutched her cross harder. And you knew what that meant.

Your eyes flicked from her hand to her face. Then, you took a step forward, chin jutted out. “Is it God who kills so we can eat? Is it God who got us here, to this point? Is it God who holds dad’s gun?” you bit out as you touched a hand to your chest. “God doesn’t have a fucking plan.” You drilled a finger into your chest, your angry eyes never leaving hers. “I do. And God couldn’t save dad because it was supposed to be—”

But your words halted in your throat. You couldn’t admit it to her. You couldn’t tell her you were the reason behind your father’s death. It didn’t matter if she already knew. You just . . . you just couldn’t admit it to her face.

“God doesn't fucking exist,” you muttered out instead, turning away from her. “And if he did, he’s sure as hell dead now.”

“Your father filled your head with lies.”

You turned back to her, eyes glaring into hers. “Bullshit,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was the only one who ever told me the truth.”

Ignoring your words, she took a step away from you, her hand remaining on the cross around her neck. "Your father . . . I knew he was deeply flawed when I married him, but I just figured he’d change. I figured he’d see the way, instead he only got worse, but he knew when to control it. He knew right from wrong,” she went on, her voice steady, but her eyes had begun to water. And you knew tears would come, and when they did, you’d leave to kill the crawfish. "But, you, honey . . . I don't know where we went wrong with you. It's like you came out of the womb defective. You got all the bad traits of your father and nothing else. I look at you and I see this angry little girl. And, you know, sometimes I ask myself how in the world we managed to raise a daughter who is even more deeply flawed than her bastard father, but I never seem to know the answer."

There were the tears now.

But along with it came a knife in your chest that kept twisting and twisting the more she spoke.

Twist the knife, and she did.

"There's something wrong with you,” she whispered again after a moment’s silence, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You frighten me.”

Twist the knife, and you refused to pull it out.

This was what you deserved.

Still, you didn’t cry, not for yourself. Never for yourself. Instead, you continued to stare at her with no emotion in your eyes as you muttered, “Talking ill of the dead is a sin, remember?” And then you began to turn.

But your mother’s hand landed firmly around your arm. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl,” she warned, her words sharper than the knife she’d twisted into your chest.

Swallowing hard, you sucked on your teeth. “What else do you want me to say?” you questioned, but didn’t bother to turn and face her. “I have nothing else to give you, mom.”

She released your arm as if you’d burned her and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion for a mere second before you realized what she meant; before you realized what you’d said; what you’d done. It was an honest mistake, as well. You hadn’t called her that in so long, and yet it still came out. You hadn’t meant to say it, but it still came out as if you were still small and thought the whole world was in her arms.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked, your voice quieter now as you took a step back. “If not mom, then what should your daughter call you? Hmm? Or is the answer nothing? Is that what we are to each other now? Will that make God come down from the heavens and give us salvation? . . . If you abandon me?”

Your mother remained silent.

And you knew her answer.

Sucking on your teeth, you nodded in acceptance. “What?” you spoke in a whisper as you took another step back. “Am I not being loud enough for him?” You outstretched your hands at your sides, gesturing to the heavens. “Should I scream it? Will he finally fucking answer then?”

“Stupid girl—” your mother quickly scolded, grabbing you firmly by the arm— “don’t you dare put this family in danger,”

But you only tilted your head in question. “Does that include me?”

Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”

“This family,” you reiterated. “Am I a part of this family?”

Once again, she remained silent.

But you knew the truth.

“God’s plan as long as I’m out of the picture, right?” you muttered under your breath, swallowing hard once again. “At least we finally agree.”

Then, you were tearing your arm out of her grasp, but you didn’t move, you didn’t even look away from her. Instead, you kept still. You kept your eyes locked with hers as if breaking that eye contact would sever the final string holding the two of you together. She didn’t speak either, and she refused to move. She wouldn’t move first. You knew that. She’d always been that way. So had you . . .

And when you were sure the world had begun to rot around you, you could have sworn her bottom lip quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something . . . anything. Only, when her lips parted a mere sliver, a shrill scream sounded from behind, and the perpetual darkness of your world crept back in through your peripheral vision.

Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.

It happened too quickly for you to think.

Beat. Beat.

You heard the scream and you knew your sister was in trouble.

Beat.

Without a second thought, you dropped everything and ran toward the scream; toward the creek; toward your sister. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough for you to catch sight of two of the dead. One Felix fought off, while trying to grab his knife from his belt. The other had found its way to your sister, pinning her to the forest floor as she thrashed and screamed, her weak limbs desperately trying to keep the thing from sinking its teeth into her flesh.

And you knew what to do.

For a brief second longer, there was screaming. Then the squelch of a knife being plunged through a skull. Then nothing.

The world faded away. No noise. No people. No nothing.

One. Two. Three seconds, then the world started to return.

Breathing heavily, you watched carefully as your mother rushed past you, tearing the dead corpse off your sister and holding her closer . . . closer than she’d ever held you. Your nose twitched for a mere second as your gaze shifted from your mother and sister staring at you in shock ((?) no, maybe it was horror) to the stilled corpse, and finally to the bloodied knife gripped tightly in your hand.

You’d killed that thing, yes. But you hadn’t even thought about it. You hadn’t stopped to think that this thing was once a person. You hadn’t even seen it as such, unlike your mother; unlike what the town had tried to drill into your head during Pestilence’s reign. And . . . you could see that realization in your mother’s eyes.

. . . You were getting worse.

Your legs had begun to weaken at the thought, but you quickly stabled yourself, afraid they’d see it as another sign to put you down like the violent dog you knew they saw you to be. Instead, you tore your gaze from the knife in your hand and met your mother’s eyes once again (but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet your sister’s tearful stare). “Tell me, mo—” you quickly stopped the word from tumbling from your tongue, then went on— “is this still what God’s plan looks like to you?”

But your mother didn’t reply, and you didn’t wait for her to. You could barely stand to hold her gaze for a second longer. Instead, you wiped the blood from your knife on your pants, shoved it back into your belt, and turned, walking back to the fire you had begun to make minutes before.

And as you walked, you took note of the silence which followed you. You took note of how even Felix hesitated slightly before he followed after you. You took note of how your mother and sister sat near that creek for a few minutes longer and didn’t bother to wander after you as if you were no longer their blood.

The final string tying your family together had begun to wear thinner. You wondered when it would finally snap. You wondered how long it would take for a violent dog to succumb to its instincts; how long it would take you to become the lost cause you knew you were destined to be.

Would they make the decision to put you down then?

Four days. Two sleepless nights. And one squirrel shared between the four of you. You felt a fever coming on a couple days ago. You saw the infected cuts from the fight with that man. You knew your body was weakening day by day.

If you didn’t stop soon, you’d sure become one of the dead.

But you tried your best to ignore it. You had to.

Your mother; however, remained hopeful (of course). You could hear her chattering on to your sister throughout the day while you watched the world.

According to her, no one really knew why the Horsemen came to earth. She claimed the world needed saving from certain people (what you were sure she was leaving out was the fact that she was convinced you were one of these people). So, she went on and on and on, and you quietly listened, too, because you were still a girl who used to kneel in church, after all; because you could still feel the bruises on your knees; because you could still see the scars left behind from the scabs.

So, you listened, but you did not believe.

The world was fucked and needed cleansing. People were inherently bad and God saw no other way for salvation (apparently) than to send his four loyal Horsemen to destroy Earth and its people. . . . Well . . . supposedly. You knew the truth; however. There were no Horsemen. There was just death. Something had gone wrong and no one really knew what, so they blamed it on some higher power.

Whatever.

(Supposedly) Pestilence had been a shadow. War had wanted an audience. The world fell before you could get a proper grasp on Famine. And now Death was here. He’d been walking the earth for two years now, and still no one knew why.

Just like the town, your mother had her theories. And while she believed this God was still on your side, still searching for the good in humanity, you thought him fucked up. The human race was just his playthings.

He’d made sure there was nothing left.

Hell, you knew there wasn’t even a god. The world was just fucked. The end.

Point blank: it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.

Survival was all that mattered.

Everything else was fucked.

And as you continued to lead the way into nothingness, listening to your mother’s ramblings about the Bible, all you could do was ignore how your knees had begun to itch once again, while you focused on one thought: survive, survive, survive. But . . . not for yourself . . . for them.

Survive long enough for them.

For your father.

For your sister.

For your mother.

For Felix.

For them.

By sundown, Felix managed to find an abandoned warehouse for the night. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sleeping out in the wild. Perhaps all of you could get some shuteye that night. Sure, luckily it was around Fall or maybe just before where it was still warm, but sleeping on logs wasn’t ideal. (Not that you could be picky. Not that you were.)

But, just your luck, sleep never found you.

Beside you, Felix softly snored, laying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting in your lap. Your hand found its way to his dark waves, gently scratching his scalp as he slept. It brought you peace where you normally had none.

Sometimes you wondered when Felix would finally realize the monster you’d become. You wondered what it would take. How many more people would you kill for them in order for him to look at you as if you were a stranger?

You didn’t want to see that day come.

It’d already come for your mother the day your father died. Then for your sister when you’d butchered that man. You couldn’t bear living through Felix’s realization.

With a sigh, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes landing on your mother’s sleeping figure as your little sister curled up into her side, miles away in her dreams. You hoped it was better there; that her dreams were still pure and innocent despite the world.

You tore your eyes from them a second later, instead opting to glance out the large opening in the warehouse where a window used to be. The world was so bleak now. Even the sight of the empty lands before your eyes stirred nothing within you. It was just so . . . distant.

Nothing was left.

Truly.

Reluctantly, you shut your eyes, trying your hardest to drift off into sleep, but the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat kept you up. You were getting worse. You squeezed your eyes tighter, hoping this fever would subside soon. The world was darker now, the nothingness intensifying. You weren’t even sure if you could sleep anymore. Had you been? You couldn’t remember.

But just when you were sure sleep wouldn’t greet you that night, forcing you to keep watch, you could’ve sworn you heard an inhuman howl echo throughout the darkness beyond.

Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Another howl echoed throughout the air. But this was no howl from a wolf or even a beast.

You’d heard stories from survivors in the towns you’d passed through in the two years Death had taken his reign over your lands. You’d heard the stories of Death and his steed. His steed, pale in color similar to a corpse, was rumored to have this cry.

The cry was no ordinary cry. Death’s steed cried similar to a wolf or rather a beast, hungry for blood. It was a war cry—a warning sign.

Of course, Death was not real and there was no horse with their cry. No, you knew what this was. You’d heard these cries in smaller amounts. You’d heard these cries as you plunged your knife into each undead’s brain, killing the parasite living within. And a howl like this only meant one thing—a hoard.

You swallowed hard.

Death was near.

You’d thought the undead didn’t hoard unless . . .

The man.

Your eyes widened.

The night the man had attacked your group, you had managed to hotwire a car. That had been your plan. You were going to use that car to get your group farther and safer. But because of that man . . . because of what you’d done to him, you’d accidentally popped one of the tires in the process, forcing your group to stay the night in those woods when you should’ve been on the road.

And his screams . . .

You’d slowed down and made yourself known, and now they were following the noise.

And . . . it was all your fault.

You exhaled a shaky breath.

Death was coming.

Immediately, you swung into action, quietly waking Felix up. His eyes questioned yours before he, too, heard the war cry.

Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.

The two of you silently awoke your mother and sister, Felix informing them of the matter they had on your hands, while you gathered your father’s shotgun, crouching near the window for a better look. If they were near . . . how near?

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you could still run. You could still get everyone out if you ran. It could work—

But then you saw it.

In the distance, you caught sight of the undead as they cried, following each other.

You checked the gun’s chamber, removing and reloading the cartridges just to make sure they were in place in case you were forced to fire. Your grip tightened and loosened, and you could hear Felix whispering your name, but your eyes were transfixed on the hoard up ahead.

Death was here. So close. Too close.

They couldn’t see you now, couldn’t hear you, but . . . if you ran, they’d catch sight of you. They’d kill your family. They’d kill Felix. They’d kill you all.

There was no way you could outrun the hoard. Not when they were this close; not when they could smell you; hear your every breath.

Fuck.

You wanted to scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your father had trusted you. They all had. And now you were going to let another person down all because you’d been stupid one night. You’d fucked all of you.

“Snap out of it,” Felix whispered, his hand on your shoulder. “Ideas?”

You could only shake your head.

Felix swore, running his hands through his hair. "There's no way," he nearly gasped at his words. "Fuck."

You swore you felt your heart drop as you slumped against the wall. They were going to die. Because of you.

There was no way out; no way any of you would make it past the hoard without them noticing. The moment they saw any of you, they’d follow you until they could get their teeth into your flesh. And while you had no care for your own life, you still had care for theirs—the people you'd sworn to protect.

Your father had died for all of you. He knew it wasn't safe, and he still went out. He'd traded his life for yours. He'd made you swear to protect your mother and your little sister, and along the way, you'd sworn to not only keep them safe but to keep Felix from harm. You'd sworn that, and you were not one to fall back on your word.

There was no way out together. But . . . there was one way out.

You knew what that meant.

This was what your father would've wanted. This was what he would've done; what he had done.

It was always going to turn out this way. You'd known that.

And in that moment, you accepted that. After all, you'd always been told you were your father's daughter.

This was how you made things right.

You nodded at your thoughts.

Then, you felt your eyes burn, your brows scrunching in confusion. Wetness slipped down your cheek and you briefly touched a finger to the tear, finding you were crying. You hadn’t cried in so long.

Angrily, you wiped the tears away. You didn’t get to cry.

This had been your fault in the first place. This was how you made it right. You didn’t get to cry. You didn’t.

So you sent one last glare at the hoard up ahead, then turned to Felix. Fuck. He would be the one in charge now. You trusted him, yes, but you knew how heavy that burden was. That was what you would regret the most—putting Felix through this agony, too.

Still: "Little bird," you whispered.

Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.

You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.

"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore."

Felix exhaled with a strained choke, his eyes widening in realization. "No," he rushed out, shaking his head as his soft brown eyes searched yours. "No." His hand enclosed around the one you'd touched to his cheek. "Don't. Don't."

You knew what he meant. Don't be the hero.

But that wasn't his decision to make. You had debts to pay; people to protect.

Living had never been something you wanted in a world like this. Sometimes you felt like a ghost; when the world was quiet and your heart beat a little slower—you felt like one of the many corpses you'd passed by on the daily.

Years ago, you promised your father you'd take over his job and protect. You'd never wanted to live, but you had forced yourself. Back then, you made a promise to yourself—you had to stay alive, not for yourself, but for them; you had to stay alive for the one you had lost. And you'd upheld that promise, but now . . . in order to save them, you had to break it.

You knew this.

Felix did, too.

He rested his forehead against yours. "Please. Don't. It's supposed to be you and me."

Your eyes squeezed shut. "I'm the reason he's dead."

The two of you knew what you meant. This was how you repaid him; how you repaid your father.

"Then let me do it," Felix muttered, hand dropping from yours to grasp the shotgun in your other hand.

You were quick to rip it from his hold. "It was always going to turn out this way," was all you said, and he knew what you meant.

The sound of the cries coming closer made you spring back from him. Your head swiveled, taking in your surroundings as your hands found their rightful place on the shotgun. Your eyes briefly found your little sister's—her round eyes wide with fright, only furthering your decision. You knew doing this for them, for her.

"Fine," you heard Felix hiss in a quiet whisper. "But I'm coming with you."

Your head snapped to him. "Like hell you are."

"You don't get to die."

"Neither do you."

"Then I guess we have a predicament."

Your eyes softened. "Lix."

His brows pinched together. "You don't get to die."

And you almost felt yourself smile. "Little birds are meant to fly," you hummed. Little birds are meant to fly; they aren't meant to die.

He shook his head.

You swallowed hard.

The cries grew closer, and your heart raced. You were out of time. This was your last goodbye.

You gripped his hand. "Protect them."

He latched onto your shoulders. “No. No. I’m not ready. Don’t make me say goodbye to you.”

Against your will, your bottom lip trembled. “It’s not.”

But it was. You both knew that.

Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”

“See you later, little bird,” you hummed, weakly, kissing his forehead before you tore yourself from him. And he reached for you, begging you to stay.

But . . . no amount of pleas could change your mind. You were already moving before Felix could stop you. You didn’t have the heart to glance back at your sister or your mother. You never wanted to live in a world like this, but if you looked back, you feared you might’ve found salvation in their eyes. You couldn’t put them through that. You’d put them through enough.

You worked quickly. You had to. For them.

The quiet cries of the hoard approached, moving slowly. You kept your eyes on their figures, stealthily stepping down the creaky stairs to the bottom floor. From there, you moved to the woods surrounding the area. You quickly crouched down in the dark forest, clutching the shotgun even tighter. This was your father’s, now it was yours, and you were going to use it to save your family.

You weren’t naive enough to think that you could actually kill all of them. But that didn’t matter. You were solely supposed to be a distraction. You would fire that damned shotgun at those things over and over again, not caring if it even did any damage. You just needed to keep their attention long enough to get them to follow you in the opposite direction. That would allow your family to escape. That was all you intended to do.

You knew there was no surviving this. And you were fine with that.

Death didn’t scare you. Not yours, anyway.

So you hunkered down, hands clutched on the shotgun as you waited for the hoard to get near enough to strike.

You heard them before you saw them. The cries echoed throughout the dark night, making your heart pound faster. It became louder and louder, so loud you felt yourself start to tense, and then the first came into view.

It came to a gentle halt, almost as if it had been expecting you. But that couldn’t be. It hadn’t seen you. You were still in the clear.

Still, you watched, remembering the lessons on hunting that your father had taught you. This was how you hunted—quiet, hidden, and alert.

The creature tilted its head back, eyes closed as the moonlight cascaded across its pale face. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you watched it, tilting your head to the side. It was almost as if it were basking in the moonlight, soaking up the feeling of the satellite shining down on it. And then you realized what it was doing: sniffing you out.

Behind it, the world was bleak as the rest of those damned creatures sauntered forward. The trees seemed to sag, the grass stale, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Every step they took, decay followed.

And then they began to move . . . toward the warehouse where your family still resided.

Your jaw ticked as you raised the shotgun. Your father’s instructions rang through your ears and you lined up the barrel, aiming at one of the creature’s chests as it was perhaps the only part of it you had direct access to. You were certain the impact wouldn’t kill it, you were almost certain it wouldn’t even hurt it, but . . . it would distract it, and that was all you needed.

Last week, you killed a man. You ripped out his jugular with your teeth. You’d slaughtered him. So this, killing this entity shouldn’t have made your stomach churn, but it did.

Your world was gone. Death remained. And it was all his doing.

Still . . . still, your finger hesitated on the trigger.

You would die tonight . . . by its hand, no doubt. And perhaps that scared you. Perhaps a part of you truly didn’t want to die. But you dumbed down this hesitation to just pure fear.

Fear that those things would find your family after disposing of your body; fear they’d kill them; fear all of this would be for nothing.

You swallowed hard and adjusted your grip on the gun. You had to try. Your life for theirs. It was that or you all died tonight, and you wouldn’t have that, not after all you had done; all you had put them through.

All you had to do was pull the trigger. And yet . . . you still hesitated.

Fuck. You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw as your heart hammered in your chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And as your eyes remained closed, you heard their voices then.

You're not too far gone.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

There’s something wrong with you. You frighten me.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Your breath hitched. You have to grow up. And you had. Too quickly you now realized. It was always going to end up this way.

This was the only way to save them. The only way.

Your eyes snapped open, catching sight of the creatures still sniffing the air like they could just smell your terror. You sucked in a breath, then pulled the trigger. Exhale.

The ringing in your ears was almost immediate and the explosive sound echoed throughout the silent night. You barely even noticed the shotgun’s kickback, too focused on the creatures before you, watching with wide eyes as the pellets hit one of the things, knocking it entirely to the ground.

The others cried out, their noses no longer needing to be depended on as their eyes searched for the origin of the noise. And then you caught the eye of one, and you knew it was the end.

You faltered at the sight, stumbling backward as you tripped on a root, causing your body to hit the ground. A low groan escaped you before you could stop yourself.

Fuck.

Had that been too loud?

Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly glanced up, eyes landing on the creatures. More eyes stared back at you, hungry with . . . something as a few had begun to make their way toward you.

You swallowed hard.

Death itself had seen you.

Acting fast, you hastily grabbed the shotgun. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up, but you needed to buy your family more time. You needed to end this.

And end it you would.

You clutched the shotgun tightly in your hand and sat up, groaning slightly when you felt a sharp pain in your ankle. But still, you went on.

Remembering your father’s teachings, you knew what a machine was good for at the end of its reign: making a lot of fucking noise.

And so with a heavy heart and angry tears pricking your eyes . . . you belted out a loud yell.

There was no hiding now. They had all heard you. And that was all that mattered to them.

“Come on, you fuckers!” you took it a step further as you yelled at them, clanking the butt of your gun on a tree to make as much noise as you could. And then, when you heard their cries echo with yours; when you saw one turn to two turn to ten following you into the woods, you knew it was time.

With a fleeting look at the warehouse where your family still resided, you fought back the urge to crawl into yourself and let that anger you’d been holding inside yourself for years now finally just . . . snap. You didn’t know if you fired the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads first or ran off further into the woods, still screaming. You didn’t know the present from the past, but you did know you couldn’t look back.

And so, you let yourself be loud, screaming for yourself, for the people you’d lost, for the people you’d never see again, for your father. You yelled and yelled, racing through the woods as they all quickly followed after you, releasing cries of their own.

The world fell behind you in those moments, time moving in slow motion as you weaved through the dark woods, your feet bounding off the ground as if you were in zero gravity. Sound evaded your senses, only the muffled noises of your rapid breathing could be heard echoing in your ears.

But you just kept running, letting the world escape you. Even when you’d trip over hidden roots, your knees buckling as you fell to the ground, surely bruising and cutting up your skin, you persisted each time. Like your father’s daughter, you pulled yourself to your feet each time, sparing a glance over your shoulder only to be met with the sight of the hoard getting nearer and nearer. And every time, you’d force yourself to swallow the bile crawling up your throat before you cocked your shotgun and fired into the hoard, taking off screaming for them to follow after you.

This was the end, and you planned to gather as much of them away from the warehouse and closer to you. You knew it would hurt, but you didn’t care. Their teeth ripping into your flesh would never be a match for the sins you’d committed in this lifetime. That was why you met every dead that got in your path with a lethal hit from the butt of your shotgun and a silent prayer that your damned soul could be traded for the safety of your family.

You were sure you would have continued running had your foot not slammed into a divot in the ground, twisting your ankle with such force that you hit the ground instantly, crying out in pain. And this time when you tried to stand to your feet, you realized the pain was too much to stand.

It hit you then.

Beat.

This really was the end.

You couldn’t run.

Beat.

The hoard was gaining on you.

This was the end.

Beat.

Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, shutting your eyes as you realized what you needed to do. Clutching your father’s shotgun close to your chest, so close it nearly touched your heart, your lips parted, and a scream bubbled up your throat, ripping through your vocal cords as it echoed throughout the dead of night.

But before you could inhale and breathe out another war cry of your own to match theirs, a hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. Another hand was gripping your arm the next second, pulling you off the ground and shoving your back against the nearest tree.

Your eyes shot open, dropping your shotgun as your hands instinctively clasped around the wrist of the hand covering your mouth. Deep dark eyes stared back at you, a sense of urgency in them as you realized what was going on.

It happened so fast, too fast for you to process. But you quickly realized the eyes belonged to a man not much older than you. Dark eyes. Full lips. Sculpted nose. It was your first time seeing a man other than Felix . . . other than the one you’d gutted . . . in a long time.

What was he doing?

But you couldn’t ponder long as his eyes twisted to the scene behind you, and you could’ve sworn you felt his heart beat faster against your lips where his hand still lay. And at that sight, he kicked into action.

“You listen to me. We have a few seconds before those fuckers are at our throats,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice deep and controlled, but you could sense the fear on him. It was different from yours. “When I tell you, you run as fast as you fucking can in that direction and you don’t stop. You follow me and you don’t get lost or you’re dead.” His hand fell from your mouth as he began hastily digging through the pack over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You skipped a beat, not answering.

His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.

But you only blinked.

You didn’t want to be saved.

No, he couldn’t do this. It was your time. This was your punishment. He couldn’t—

Your thoughts were cut short as he pulled something out of his pack, and you quickly realized a grenade now sat in his hand. Your eyes widened. He was going to—

“Run,” he bit out, an order.

And it all happened so fast.

You stayed put.

He turned from you, quickly pulling the pin and chucking the grenade as fast and hard as he could from your location. You watched the weapon soar, your heartbeat stilling in your throat as the seconds of anticipation crept upon you.

Beat.

Be—

A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the hoard following after the explosion. But you wouldn’t do this. You had accepted your death. You wouldn’t—

Your feet weren’t moving of your own volition. The world had fallen away from you, you realized, but as you turned your head away from the hoard you realized it was the man who was dragging you away from the scene. You realized in your daze, that he must have locked his grip onto your arm and took off running, dragging you along with him despite your injured ankle and dormant mind.

And for some reason, despite the urge to fall to the ground and let yourself fade away, you allowed him to drag you further and further into the woods. You didn’t realize just how much land you had covered until the sound of the hoard was so far, that he’d begun to slow down ever so slightly. You didn’t realize until the woods turned into sparse grassland, until the sight of what appeared to be a latched roof to an underground bunker of some sort. You’d heard of shelters like these, but you’d never seen one. You always just assumed the military had covered it all up, leaving people to die while they sat safely under the barren earth.

Your mind raced with a million thoughts, but you could barely see straight let alone think right as you allowed this man to drag you to the entrance. Hell, you allowed him to shove you inside, as you crawled down the ladder in the tunnel. It was a subconscious action, honest. Otherwise, you would’ve begged him to leave you outside to die. But there was no breath for begging as he followed in after you, shutting the hatch and twisting it closed to ensure it was tightly locked.

And when your feet finally met the metal flooring of the inside, you stepped back in shock.

As you had predicted, this was a government bunker. A rather large one at that. You swallowed hard. Fuck.

And when you turned around, your eyes searching the area, you were met with the scene of a group of survivors staring back at you in confusion. People. And they were alive. You hadn’t seen so many people since before Famine.

What the fuck?

But before you could react, something hard cracked over the back of your head, throbbing pain followed. The darkness seeped in instantly, your mind losing control of your body as you smacked the ground, eyes fluttering as you faded in and out of consciousness.

There it was, you realized.

Your punishment.

You were going to die.

And you couldn’t help but allow yourself one last selfish look because maybe there was still a small part of you that wanted to be alive. But that part could only live if things were normal again, if things were the way they had been before the world died. Still, that part of you took over and you watched silently, your vision fading in and out as you caught a glimpse of those dark eyes that had saved you, just moments before the world faded into darkness.

The next time your eyes fluttered open, a metal ceiling stared back at you.

There was a throbbing in your head, searing through your thoughts, and your shotgun was nowhere to be found. You released a soft groan, trying to shift in your spot, but you were met with resistance. You tugged and tugged, but your body didn’t budge.

In confusion, you glanced around, finding yourself on a medical bed, your hands tied together with rope, attaching you to the bed. This didn’t make sense. You hadn’t seen a bed in months maybe a year now. This didn’t make sense. Where were you? How did you—

And then . . . then the memories all faded in.

The warehouse. The man. The shots. The hoard.

This was Death’s doing.

The town had warned you of this and you’d denied it. You still didn’t believe. You couldn’t. God was dead and the Horsemen were just a figment of fearmongering. But for a second, you wanted to believe. For that second you were strapped to that bed, you wanted to believe that this was your purgatory and Death was punishing you. That would be easier: if you believed.

Death was an entity; one you had no idea about. There was no knowing what exactly he could and couldn’t do. And this . . . being bound to a medical bed with not even a soul to be heard felt utterly ordinary if he did exist, considering what you did know about this dark being.

But . . . why were you still alive?

Slowly, you lifted your head, groaning at the pain that followed as you assessed the rest of your body. You were alive. Cuts and bruises everywhere, but you could still inhale, exhale, breathe. You could still hear the beat of your heart if you closed your eyes and focused. You were alive.

You were alive.

Your jaw twitched. “I’m alive,” you whispered to yourself, a bitter taste left on your tongue. “I”m . . . alive.”

And for a second, you truly allowed yourself to believe Death existed. You allowed yourself that he had done this to you; that the two years he’d reigned all led up to this very moment. You allowed yourself to believe that he had kept you alive because suffering was for the living.

Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?

Swallowing hard, you glared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. If you prayed, would he give in? Would he end this suffering? Would he finally give you your punishment?

Your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder as the sound of a door opening brought you out of your repenting. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, carrying a bowl in one hand and a washcloth in the other. You watched as he let himself in, still not looking up while he closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh and finally . . . glanced up, meeting your gaze.

Him.

The man.

Slowly, your face softened as confusion consumed you. Him. He had done this to you. He had been the one to lead you here. (He’d also been the one to save you . . . ) He had knocked you out cold. And now . . . now here he was.

You clenched your jaw hard.

The man just stared a minute longer at you, his gaze stern, cold, calculating. Then, he was walking toward you, resting the bowl on the bedside table beside your head before he reached forward and tapped a finger to your chin, tilting your head so he could analyze the wounds on your face.

And you let him, analyzing his actions, preparing for his next.

“You’re awake,” was all he simply said as he dropped your chin and diverted his attention to the bowl on the bedside table. “Sorry about the blow and the rope . . . it’s . . . protocol.”

But you remained silent, watching.

"Your stunt back there . . . could’ve cost us this entire place," he muttered, his voice calm and controlled but you knew he was seething inside. He remained quiet as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of what seemed to be warm water before he turned to you once again, his eyes lethal. "Screaming only attracts more of them, don’t you know? If you wanted to die, you should’ve just stayed put.”

You swallowed thickly.

There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.

"There's always someone like you," he continued, his eyes racking up and down your body in a menacing glare before the warm touch of a washcloth to your cheek startled a quiet gasp out of your lips. "Someone who ends up surviving longer than they should have." A scoff left him. "Someone who doesn’t care who dies for them as long as they get out unscathed. Did you even think there might be other survivors around before you took off attracting all of those things? If there were children? Families? People who survive together and want to stay alive without running into someone like you?”

And you hadn’t.

You never thought yourself to be stupid or any of the sort. You hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been enough time. You just needed to do something so your family could make it out alive. You hadn’t thought that there could be others. You hadn’t thought that saving your family could damn another.

Had your mother been right about you?

Were you really just a stupid girl? A stupid girl playing hero?

The man pulled a chair from the corner of the room, and placed it beside your bed, sitting on it as he dragged the washcloth down your arms now. His touch was somehow gentle despite his glare. Perhaps it was because no one had touched you so gently in so long. Perhaps it was because you had given up, but you let him clean the wounds on your body as you rested your head back onto the pillow, your muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly.

"No?" he questioned, reiterating his accusation. “In my experience, people like you don’t find themselves in trouble like that unless they’re planning something.”

You remained expressionless as you watched him, taking in his words. He thought you’d lured the dead here, and for what? Looting? Or just plain insanity?

Had you really become that corrupt even a stranger could sense it on you?

Slowly, you blinked, wondering if your father had ever felt this way before his death. And as you wondered, the man beside you continued cleaning your wounds, but this time, remained silent. Maybe he realized you wouldn’t answer. Or maybe he already knew the truth about you and your damned soul.

And as the minutes of silence ticked on, you did your own inspection.

Now, under the light, the man sat beside you, his eyes fixed on meticulously cleaning each wound with care despite his lethal words. It had been so long since you’d seen another man like this; a man that had to be around your age; a man so young yet so riddled with age. His dark hair was slightly curly, more tangled and messy than anything as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark circles under his equally dark eyes were enough to show his evident sleep deprivation. And yet, he seemed almost too alert: his full lips were hidden as his teeth worried his bottom lip while he continued to clean the blood from your skin.

(You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t beautiful; so beautiful it almost made you believe in God once more.)

And for a second, you let yourself wonder what else your mother had been right about. You let yourself believe once again. You let yourself be a girl who could finally kneel in church without bruises being left behind. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she and the town had been right; that this whole thing was God’s plan; that the Horsemen had come; that they could be saved, but you would be condemned.

Then . . . you began to wonder if you had already been. Maybe it was the blow to the head you’d taken or the fever raging through your body or maybe it was the truth, but you began to believe that perhaps this was your purgatory; perhaps you had died in that hoard and you’d been sent here; perhaps the beautiful man beside you was Death himself.

Was this it then? Were you always meant to see him at the end?

Oddly enough, he reminded you of this small dog your sister had found near one of the abandoned houses your family had stayed in over the years. This was during Famine’s rule—when food became sparse, when lands became stale and yellowed; when the dead had only just begun to migrate south. This tiny dog found your younger sister then, and she’d brought it home, leaving you no choice but to care for the little thing.

Your sister had named her Berry. (A few months later you had to put her down; it was what we had to do to survive, you’d told your sister back then. You were sure it was then she first started to hate you.)

And as you stared at Death, taking note of how his eyes were a particular shade of brown, you realized they were the same shade that the silly dog had.

You tilted your head. Death somehow had eyes that were kind; eyes that were warm; eyes that reminded you of Felix. Was that how they planned to transfix you? Was Death meant to be this beautiful; this familiar so you’d go willingly? Had God forgotten you’d already condemned yourself? Had he forgotten you didn’t need to be tricked? Had he forgotten where your prayers resided?

Only a moment later, when you felt his hands running over your torso, did you snap out of your exhaust-ridden daze. You realized quickly he was cleaning the last of your wounds which resided on your ribs. And when he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the bowl without another care before he slowly leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you with scrutinizing eyes.

Death narrowed his gaze, but it wasn’t menacing this time. Rather, he seemed almost perplexed. "Why aren’t you fighting?" he questioned. "You didn’t stop to run before. Why calm your fire now?"

Why aren’t you fighting?

The thing was: it was over. Your fight was over.

Sure, you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Death was painfully beautiful . . . but it went beyond that.

It was surely daylight by now.

Daylight had come, hours had passed, and Death had you in his hold.

By now, Felix had probably taken your mother and sister onto the road again. They’d escaped, and they were miles and miles away from you and Death. They were safe.

So . . . where was your fight?

You didn’t have one anymore. This was the end. Death would either kill you or make you suffer again and again and again, and your family would live. You’d once told yourself that you never wanted to live in a world like this, but you’d kept yourself alive to protect your family. Only now . . . you didn’t need to fight because there wasn’t anyone left for you to protect.

Your fight was over. Maybe you could rest now. Maybe he’d let you.

Death seemed to catch onto the shift in your demeanor as he narrowed his eyes. "Do you not speak?"

For a moment, you considered not replying. Until: "There's no point," you heard yourself say, voice dry and hoarse.

The look on Death’s face was unreadable as his eyes shifted across your face, his mouth slightly parted. "You smell of death," he muttered, gaze still searching your being.

And you almost laughed.

Because this was your end, and Death himself just told you that you smelled like shit or well . . . like him, you supposed . . . apparently.

It all felt a little unreal.

Death must not have liked your silence as he shot you one last glance before he pulled away and walked toward a table on the other side of the room. As he walked, you caught sight of the blood painting his body, his skin, him.

You swallowed hard. You’d brought that hoard to him. He’d fought his way out. You’d caused those wounds, and now he was more than likely going to do worse to you. He’d probably take that scythe you were told he carried and cut your head clean off.

But unlike what you thought, Death sifted through the miscellaneous items on the table before pausing and grabbing a small knife. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched him approach you, knife in hand.

There it was.

This was the end you were promised.

Was he going to slit your throat and leave you to bleed out? Or cut you open so you could see just how dark your heart had become? You wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, you might have even welcomed it. But as he approached you, your eyes closing in anticipation, he did not bring that knife down upon your body. No, instead, with a few quick motions and the sound of the rope being cut, you slowly opened your eyes just as your hands were released from the rope’s grip.

On instinct, you brought your hands close to your chest, rubbing your raw wrists. You couldn’t even speak, you just watched as he kept the knife in his hand but returned back to his position of leaning back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on you.

"You're human," you found yourself uttering as you watched him watch you.

His brows twitched in confusion. "Of course I am.”

But Death couldn’t bleed. . . . Could he?

"You bleed,” you spoke your thoughts, dumbly.

His eyes met yours, but only briefly. "Am I not meant to?" he bit out before his gaze fell back on your hand rubbing your wrist. "Even the dead bleed."

Your confusion only spiraled. This was your end; your purgatory. This was Death, was he not? Your mother had been right. She had to have been right otherwise you were still alive; otherwise, you had managed to escape death once again without so much as a punishment. That wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be just.

This had to be Death. You had to be dead or somewhere in between. It didn’t matter, this just had to be your end.

So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?

Why—

"Why—” Death interrupted your thoughts, once you finally dropped your hand from your wrist— “did you think I couldn’t bleed?"

You glanced his way, finding his eyes already on you.

His stare only unnerved you more.

Why couldn’t he just kill you? You deserved it.

Your brows furrowed. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to play with your food?" you found yourself spitting out, finally finding your voice despite his devasting beauty capturing your words. "I put your lives in danger. I lead them here like you said. I could be with anyone. Having me here could kill you all, so take your revenge. Kill me."

The crease between his brows deepened further. "I'm not letting you die," he simply said, his anger quiet and calm . . . still. “You put my group in harm's way. I won’t pardon you for that . . . but . . . we don’t kill the living.”

That only unnerved you further.

Was this truly Death?

Surely he had killed before.

Although . . . you supposed perhaps he’d only just ever waited. Was that his fault? Waiting for the dead to find him? Is that how he found you in those woods? Is that how he’d taken your arm and helped you crossover to the other side? But . . . if that were true . . . where was your father now? Surely, he would’ve come to see you. Surely, he would’ve been the first one knocking at your door. Surely, he’d be here.

As you briefly wet your lips, your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Where’s my dad?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

A look of deep confusion twisted onto Death’s face, and then he was leaning forward to feel your forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever,” he mumbled more to himself before he pushed himself to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor. “Get some rest. Someone will be in to bandage you up and . . . I’ll be back in a couple hours with medication.” His gaze dropped to the large gash on your arm from just a few nights ago. “When you’re healed, we’ll give you some supplies and then you’ll be on your way, understood?”

But you just stared at him, silently pleading. Pleading for what? You didn’t know. All you knew was if your father wasn’t here, you couldn’t be dead. And if you weren’t, you wanted to be. You’d be able to find him then, because although you were no longer a girl who could kneel in church, you could still feel the scabs on your knees from years ago; you could still remember what it was to believe so blindly; you could still feel that insistent desire for there to be something beyond this world . . . something after this world.

There just had to be. You had to see him again. You had to find him.

You could die now. You could find him now. You would find him.

“Great,” Death muttered under his breath, breaking you out of your own mind. And with one final glance at your exhausted body, he began to turn and head for the door.

Fear struck you then. You had to find your father. “Wait, please—” you hastily grabbed onto his arm, only being able to reach his hand enough to dig your nails into his skin to halt him— “I beg of you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and cautious as if at any moment, one wrong move and he’d grant your wishes. And all you could do was hope.

“Kill me,” you weakly whispered, hopelessly searching his eyes.

His brows twitched, taken back.

“Death,” you begged in a whisper, your bottom lip trembling, “please.”

But Death only stared back at you with a perplexing look written across his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe your request. Had no one ever begged him to die?

A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.

Death only continued to stare, a world raging on behind his eyes as he took you in. His demeanor was still calm, still collected, but he seemed . . . perturbed by your request, by your presence, by you. And you watched as his eyes trickled across your face, searching for something until finally . . . his gaze zeroed in on your cheek, his brows furrowing.

Then . . . you felt it.

A tear had slowly begun to slip down your cheek as if your body knew it was a sin to cry. But you were . . . crying that was.

You nearly gasped.

Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.

But just as you were about to angrily wipe it away, there was a sharp knock at the door, breaking both you and Death out of your spell. The door opened a second later, a man peaking his head in with a solemn look on his face.

The man didn’t spare you a glance, he only cleared his throat and said, “Chris?” His brows raised, a silent message passing between the two. “A minute.”

Death only nodded, and then the man was gone, the door shutting behind him. Silence followed, but Death stayed unmoving, his arm still in your tight grasp.

“You won’t run,” he slowly spoke, his words a statement, not an order, but he didn’t turn to look at you. He kept his eyes on the door. “I don’t kill the living. I won’t kill you.” He paused, audibly swallowing, and then his eyes were on you. “And I know you won’t kill us.”

And then he was gone before you could blink, quickly tearing his arm out of your grasp before he reached the door and closed it behind him. You were alone with yourself once again, your thoughts running wild as your hand remained outstretched, almost frozen in place.

I know you won’t kill us, he’d told you.

But how could you kill Death? How did he know you wouldn’t if he didn’t give you what you wanted? How could he be so sure that you weren’t a killer, when you so clearly were?

You had killed before, and if he didn’t take you to the other side, you’d surely kill again. That was who you had become. That was who you were. He should’ve known that.

And then as you slowly laid your head back onto the pillow and allowed the minutes to tick by, the throbbing in your head began to subside, and the world became a little clearer. You were no longer a girl who could kneel in church. You did not believe anymore. The world had gone to shit, and it wasn’t because of God’s plan. There were no Horsemen. Your family was gone. And that . . . that man had not been Death.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed thickly. What was happening to you?

It all hit you then.

These were a group of survivors. That man surely was their leader, and you had just led hundreds of the dead to their doorstep. They should’ve killed you for that alone. You would’ve. You wouldn’t even hesitate if this had been your family. You would’ve done everything to keep them safe, even if it meant killing others, and yet . . .

I won’t kill you.

But why? You deserved it. You could see it in his eyes that he knew.

These were good people. And you were their bad omen.

It wouldn’t be long before your presence brought misery upon them, too, just as it had to your family. And it’d be all your fault.

You’d live, only to see many die. You’d make it out unscathed just as you always had, while they’d suffer, just as he had said.

It was then you realized this was not your purgatory, it was your Hell.

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin

(i did post the teaser like a year ago, so if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)

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zegrasdrysdale · 9 months

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[ best christmas ever ] q. hughes

day eight of malia’s christmas fic marathon

pairing : Quinn Hughes x fem!reader

summary : (Y/N) gives fiancé Quinn what could be considered the best Christmas present he’s ever gotten

warning(s) : pregnancy, mentions of miscarriage

author’s note : i think this could be considered a blurb w how short it is tbh but here’s this cute lil thing :)

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Her hands shake as Quinn unwraps the present that is going to change his entire life. Keeping this a secret for nearly two weeks has been killing her so the fact that her fiancé is seconds away from finding out is exciting and terrifying at the same time.

It's the last present that is being unwrapped this morning while it's just the two of them in their Vancouver apartment. (Y/N) made sure it was the last present unwrapped by taking it out of the closet after all the gifts under the tree from friends and family were opened.

Quinn tosses the ripped up wrapping paper into the trash bag on the ground between them before he opens the box.

Inside is a little Canucks jersey with Quinn's number and 'C'. Quinn is clearly very confused by the tiny jersey so she says, "Turn it around, Quinn."

Laughter is evident in her voice but she doesn't know if it's because of Quinn's confusion or because she's nervous.

She watches his eyes widen when he sees the back of the jersey. In place of Hughes on the back of the jersey is the word "daddy". Quinn looks over at (Y/N) with those wide eyes. "You better not be lying to me, (Y/N)," he says so seriously.

"Eight weeks," she tells him as she rests a hand on the very tiny bump that is under the large t-shirt she's wearing. "I found out three weeks ago and went to make sure everything was okay two weeks ago. When I was told that everything with this baby was perfect, I got the jersey made."

After they lost their last little one over the summer very early on, she didn't want to get Quinn's hopes up again so she went and got every single test done that she could before she told him. The last thing she wanted was to tell him then lose another baby. It nearly broke her in June, and almost broke them.

She couldn't do that again. Not this time.

"You kept this from me for three weeks?" Quinn asks. His voice is soft so he isn't mad. She stays quiet and nods. "Is everything okay?"

(Y/N) slowly nods, still hesitant. "Baby H is growing and developing at the rate they're supposed to be this time," she assures him. "I'm healthy. Baby is healthy. I just needed to be sure before I told you this time. I know how much you want to be a dad and I didn't want to get your hopes up then my body let you down for the second time."

Tears that she didn't know formed in her eyes spill onto her cheeks. She does her best to wipe them away quickly, but he notices them.

Quinn puts the jersey back in the box and moves close to her. He pulls her into a tight hug and she buries her face into his shoulder.

"Your body just wasn't ready last time," Quinn softly tells her as he runs his fingers through her hair. "I love you. I'm so excited to be here with you for the rest of your pregnancy. You're already an amazing mom."

She lets out a silent sob into Quinn's shoulder before she pulls back. "You're not mad I didn't tell you when I found out?" she questions.

"Absolutely not," he assures her with a smile on his lips. She can see that he's genuine when he says that. "I'm happy to know now. I can't wait to go to every appointment with you now. I can't wait to see our baby when you have an ultrasound done. I can't wait to tell all our friends and family and my teammates. I can't wait to meet Baby H. (Y/N), I'm so excited."

His happiness quickly erases any anxiety she felt before he opened that box. She can tell how excited he is about the next chapter in their lives. "Glad I didn't ruin your Christmas by telling you," she jokes.

"Are you kidding?" Quinn says. "This is probably the best Christmas ever. We're going to have a baby. This is the best present I think I have ever gotten on Christmas. Knowing we're going to start the family we have always wanted together is the best present."

A smile finally forms on (Y/N)'s lips. "We're going to have a baby," she softly echoes. Quinn nods and matches her smile.

She launches herself at him, finally sharing the happiness that Quinn is feeling. He falls onto his back onto the carpeted floor and catches her in his arms. He laughs and wraps his arms around her waist. He stares up at his fiancée. "We get to finally be parents," he tells her. "Our rainbow baby."

"Our rainbow baby."

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MAIN MASTERLIST

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taglist : @dancerbailey3 @dasiysthings @axaslee

#hockey imagines #hockey imagine #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic #hockey oneshot #hockey blurb #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl oneshot #nhl blurb #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fluff #malia’s christmas marathon

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salamander-spark · 1 month

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My first fanfic! I'm proud of it even if it's a little rushed. I barely managed to get it out within the day. Tomorrow's prompt might just be a drawing.

Day 1:

Hug/Cabin 7/Shapeshifter

Fic below:

TW: very brief depiction of a panic attack, description of nightmare.

It had been a month since Vee's mom and sister came back from the boiling isles.

The stress Vee felt the few days it took for the return was immeasurable. A worry for her family took root in the back of her mind, it made sleep nearly impossible, and gave her nightmares.

Waiting for months, no contact, no words, no way of knowing if they are alive. No magic. She'd be found out, spreding herself too thin with Camila and Luz's responsibilities, inevitably slipping up. People from the town gazing upon her demonic form. The eyes of Belos's monsterous form looming behind everyone. her family, Luz's friends all dead they couldn't stop him THEY COULDN'T COME HOME THEY WERE DEAD HE KILLED THE —

In the present, Vee shook her head to dispel the images her imagination made. She remembers the dreams vividly, still occasionally seeing them in her sleep.

The week following their return, she found the pamphet Masha handed her. Blushing (But NOT because she remembers making a fool of herself in front of them), she decided it was time to take up their offer.

And it turned out AMAZING, Masha's gradoise flair really fitting the tour guide gig. It was just like back at Cabin seven when They waxed poeticly about the many pagen dieties and what they did.

Vee kept up with Masha's narration, interjecting questions when she thought of them, keeping the conversation flowing. Vee told Masha about herself, and Masha shared stories about their friends. An aching Vee didn’t realize she had in her heart began to fade talking to her friend after so long, but only slightly.

Masha didn't know that she knew them. For all they knew, they were talking to a complete stranger. The person they talked to couldn't possibly be the shy, anxious girl they shared a cabin with. She couldn't be the friend they helped bring out of her shell, who looked at all things mundane with innocent wonder. She wasn't Luz Noceda.

The insecurity persisted, became even bigger after Masha invited Vee to hang out with their friends. Diego, the tall, relaxed boy who let his hair fall onto his face and probably had a million zits on his forhead. Samantha; or rather Sam, who had a love for video games and anime, and rambled about them to the captivated audience of her friends.

Neither of them knew her as Vee either. It was awkward, but managable, getting to know them a second time. She noticed that they were each more comfortable in conversation than when they were back at camp. They were all less reluctant to share the information about themselves that took them weeks to share at camp. Vee supposed she was also more confident, staying in a cabin with each other must have been to thank for that.

She didn't know how long she could keep lying to them, for her own sanity.

"Say," Masha began, "What about those kids you were hanging out with? They're your other friends, right?"

Vee, lying belly down looked up from the Cosmic frontier book she was reading. "Huh? She got so invested in the plot it took her brain a while to process Masha's question.

"Y'know, at the historical society, right before Halloween," Masha clarified. "You guys asked me about that rebus remember? That one kid was going on like, 'Grahh chop off my ear' or something," Masha giggled.

Oh. Luz's friends. Vee knew the witches also considered her part of the group, but it was easier thinking of them as her sister's friend group.

Wait... They didn't have a proper cover story! Vee was terrible at lying on the fly, but she needed to start talking now!

"O- OH YEAH, that was Gus. H-hes pretty fun. Then theres uhhh, Amity with the pink hair, Willow had glasses, and... oh yeah Hunter too but he was at our home that day." Vee needed to stall so she could come up with something.

"Is he The Blond cosmic frontier fan?" Masha asked, which confused Vee.

"When did you see him? I don't remember him going to your job after we left."

"No, I actually saw them at the haunted hayride! oh, I guess I only told you two-" Masha points two fingers at Sam and Diego respectively "-about that since you weren't hanging out with us back then. Whoops~"

Suddenly, Diego piped up. "Wait, you said 'Our' Home. So they like, live at your place or something"

CRAP!

"Uhhhh well... you see." Think of something Vee, just spit it out. "Foreign excange students?" she thought out loud. "-From out of state not another country!" she amended in a panic.

"O–kay?" Sam raised her eyebrow "I've never seen them at school before, and you know I watch people like a hawk." It was true, back at camp, Sam compiled a list of the campers from other cabins activities in order to know who to watch out for.

It wasn't a skill she thought would be used agsinst her.

"Well, There are other schools in the area you know? I think they went to, yknow..." She didn't know the names of any other high schools. "...Not Gravesfield high?" She finished with a shrug. And also, they went back to their own rea-" DONT SAY REALM "TOWN like, right after Halloween, so yeah, that's why you've never seen 'em" She finished with a shrug and a manic chuckle.

How did she keep this up for thee months straight? She must've lost her touch. Then again, she considered not having to lie as a good thing.

"Sure, I'll accept that." Sam relented.

"Hold up, am I missing something, or does that like. Not make sense." Diego once again came in with his terribly timed questions. "Cause like, you said they lived in your house, why wouldn't they go to the same school?" How is he so perceptive!? It must be because he doesn't devote much energy into responding so he can listen better.

Masha put a hand on her shoulder "Hey, sorry about him Vee, if theres something you don't want to tell us, you don't have to." assured Masha. "We didn't mean to push so far." Masha turns toward the offender, "Diego." They enunciate.

Vee didn't her most of what Masha said. Where Masha tried to reassure her, Vee only heard an accusation. 'something you don't want to tell us' sounded more like 'You're hiding something, aren't you Vee.' And what did that last part mean? Could they tell she was panicking? WHY DID THEY SOUND ANGRY?

They'reGoingToForce AnswersOutOfmeNobodyTrustsMe-

Everything turned blurry, she was hyper aware of all the sounds of the room closing in on her. Her heartbeat was in her ears, everyones voices blended into a cocophony She needed to get away She's clammy and very sweaty-

It's queit, what changed, is there still danger?

She heard breathing, not her own, someone elses, not her own, and it makes her realize how quick she's breathing. She tries to slow down, matching the pace of the other person.

When she finally steadied herself (it felt like several minutes but also less than one) She opened her eyes (They were closed?) and sees Masha sitting on her knees on the bed in front of her (She doesn't remember getting into this corner). They continued to demonstrate the breathing exercise, which they also did with their hands.

Vee thinks she remembers something like this happening at camp, but isn't sure right now. Masha gestured their hands out wide, clearly asking if it was okay if they could give a hug.

You don't deserve one, her brain tells her. No, she shakes her hehead.

Masha sits with her, and they both breath. Such a simple act, filled with so much understanding. You doesn't deserve Masha.

She's now aware enough to know how mean she's being to herself. She spots her other friends sitting in the middle of the room, Dego on the floor while Samantha sits in the desk chair. She gives a meek wave and they wave back without keeping eye contact. They look ashamed, Masha must've given them a talking to.

"Hi guys, sorry you had to see that," she knew she shouldn't be apologizing, but this whole situation never would've happened if she was truthful from the beginning.

"No Vee, this wasn't your fault." Says Masha

Sam adds in "We're sorry. Diego said he should've realised before he asked that. And I'm sorry for getting so uptight about answers." Sam makes eye contact at the end, though it almost looks like she's scrutinizing Vee's face-

-She spins to look at the mirror and sees a splotchy mess of skin on her face. One could confuse it for vitiligo -a skin condition she learned some humans have- if not for the fact her face was previously a single solid shade of brown.

Her hair is now completely blue, and a bit shorter, exposing her ears in their full glory. They must've been flapping like crazy during her panic attack.

Her sclera was blue, and took on the glossy sheen of an amphibious creature.

None of those are human traits.

Her head snaps back towards Masha, cringing while waiting for a reaction.

"So..." They began. "I um. I like your ears?" They clerly want to say more, but refrains to be polite. "Once again, I don't wanna force you to answer. I've just got a lotta theories in my noggin right now and I would like to know the truth. But again, no pressure. Whetever the truth is, I'll try not to react badly." They finished by putting their hands up and smiling.

Both looked at their friends who nodded. "Hey I'm cool with you being a shape-changing spirit, or some cryptid, or whatever you are. Again, I'm sorry." Sam smiles.

Diego nods and says "Ditto, what she said."

"And if you're not ready right now, we trust you. We just want you to be comfortable with us. You can talk later

Now was the time to come clean to her friends. It wasn't because she was backed into a corner. They let her keep her secrets if she really needed too.

Her eyes tear up, and the tears wetted her cheek. They trust her.

Hopefully they stayed true to their words. Here goes nothing.

"Um, Let me tell you about a place called the Boiling Isles"

She shapeshifts into her true skin for the first time in their presence.

Sam fellbackwards off her chair while Diego simply said "woah." After squeaking in a high pitch, Masha just stared, taking in the details of her true for from her tail to her hair.

She could’ve eased the group in better, could've given them a better idea of what to expect. But flowery speeches were Luz’s deal, and Vee wanted to rip off the bandaid.

She hoped they would share Mom and Luz's opinions on how non-threatening she looked. Masha looked far from disgusted at least, but she had no idea what was on Diego's mind.

Sam lifted her chair to defend herself, before realizing how it looked and set it down. Vee only now remembered Sam has a fear of snakes, Ophidiophobia if she's correct.

She considered apologizing, but decided against it, given this whole thing was mostly Sam's fault. She could be petty, she deserves it. She's definitely getting around to it later though.

they let her explain herself in full, with no interruptions. She told them about the titan, demon and witches. She wasn't quite ready to tell them how she was born, but she told them she pretended to be Luz for the summer.

Everyone's eyes grew wide at the admission, and it looked like they had something to say. Then they looked in her eyes and she gave a look that said she never wanted to hurt them.

She didn't expect them to start joking around so quickly after several earth shattering revelations, but she could tell that they wanted to lighten the mood before discussing them.

They were also being super frustrating about the cute comments.

“I'm not cute. Luz calls everything cute, like. Possums, for one.” She scrunches her face, “and she didn't even bat an eye at a bunch of talking rats!”

“Your face looks like a cat,” says Diego, his mouth curved in an uncharacteristicly mischievous grin. “But like, a bald cat that fell in a can of green paint.” He teases.

"Hey, you up for that hug yet, Vee?" Masha smiled that pretty gap toothed smile, and Vee felt her resolve shatter.

"Y'know what? yeah. I could use one." Vee agreed.

"Want to make it four?" They asked, to which Vee nodded.

Vee tightly hugged Masha, and they embraced. With Vees hace in the crook of their neck, she wrapped her tail around Diego who had moved behind her. "Sweet" he simply remarked.

Masha looked at where Sam sat crisscrosed, hand hovering over Vee's tail hesitsntly. "Hey, you know she's not slimy, right?" Masha indignantly asked. "She's also warmer than I expected, she barely even feels like a snake. More like what I imagine a dragon would be like." Masha blinked "Can you turn into a dragon?" Masha almost shouted.

Vee shrugged, Sam insisted "But do I have to?"

"Yeah, get over here dummy!" Vee wrapps the end of her tail around Sam's midsection. Vee thinks she looks a bit pale.

"Geez it must be 'everybody bully Sam hour' today! Really, I'm still sorry," Sam defends.

"You were a jerk, you owe me something expensive!"

Diego and Masha laughed at Sams expression, Vee leans deeper into Masha's hug.

"You okay Vee-Vee?" masha softly asks.

"Yeah," Vee looks around at her friends. getting an idea.

"Cabin seven!"

"HOO HAA HAA!" chorused four voices

"I love you guys." whispered the shapeshifter amongst her closest friends.

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itsnothingofinterest · 2 months

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I think the thing that ultimately gets me about how Deku has supposedly inspired away everything that'd lead to more Tenkos turning into Tomuras is...just "why?" Like, why did this:

Happen differently this time? I mean that's a fair question to ask, isn't it? The Walk was effectively the true inciting incident for Tomura, leader of the League, to hate hero society; you'd want a really solid answer as to why that won't happen again I would think.

The narration from Hawks and accompanying imagery implies it's because Deku inspired folks to not sit on the sidelines anymore, further implied to be a Hero Society-wide effect Deku has had that'll supposedly eliminate the bystander effect that led us here and give heroes more free time.

But like...Why is that different from what we've seen of heroes before now? All Might was around for 40 years and Deku, in the end, didn't really do anything AM didn't do; he punched out the big bad for the world to see. And All Might did also inspire people like the origin trio to action...by becoming heroes. Yet civilians like the old lady were inspired to go about her day because a hero would handle it, while Deku inspired her to reach out a hand herself. Why?

I've heard some suggest it's because Deku was less independent, had more of a teamwork focus in his big moment. But I’ve said this before, I think those people assume All Might was a lot more independent than he really was, and Deku a lot less. I mean a lot of Deku's fight was broadcast, including big portions where he was fighting the big bad solo just like All Might in Kamino. And then both fights ended with more heroes coming in to lend support.

So I'm just not seeing why public effect is so radically different.

And it's just that, I have been waiting to see what would prevent more Tomuras from crawling out of the woodworks to destroy even more since MVA; what measures would be taken to prevent that? Perhaps Tomura would destroy hero society, not just its buildings but its corrupt ideals, leadership, & figureheads; and maybe when he was beaten there would be room to rebuild it better from scratch? No, he didn't really destroy much at all actually, and things are being rebuilt just as they were. Would Deku and Tomura perhaps team up going forward after he's saved; with the latter's eyes for what's wrong in the world and the former's ability to fix it without violence? No, Deku kills Tomura because he was just too unforgivable, it's implied he was just after a tasteful way to do that the whole fight. Well, would Deku at least listen to what drove Tomura to villainy and do something about any of that? Nope, if it wasn't his final words to Spinner or their talk about hand holding, it was in one ear and out the other for Deku; and there's no sign he's told many people what little he did learn.

So what saves the Teknos of the world? Well Deku kills the big bad on live TV and it's really inspiring. Why is that different from the past 40 years? ...Horikoshi is to burnt out to answer. That's the ultimate answer to the question I've been asking for nearly 200 chapters.

Well I guess I always knew that if Deku couldn't save Tomura, it'd mean he couldn't save anyone like him. And well, he didn't save Tomura. It's why this plot point of "but they get saved anyway" rings so hollow; it's unearned, unfair, unrealistic, and outright contrived & unbelievable as things have been set-up. I just cannot believe it would work out this way; it is honestly 100 times more believable to suppose the old lady was a guilt-fuelled one-off and most Tenkos will die in the streets or turn to villainy. Especially once this "the villain is dead" high has passed. Because as it is; this resolution as-presented feels as reasonable as our finale in chapter 430 suggesting Deku was so inspirational that no one was ever a villain again either.

#bnha #bnha 429 #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #league of villains #lov #paranormal liberation front #PLF #midoriya izuku #all might #hero society #all for one #hawks #I guess this is just my emotional state going into the final chapter.#How are you guys doing?

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johnwickb1tsch · 1 month

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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 42 all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

42. home sweet home

Although all you wanted in the world was to return home when you were trapped in The Continental, you find as you pull up the driveway you suddenly feel the tiniest bit of trepidation, just a hint of nervousness for living alone in this isolated mountain retreat here with John.

You want to trust him with all your heart, blithely steadfast in your confidence as much as your love. But there is a tiny whisper of doubt creeping up from the dungeons in the back of your mind.

You do not think John is insane. You do, however, believe he experienced a bit of a psychotic break in the days when he first took you, a bomb loaded with the pressures of past battle trauma, excruciating grief, and fear of losing control-i.e. you.

He’d been so good to you in the city, but the last time you dwelled in this glorified cabin, you cannot forget that up to the last hours, you were a prisoner.

Now, you’ve agreed to marry this man, and he holds your hand as you walk through the door on your own power, like things were always normal between you.

Maybe you’re the crazy one, because you resolve to lift your chin and plow forth as though nothing bad had happened here. What you want is here in the present, and shining in the future. What do you have to gain, by dwelling on the past? You will put it behind you. Not forgotten–but forgiven. You know that is the only real way your love will survive–will thrive. Yet you also know, deep down, this vow you make to yourself will be easier said than done.

You bring in your suitcases, and look over the repairs that were finalized while you were gone. It all looks essentially good as new. The bullet holes in the walls have been patched. There’s a new rug in the great room; there was no getting the blood out of the old one.

Dog seems happy to be home too, trotting around and sniffing, making sure all is in its proper place in his domain.

You lose track of John in the big house; when you go searching for him, you find him just standing in the kitchen, staring at the place where one of the intruders had nearly ended him with a knife–before you shot them in the throat. Certain he’s having one of his flashbacks, you call out to him in a gentle voice, trying to talk him back from it without startling him. You’re no doctor, of course, but you may have fallen into some Google spirals about how to care for someone with PTSD at the Continental.

Finally he responds to your voice, turning towards you with a haunted look in his eyes. “It’s ok,” you soothe him, reaching for him now that he’s woken from his trance. “We’re ok.” You think you actually believe it, too. He wraps you up in a tight embrace, burying his face in your hair and breathing deeply. You stand like that in the kitchen, just hugging, for what feels like an hour, but is probably only five minutes.

“Do we…need to go somewhere else?” you ask quietly, sad at the thought of leaving the cabin, but wondering if fresh surroundings might be better.

“No,” he insists. “Unless you want to.” Offering you this choice even just a month ago would have been an impossible thing for him.

“I’m fine, so far. I still like it here.”

He nods, and presses his forehead to yours. “Y/n…” He sighs. “When I lost Helen, I wanted to die. Then, I wanted to survive, but just to kill. But you…you made me want to live again. It’s all I could think, while I was fighting. I want to live. For you.”

You kiss him softly; soon it grows into a heady lock of lips, John’s arms around you lifting you to your tiptoes. Between kisses he asks, “Can I take you upstairs?”

This is the thing that gives you pause. Maybe the kitchen is the traumatic room in the house for John, but that luxurious bedroom upstairs has been your personal Bastille for the past months, and for a moment you freeze, finding that you are afraid to take the leap of faith with him.

It’s his turn to offer comfort, when he notices your reluctance, and just maybe interprets it correctly. “It’s alright,” he assures you. “Come with me. Let me show you something.” With your hand in his he leads you up the stairs. Your steps are slow, but he doesn’t drag you along, being patient with you. When you cross the threshold of the bedroom your heart is pounding in your chest like it damn well means to escape through your ribcage, but you force yourself to take one more step with him to the keypad by the door.

He starts punching in a long sequence of numbers, then he takes you utterly by surprise when he presses your hand to the sensor. The keypad is mounted so high you can barely reach it. A few moments later the little green light flashes. “There. See?”

He shuts the door and you jump at that familiar, dreaded, click. “John?” You hate how small and needy your voice sounds.

“Put your hand up, honey.”

With your heart in your throat you reach up to touch the sensor, reluctant as though you almost suspect a trick. But then the lock on the door clicks open.

You aren’t proud of the sob of relief that escapes you. John catches you up in his arms again, holding you. Until he wrapped you up, you didn’t realize that you were shaking. “There now, see?” he says soothingly, just like you’d spoken to him in the kitchen. “It’s yours, honey. Everything I have is yours.”

A long, brittle sigh escapes you as you bury your nose in his neck. It doesn’t really register for you, what he means by that statement. All that matters are his arms around you, and that fucking door is open. “All I want is you,” you tell him, and you mean it.

“You’ve got me. I’m ok. Are you ok?”

You nod, offering a watery but genuine smile. He kisses your cheeks, which you didn’t realize were wet with tears. “My sweet girl. You have the biggest heart. What are you doing with a devil like me?”

Your laugh sounds shaky too–did he forget that at first, he didn’t really give you a choice? “Having the adventure of a lifetime?”

He huffs at that, as amused as you are. Suddenly you are weightless as he hoists you in his arms, and takes you to the bed.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but you fancy that you feel it. Every kiss he presses to your aching skin, every soft caress, feels embedded with apology, and you accept it. With open arms, you take it all.

***

You wake before John from your post-coital nap. It��s late afternoon. You can tell, from the sideways light streaming through the windows. Quietly you slide out of bed, picking up your clothes in a bundle because you haven’t unpacked your robe yet from your suitcase. You dress downstairs, so you will not wake him.

Knowing someone will have to go to the store soon, you browse the pantry for a snack, finding a granola bar. You go stand by the windows while you eat it, looking out at the forest. That is when, out the corner of your eye, you realize the light on the lock control on the front door is green.

You can’t remember the last time that happened.

When you’d unwittingly wandered into Wick’s lair after that hike for coffee and sundries? It wasn’t even quite a year ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

You cannot stop yourself now. Your feet move on their own to the door, trying the knob.

It turns freely, and so of course, you pull.

The portal swings open, so naturally, you step outside.

The early fall air is crisp, and has never smelled so sweet. You lift your face to the sun, soaking it in.

Have you arrived? Is this the life you always wanted for yourself?

You decide to wander, just a little. You walk around the driveway, stretching your legs, and then you meander to the edge of the woods. It’s almost as though the trees are calling you. You take a step, and then another, until you are in the forest, and you are happy.

You’re not really gone long. Maybe twenty minutes, all in all, just a tiny little ramble. You pass back through the front door as quietly as you can muster, not wanting to wake John. You start, when you find him sitting at the kitchen island, with his head in his hands. You are startled, when you realize he’s been crying.

“John?” You practically leap across the floor to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

He grabs you up in arms, holding you so tightly your ribs creak. “I thought…you’d left,” he admits quietly. He squeezes you again, shuddering as he buries his face in your hair. He doesn’t say more, but you think you might know the rest. The fact that he was sitting in the kitchen, and not tearing through the woods after you…if that was your decision, would he have let you go?

You freeze, your breath ceasing, your very heart screeching to a stop in your chest.

This man.

How is it possible, for so much love to fit inside your insignificant shell of a body, for this man?

You draw back to look at him, really look at him, those mocha dark puppy eyes that tear your heart to shreds fixed on yours. “I’m never going to leave you, John.” It spills from your lips before you can even think about it, but once its out you realize it’s absolutely true. After everything he put you through…you still just know you will never be happy, without him by your side. Nothing and no one else will do.

A psychologist would have a fucking field day with you. They would say things like Stockholm Syndrome and shared trauma bond, abandonment issues and codependent relationship. You would tell them to fuck the fuck off–and that Stockholm Syndrome is made-up bullshit devised by two male psychologists in the seventies to describe ‘hysterical female behavior’.

You’ve known people who have made worse decisions for much less reward.

“I will always come back to you,” you tell him. “You’re stuck with me now. Like…a wart that won’t go away.”

This makes him laugh, and it’s such a beautiful sight. You kiss his tears away, then his mouth. It soon turns into another tonsil-inspecting affair that leaves you both breathless. “I’m going to have to take you back upstairs now,” he says with a sniff, only half joking.

“How about you take me to the grocery store? It’s going to be dinner time soon.”

He chuckles at that, nods, and kisses your forehead. “Okay.”

It’s almost like you’re an old married couple already.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick fic #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #john wick x y/n #yandere john wick #bittersweet john wick imagine

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ellieslaces · 7 months

Text

CAN’T CATCH ME NOW. one

presenting: Umbrella’s Hunger Games

featuring: leon kennedy x fem!reader

synopsis: the Hunger Games, an annual show of brutal control the Capitol has over each of the twelve Districts. the Games’ number one sponsor: Umbrella Corporation, the creator of the Games’ most horrific torture strategies and nightmare inducing deaths. these games have always been cautionary, always a far away but constant threat — until you find yourself Reaped and thrown into an area full of your worst fears with 23 other Tributes, all out for blood.

content warnings: harsh language; violence; gore; class discrimination; usual hunger games/resident evil warnings

notes: please note this series will contain heavy themes of violence, gore, class discrimination, and torture. if these subjects trigger you, skip this series or proceed with caution; all the chapters will be super long, just be prepared

word count: 4.26k

now playing: enemy ; imagine dragons with JID

can’t catch me now playlist

the districts ; prologue

Spring had a poetic, two sided story. One of beauty and rebirth, flowers blooming in meadows, rain showers that brought rainbows to the end of a long day. But one also of death and destruction. Spring may as well be a double edged sword, one edge cutting away the dead to make room for the new. The other side a dangerous weapon to cut down upon that year’s newest crop of children unlucky enough to be Reaped.

Spring was a cautionary season, tales and preparations were made during the final months of long winter. Mothers being sure to hold their child close, fathers staying home from whatever jobs they were mandated a little longer in the mornings to get a glimpse at their children’s face before they went away for the day.

Though nothing could ever really prepare anyone for the possibility of their child’s name being called in the Reaping. No soothing words of how much they were loved and how strong they were would ever calm a child scared in their bones of dying — of killing. This was the reality of the Reaping Ceremony. A reality you’d been prepared for, thoroughly.

Since you were able to understand what the Hunger Games were, you’d been trained to survive them. Chris Redfield instructed you to hone your skills in combat, in knife throwing, in handheld weapons, in archery. You were skilled in just about every form of combat, of nearly any possibly thrown your way.

His sister, Claire, trained you to be smart. Not to fall for the similarity of berries, of mixing up plants, of mistaking the signs of infection, to fall into another Tribute’s trap. You were as prepared to survive any surrounding territory as you were to fight someone to the death.

Despite not really being allowed to train you as you weren’t a Tribute, the siblings did it anyway. They had no family save for each other. No parents, no other siblings. Just each other — and you.

Your crumbled, soaked form had been found by the pair when you were a mere eight. A ruthless school bully had taken your pack, jacket, and shoes. Leaving you in the rain on your way home from school.

They’d taken you home, cleaned you up and sent you on your way. It wasn’t until a few days later they realized you had no home. Not really, you were an orphan too, living in the local orphanage. So, they took you in. Despite not really being allowed to, they did. They loved you as their own family. And one of the ways they showed their love, was by teaching you how to survive.

Today was your final Reaping ceremony. Eight years of terror, eight years of worry for your life every time Spring rolled around. This was the final time you had to worry — if you were lucky. If you were lucky, you’d make it out alive, without being subjected to the horrors of the Games that the Umbrella Corporation were so proud of.

You’d heard the tales of what people witnessed — of what Claire and Chris had witnessed. Though they didn’t outright speak of their times in the arena, you’d watched clips of their Games. You’d heard rumors from the people who had seen their Games on broadcast.

The Mutts Chris had to take down by hand and sword to survive and become Victor. The horrors that chased Claire through the woods to push her and the final three Tributes into a cutthroat fight.

These were things you hadn’t experienced yourself, things you hoped you’d never have to experience. Things Chris and Claire prepared you for nonetheless. But even they knew — no amount of preparation could save you from the lingering fear of what you could see. The nightmares you’d have for the remainder of your life. The fact that every year, you’d be dragged out and forced to relive the past for the Capitol’s entertainment. And today was the final day they could ever even try to prepare you.

Your morning was spent as it usually was — an early breakfast and training. Chris had worked with you on your hand to hand combat, while Claire worked with you on your survival skills. Once training had come to a close, you were taken home to be prepared for your final Reaping.

There was no need for Tessarae, you didn’t need to put your name in more than the eight times it would be in the bowl. Chris and Claire provided for you, they never let you starve, never let you go without the things you needed. And it seemed comfort was one of those things.

“Don’t worry, your chances are low.” Claire soothed you as she and Chris walked you toward the square in District One. “And even if you are Reaped, you’re prepared.”

“I know,” you mumbled, nodding. This was the eighth time you’d heard this pre-Reaping speech from Claire. She said this every year.

“You’re strong, you’ll be fine.” And Chris said that every year too.

You appreciated their support, really. It was just hard to think about anything other than the possibility your life could come to a quick and brutal end in a matter of weeks if things took a turn for the worse today.

“I know.” You mumbled, again. And you did know. You were prepared, you were strong. You were all the things the Redfield siblings proclaimed you to be. Despite being the mere age of nineteen, you were a ruthless person, you had a human understanding of mercy, yes. But you also knew how to survive, no matter the circumstances. And anyone would be stupid to forget that.

Although you weren’t the only person who was given the opportunity to prepare for the Games longer before they were even Reaped. It was common in Districts One and Two for the children to be familiar with combat, with survival skills. Most Tributes ended up volunteering for the ability to compete in the Games. Many a sour face had come from the stage over the years a someone stole the Reaped’s chance to fight.

You’d decided long ago that if someone wanted to take your place and volunteer, you’d be happy to let them have your spot. Anything, anything to stay away from the Capitol. Or as far as you could, being from District One. But, being a part of the Redfield family — even if it was unofficial — you weren’t too far out of the Capitol’s reach. It would be the Games or your connection to the Redfield’s that would catch their attention eventually.

“We’ll see you after?” Claire’s voice brought you back to the present, her ever soothing tone causing you to look up at her. She smiled at you, patting your arms with gentle affection. “You’ll be fine.”

You nodded as Chris gave your bicep a small punch before brushing his knuckles along your cheek with playful affection. “We’ll break out that apple crumble tonight, yeah?”

His suggestion made you smile — even though you had luxuries being the family of District One Victors, they still tried to teach you some humility. They taught you to be human, to have compassion and sense and a heart.

“Okay,” you nodded, smiling a little as the pair left you in the lines to sign in for the Reaping. You watched them walk to the stage, greeting the representative from the Capitol who was sent to preform the Reaping — a short man with half shaved hair that was dyed a shocking orange.

The line moved quickly, it always did. The woman at the table pricked your finger, taking blood and registering your name to be entered eight times. Probably one of the least amount of times in the group of children here. You were ushered by the crowd to the section of fellow nineteen year olds, craning your neck for so much as a glimpse of Chris or Claire to soothe your nerves.

You were much different than many of the other around you. Some thrummed with energy, for the chance to swoop in and volunteer if they weren’t lucky enough to be Reaped. You didn’t want to be like them. You didn’t want to be a killer. You didn’t want to be another one of the Capitol’s playthings.

The video of Panem history began to play on the screens flanking the stage, the anthem ringing through the speakers. The sound of President Spencer’s voice echoed through the square with his grand speech of the relationship between the Capitol and the Districts. Peace, he called it. Compliance, he called it. No, it was control. But really, what was the difference at this point?

Once the film came to a close, the Capitol representative stepped forward toward the mic, his smile startlingly white and far too wide to be genuine. He tapped the microphone few times before clearing his throat and speaking.

“Good afternoon, District One, and happy 98th Hunger Games!” His voice matched his face — eccentric, high pitched, grating on the ears.

“Before you all claw up the stage to get your chance, I’ll start with the gentlemen’s names.” The man — whom you remembered was named Allium Copperhead — giggled at his own stupid joke before removing the mic from its stand as he shuffled over toward the bowl containing the boys’ names.

All you could think was how dumb Allium Copperhead looked trotting over toward the bowl. This was another example of the difference between the lesser Districts versus the Careers. Girls always went first, except in the richer Districts. Possibly an advantage, but not really. Boys were the most likely to try to volunteer, most likely to start a fight in the square to get their chance of glory and fame.

This particular part didn’t concern you — your name wasn’t in the boys’ bowl. And it wasn’t as if you had anyone to worry over. Allium reached his hand into the large glass bowl, his citrus orange nails grazing over the slips of paper before plucking one out and shuffling over to the mic stand once more.

“Our District One male Tribute is,” he purposely drew out the suspense, the square collectively holding its breath. This was his thing, suspense. Attention grabber — that’s what Claire called him. “Piers Nivans.”

A collective groan fell from each older boy’s lips as Allium announced who was the male Tribute. Piers Nivans was a bit of a prodigy amongst the District One boys. He was strong and level headed and ruthless as he was kind. Chris had trained him alongside you.

Piers didn’t seem all too happy though as he walked toward the stage. Chris’ eyes followed the boy, face set in an unreadable expression. But you could tell — he wasn’t ecstatic about this. No one dared to volunteer. Not because Piers wanted to be in the games. But because they knew Piers stood a better chance the any of them.

Once Piers had reached the stage and Allium shook his hand a little too excitedly, he took his stand on the right side of the stage, his eyes scanning the crowd. As if he were waiting for someone — anyone — to volunteer. To save him from this fresh new hell. No luck.

“Now, for the ladies.” Allium announced in the microphone with a giggled smile, practically skipping over to the girls’ bowl. If you hadn’t been so worried about your fate, you would have rolled your eyes at how childish this grown-ass man was.

But you couldn’t focus on anything other than the thousands of slips of paper in the bowl as he reached in and snatched one up. The square was dead quiet. You heard a girl to your right let out a sigh of anticipation.

The air was thick, the energy unbearable. Your heart raced in your ears, blood thrumming through your veins as Allium stood in front of the mic once more, unfolding the paper.

You almost didn’t hear him call out your name. Almost thought you were hallucinating. It wasn’t until he called out your name once more, all the people in the square turning to your direction that you realized you hadn’t dreamt it. You wanted to cry, throw up, beat up Allium Copperhead and claw the ridiculous make up from his face.

But you did none of those things as you braced yourself, walking up toward the stage. An entire desert ecosystem was born in your mouth as you walked up the steps to the stage. Claire and Chris’ sad gazes caught your eye. God, why’d they have to look at you like that?

You waited, prayed as Allium shook your hand — the feeling of his clammy hands against your own made you even more nauseated than before — for someone to volunteer. No one did. Not even that girl you’d seen before who seemed so eager for her name to be drawn.

No one would volunteer. Because while Piers was the boy prodigy of the District, you were his counterpart. You were the strongest girl in the District, the most capable of winning. Maybe even over Piers. No one dared to take the chance of winning the Games away from the Redfield’s top student.

You stood on the left side of the stage, looking out upon the crowd of children — some relieved not to be Reaped, others irked. How you wished you were able to go home, to not be sent away to the Capitol to kill and possibly die. Maybe, you wouldn’t even try. But you had to, you couldn’t leave Chris and Claire.

“Our District One Tributes, ladies and gentlemen!” Allium announced with a sickeningly cheerful smile. He waved a dramatic hand toward where you and Piers stood at opposite ends of the stage. “Oh, go on now! Shake hands.”

You turned toward Piers, ignoring the way Allium bounced on his heels — you wanted to rip his fucking vocal cords out so you’d never have to hear his agitating voice again. Piers held out his hand, and you took it. Being a good sport you offered a small, sympathetic yet understanding smile.

The irony, two of the strongest and most capable possible Tributes in the District didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to kill and hurt and fight to survive. Despite being molded to do just that. Despite being the only ones with a fighting chance.

You let go of Piers’ hand, turning back toward the crowd as Allium Copperhead made his final goodbyes. Thank God, he would finally leave you the fuck alone. Maybe dying in the arena wouldn’t be so bad if it meant never having to see this crack job ever again. The orange-headed man placed the mic back on its stand before gently guiding you and Piers toward the back of the stage.

Peacekeepers took you from there, offering you a chance to say goodbye to anyone you wished to see one last time. But you had no one, other than Chris and Claire who were coming with you. So, you denied the opportunity, saying you just wanted to go to the train.

Piers took his chance, bidding a sad goodbye to his family. They were proud of him to taking it in such stride, you could see that. And you could also see how they knew that this wasn’t something to be cheering for. These Games were ruthless and they knew that their son would either return a murderer or not return at all.

Peacekeepers guided you and Piers toward the train, standing at the doors as you both walked in one after the other. The train shook as it started up, before lurching forward smoothly. You wandered into one of the cars and took in your surroundings.

Yes, you’d been raised with a certain modem of luxury. But it was District level luxury. This was true richness. Velvet chairs, patterned textured wallpapers, smooth carpet, rich wood furniture. God, it was like they were flaunting it in your face. Which they were.

“Oh my God,” you heard Claire’s voice echo through the train car and before you could even look over your shoulder, she was rushing toward you and enveloping you into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” her voice was muffled by her face pressed into your hair.

“Jesus kid, you got the Redfield bad luck, huh?” Chris grumbled as he walked in, shaking his head.

Piers’ eyes ticked between you and the Redfield sister that held you, and Chris with recognition. It seemed he hadn’t recognized you until just now.

“Chris,” Claire frowned, scolding her brother as she loosened her grip on you to hold you at arms length. Her attention turned back on you, hands smoothing down the fabric of your blouse. “You’ll be fine, we’re going to do our best to prepare you. Both of you.”

“I know you will,” you nodded, offering your best attempt at a smile. Like you even felt like smiling right now. You looked over to Piers. “At least we’ve got the best of the best.”

“Maybe we’ll have an actual chance.” Piers mumbled as Chris walked over to him, clapping the boy on the shoulder roughly.

“We’ll make sure you have a chance. Both of you.” Chris nodded as he crossed his large arms over his chest. He gave an eye roll as a cheery voice was heard distantly from behind one of the close train doors. He let out a grumble. “Brace yourselves, here comes traffic cone.”

“Chris,” Claire scolded as she narrowed her eyes toward her brother. But before he could even think of defending himself, the automatic train door opened and Allium Copperhead skipped into the train car.

“My tributes!” The man cried with a grin, clapping his hands beneath his chin — which you just noticed had a patch of bright orange hair to match the half curtain of hair on his head — and paced over to you and Piers. “I am so proud of you two!”

You wanted to move away, but the man was deceptively quick as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and his other around Piers’ shoulders. He hugged you close, and you could see Piers physically cringe out of the corner of your eye. “I am going to be sure that your time in the Capitol is as enjoyable as it is productive!”

“All right, Allium, they’re overwhelmed right now,” Claire said with a gentle tone that held a bit of authority behind it as she raised her brows.

“Right, right! Of course,” Allium agreed cheerfully as he let go of the both of you. Which lead to you and Piers to let out a simultaneous exhale of relief. You watched the man’s eyes land on a television and he walked towards it. “We should watch the Reaping broadcast! It should be all uploaded by now.”

Your eyes widened as you looked at Claire and Chris, silently begging for them to put a stop to it. The last thing you wanted was to watch your own Reaping ceremony. Chris gave an apologetic grimace as Allium flicked on the television with a small remote. It seemed to be preset to the Capitol broadcast channels.

“Come here, come here. Get comfortable. I’ll have some food sent in, you two must be famished.” Allium waved you and Piers over with a cheek splittingly wide grin.

Of course, you much be absolutely famished because you lived in one of the Districts. He had no tactfulness. But with Claire’s nod of approval, you slowly paced over toward the small semi-circle of armchairs and a sofa that proved betrayingly comfortable. You took a seat on the sofa, Piers beside you. And much to your disgust and discomfort, Allium took his seat on your other side.

Chris and Claire sat on the armchairs on either side of the sofa. “I know you don’t really want to watch this, but it’ll be a good way to get an idea of who you’ll be up against in the arena.”

Chris was already in mentor mode. He was leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees as the Capitol anthem played and the Umbrella Corporation logo flashed across the screen. The Reaping ceremony of District One played first, your own Reaping.

God, did you really look like that? Like a deer in headlights on that stage? Piers on the other hand looked great. Strong and intimidating. But you looked weak, like you were about to throw up and pass out. Which you’d almost done both.

As your Reaping came to a close, Allium gave a swift — and what was supposed to be an affectionate — pat on your knee. He grinned at you, nodding as you gave a weary smile back and looked back at the huge television.

District Two’s Reaping played next, a girl with long blonde hair and bangs that covered one eye stood on the stage as she was Reaped — Rachel Foley, that was her name. She was eighteen and had a menacing look on her face. The boy that was called up was Brad Vickers, a nineteen year old with a stocky build who looked a bit too relaxed on the stage.

Chris had previously informed you of the Victor for District Two, Jill Valentine. He had warned you not to underestimate her as most people did. And despite having won her games years ago and fought to prove herself in the Capitol, people believed she was weak for the way she’d won her games. However, with the glimpse you saw of her on the screen during her District’s Reaping, you decided maybe it was best to heed Chris’s warning.

District Three’s Reaping was as equally uneventful as the previous two. Though you suspected the girl tribute — Cindy Lennox — to be an immediate target for violence. She seemed too soft, too sweet to be on that stage. The male Tribute, however, looked up to the task. Steve Burnside was tall and seemed confident enough to be able to get through the arena alive.

Their mentor and Three’s most recent Victor was Ada Wong, someone that you didn’t want to mess with, as Claire warned you. She was ruthless and clever and cutthroat as she was deceiving and alluring. There were rumors around the Capitol she had ways of getting information, secrets. It wasn’t ever clear if those methods were ones of violence or sexual advances. Though no one ever questioned much. She was too beautiful to want to question.

All you could think as you watched the District Four Reaping was how fucking unlucky these Tributes were. Ashely Graham was what was called a ‘sympathy win’ in the Capitol. Meaning someone had the means to send her enough sponsor gifts that she managed to outlive the other Tributes in her games. Though her two — Jessica Sherawat and Kevin Ryman — seemed strong enough to handle themselves, so maybe they had a chance. No matter how small. Because if Chris and Claire taught you one thing, it was never to underestimate anyone.

District Five was where things got a bit dramatic. There was a volunteer for the girl tribute, Caroline Floyd taking the place of a girl who seemed to be blind. Which, in your mind, was a brave and selfless thing to do. Until you remembered there was so such thing as selflessness in the games. Her male counterpart was Billy Coen, whom Claire later told you was suspected to be close to his now mentor, Rebecca Chambers.

District Six was boring, as usual. Tyrell Patrick — a tall man with kind eyes — towered over the female Tribute, Christine Yamata who seemed entirely unemotional. Their Mentor was praised to be somewhat of a genius, despite Chris promising he wasn’t. Carlos Olivera was as cocky and unthinking as the next Yribute who wanted to stay alive.

Things were quiet in Seven, Josh Stone and Sienna Fowler being the Tributes. Chris praised their Mentor though. Sheva Alomar, he said, was trustworthy and dependable. He liked her, you could tell. Other than Jill, she seemed to be the only one he favored.

District Eight produced the Tributes nineteen year old Karen LesProux — who was rumored to have married extremely young at seventeen and then killed her husband after he’d hit one of their children, but those rumors were quickly shut down — and sixteen year old Richard Aiken who looked to be young, but strong enough to hopefully carry his own.

Their Mentors — Sherry Birkin and Jake Muller — were rumored to be cutthroat and did whatever it took to make their Tributes survive. Despite knowing that Claire had an obvious soft spot for Sherry when she’d made a connection with her a few years ago, Chris warned you it was wise not to trust the Tributes from Eight. And something about the way they looked made you believe him.

District Nine’s Reaping was quiet and uneventful as Moira Burton — a fifteen year old girl who was scrawny as she was fearful — and nineteen year old David King — who refused to speak at all — were chosen. Their Mentors, however, were the topic of conversation. Ethan and Mia Winters. Many rumors circulated around the Capitol concerning the now-married couple. Apparently, Ethan Winters had pulled many strings to get Mia — previously Mia Jensen — out of her games alive. Most of the other Mentors had been bitter and they weren’t the most popular amongst the current pool of Victors. Except for Chris, who had a soft spot for the pair.

The Tributes for District Ten were named Bruce McGivern — a charismatic looking seventeen year old boy — and Fong Ling, who looked extremely intimidating for a fifteen year old girl. Their Mentor was somewhat of a flirt around the Capitol, Luis Serra. He was rumored to be similar to Ada Wong in terms of how he survived his life in the spotlight as a Victor. Sexual favors and the payment of secrets. He wasn’t bad to look at, you had to give him that.

The Reaping broadcast was close to an end as District Eleven brought forth an increasingly devastating Tribute. Twelve year old Natalia Korda was picked from the bowl and stood on the stage, trying her hardest not to cry. She seemed to have at least some last sliver of hope though as her male counterpart, Parker Luciani, seemed to want to try and take care of her.

Their Mentors were a mix, that’s for sure. Zoe Baker who seemed determined to get Natalia out alive, and Lucas Baker who was rumored to have lost his mind after his games. Another batch of siblings — God, the Capitol loved that.

Finally — and much to your relief — the District Twelve Reaping began. Chris and Claire had told you before of the Victor for Twelve. Jack Krauser. He was cutthroat and viscous and had a bad run in his games. He’d been chased through the jungle by Mutts, Mutts that no one knew looked like but were rumored to resemble his fellow deceased Tribute. So, ever since then, he’d been hellbent on making live a living hell for all of his Tributes. Somehow a twisted revenge on the Capitol.

His Tributes, however, caught your eye. Helena Harper, seventeen years old and volunteered for her younger sister. Noble, very noble of her. But it wasn’t Helena who caught your interest. Rather, it was the male Tribute.

Leon Kennedy — nineteen years old with golden hair and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. He looked mortified as his name was called, like he was wanted to drop dead then and there. You couldn’t blame him. Twelve had the least advantage. There were only around five Victors to come from Twelve in the history of the Games.

But there was something about him. Some innocent yet driven nature he had that made you lean forward in your seat, eyes glued to the screen. This did not go unnoticed by anyone in the room. Chris and Claire exchanged a look, Allium thought close to nothing of it. But Piers, he knew what it was. Fascination, the way your eyes widened and your focus never unwavering from the boy your age on the screen. The way he composed himself and took his fate with stride.

Something in you — all the survival instincts that Chris and Claire had put into you — it all vanished. And it was replaced by a lingering sense of fascination for this boy. And the need to make sure he made it out alive.

Even as the screen shut off and Allium mentioned something about having dinner served, you didn’t move. Not as Piers started up a conversation with Chris about what the arena may be this year. Not as Claire decided to come and sit beside you. You knew what was coming.

“What’re you thinking about?” She asked, looking at you as you sat on the sofa, eyes still trained on the blank television screen. She knew full well what you were thinking about. She wasn’t born yesterday. She just needed you to say it.

You sat in silence for a moment, pictures of Leon Kennedy running through your mind. He was from Twelve, you were from One. You weren’t supposed to mix. It was like oil and water. But, something about that boy drew you in. Maybe the kindness in his eyes that made it so obvious he wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe the way he’d quickly recovered and took his Reaping with stride. But no, there was just something about him. He wasn’t supposed to be subjected to this.

With this on your mind, you turned your head, looking at Claire as she awaited your answer. You knew this confession would damn you, you knew it could be the reason you may die in that arena. But consequences be damned. You knew that you had to do it.

“I’m thinking about how I can get that boy out alive.”

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loveharlow · 7 months

Text

SEVEN - 003

PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ [5.7k] based on 1x03.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mentions of death/grief, creepy older man behavior, pining/unrequited love, assault/mild violence

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

A/N‧₊˚ In regards to all published chapters, this one is my favorite.

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

YOU PICKED UP THE OBJECT, SLIDING IT TO JOHN B THROUGH THE CRACK IN THE STONE.

“That’s not gold.” Pope spoke despondently with a childish frown.

“Holy shit,” John B spoke, ignoring his friend's sadness. You climbed your way back out of the tomb, dropping next to JJ who helped you dust yourself off as JB continued speaking. “This is from my dad.”

It was a bittersweet moment, hope that maybe this wasn’t all for naught. However, the rev of an engine in the distance made your smiles drop, a golf cart pulling up in the distance. You all began shoving each other out of sight and behind the tomb, panic clearly present.

“John B, your light!”

“Turn your light off.” You all hissed at him, the boy being the only one with his source of light still bright and kicking. From your distance and the lack of daylight, none of you could tell whether it was the square groupers or not, but you all decided to throw all caution to the wind when it looked like the person in the driver’s seat had a gun.

“Screw this.” Kiara said, getting up and bolting, the rest of you following quickly behind her. You almost knocked one another over trying to jump the fence, everyone making it smoothly besides Pope, who managed to get stuck. By his pants.

In your rush, you all practically ripped the boy off the gate, leaving his pants behind before piling in The Twinkie and speeding off, giggles filling the vehicle.

“ARE YOU INTENTIONALLY IGNORING THE MOLD ON THAT BREAD?” You questioned, disgust written all over your face as JJ spread peanut butter all over the mold-ridden slice. You were back at the “safety” of The Chateau, waiting for John B to build up the courage to open the package — a large white FedEx envelope, ‘For Bird’ written across it, the nickname his dad had given him.

“I’ll just pull off the bad parts,” JJ reassured with a shrug, putting the slices together. “Plus, mold is good for you.” You made a sound of disgust before leaving the small kitchen space with the blonde trailing behind you, the two of you stopping behind John B who was seated, looking over his shoulder alongside Kiara and Pope.

Taking a deep breath, he ripped open the package quickly, JJ gagging behind your head after taking a bite of his sandwich, a sass-filled ‘told you’ leaving your lips as your eyes focused on the items John B was pulling out of the parcel.

The first thing was a map — black and white with notes on it. Coordinates, The Lighthouse and The Cut labeled on it, some kind of whirly drawing, and X marked over some area. The next thing was a tape recorder, blue, small and dusty.

John B paused for a moment before pressing play. The mechanism came to life, a static cassette-like sound coming through before a voice was heard.

“...Dear Bird,” The nearly forgotten sound of Big John’s voice filled your ears, just as deep and brassy as you remember, the southern twang in his speech causing a small smile to form. “I hate to say ‘I told you so’ but, I told you so. And you doubted your old man…I suspect at this moment, you’re filled with guilt and self-loathing over our last fight. But don’t kill yourself just yet, kid. I didn’t expect to find The Merchant either.”

You wondered if you heard that correctly. Big John had actually found The Royal Merchant? Looks were shared amongst the group but nobody said a thing, letting the recording continue.

“You were probably right to call me out. Wasn’t exactly father of the decade. What can I say, kid? I could smell the barn… hopefully we’re listening to this in our brand-new sugar shack down in Costa Rica, livin’ off passive investments and pulling on permits. If not, and you find this for less than optimal reasons, well…that’s what the map is for. There she is, The Wreck of The Merchant. If something happens to me, finish what I started. Go for the gold, kid. I love you, Bird, even if I didn’t always act like it…I’ll see you on the other side.”

And then the tape was ending, leaving you with a million more questions than you all had walked into this with. The house was silent, you all silently anticipating what John B was going to say or do. If he was going to cry or scream.

You sighed when the boy got up, chair scooting harshly across the floor as tears became evident in his waterline as he turned around and practically collapsed against the wall, sobbing. Hugging the structure as he slid down slowly, unable to fully hold himself up.

Kie was the first and only one to walk over to him, laying her head of curls against his shoulder blade in comfort.

“HOW MUCH WAS IT AGAIN?” JJ quizzed, the group of you sitting on the dock outside The Chateau in the middle of the night, nothing visible for miles. Just the stars in the sky and the sound of cicadas.

“Four hundred mil’.” Pope answered, staring out into the distance as he sat on the rail.

“All right, let’s talk the split.” JJ started. “Now, before you say evenly, may I remind you that I am the only that can properly defend us from those groupers who were after us?” He tried, whirling the gun around his finger. “Protection? Not cheap.”

“You’ve done zero training.” Pope reminded him as you taught Kiara chords on her ukelele and John B sipped mindlessly on a beer, paying no mind to the four of you.

“Youtube, bro!” JJ argued back. “That’s at least a five percent bump right there.”

All you could do was roll your eyes, Kiara’s strumming ceasing as she turned to Pope. “What’re you gonna do with your share, Pope?”

“...Pay for college in advance.” He nodded his head as he spoke with conviction, staring down at his knees. “And also textbooks. Those are expensive.” You couldn’t help but chuckle. You wondered what Pope was gonna do when he realized that school will come to an end one day. “What about you, Kie?”

“Yeah, what does a socialist do when she’s rich?” JJ poked.

“Just…wanna make a double album.” She shrugged cutely, a small smile playing on her lips. “‘Bout OBX, the pogues. Y’know, the way Catch a Fire is about Kingston. Record it at Marley Studio, Peter Tosh producing…”

You could help but make a face, turning to the girl next to you. “Peter Tosh is-”

“Peter Tosh is dead, I know. The Spirit of Peter Tosh will never die.” She spoke optimistically. “And what about you, huh?” She nudged your shoulder playfully. “Got any big plans for your cut?”

You stared up at the sky, a look of thoughtfulness on your face as you bit the inside of your cheek. “Travel.” You said simply, looking back at the friends around you. “With Marley, of course. Paris, Italy, Thailand, Japan… Oh! Bora Bora…” You spoke dreamingly. “I’d send you all postcards and, like, candy and shit from each place. I’d come back home every now and then, though.”

“You’d take the dog with you?” JJ questioned.

“Um, yes,” you answered like it was the easiest thing in the world. “...Marley and my guitar are the only things I really have left of my dad, everything else is memories and pictures, and I think taking Marley with me would be like taking him too, in a way. He always wanted to travel, anyway. Just never had enough money and too scared of planes. So, I hope the airlines are okay with me booking a first-class seat for a 65 pound Golden Retriever.” You chuckled.

“I know what I’m gonna do.” JJ shrugged nonchalantly.

“And what’s that, blondie?” You whipped your head towards him, kicking your feet against the wood.

“I’m gonna get a big ass house on Figure Eight and go full Kook. Gonna get a marble statue of myself, and then I’m gonna get a koi pond.” You and Kie couldn’t help but share a look, bursting out into giggles.

“I’m never visiting.” She said through her fit of giggles, JJ simply shrugging at her statement and throwing a piece of grass he'd been rolling into a ball at you.

“What’re you gonna do, JB?” Pope asked the boy who hadn’t spoken in almost an hour. You all anticipated his response, not even knowing if he would respond.

He simply smiled smally, not making any moves to look at you all. “...To going full Kook.”

IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING AND YOU HAD ALL ALREADY BOARDED THE HMS POGUE, A DAY OF SUNLIGHT NEVER WASTED. JJ whistled, lowering his shades and eyeing the boat coming towards you all and heading in the opposite direction. “You guys see that? That’s the Malibu 24-MXZ, the world's finest wakesetter. Number one in luxury, quality, and performance.” You liked seeing this “nerd” side of JJ — the one who knew heaps of information about bikes and cars and boats.

“I hate to break it to you guys but that’s Topper and his girlfriend.” Kie spoke nastily, eyeing the couple coming into clear view next to the five of you. The two blondes eyed the group of you down without shame, even behind their blacked out sunglasses you could tell.

Sarah lifted the aforementioned shades from her face, giving you all a distasteful glance, eyes lingering on you and Kie before averting her gaze back in front of her.

“You don’t have to act like you don’t see us, bitch.” Kie spoke, not yelling but loud enough for the couple to hear if they hadn’t sped past you all.

“Did you see the way Topper was clinging onto her?” You snarled, the statement directed more at Kie than anyone else. “I’d take more pride in the boat than her, if I were him. She’s probably already onto the next guy and he has no idea.” You concluded, sipping on your ice cold beer.

“SWEET LORD, THE INTERNET!” Pope practically cheered as the group of you ran into the study room of the Kook hotel that you were pretty sure you’d just snuck into. He ran to the computer, pulling out the map from John B’s backpack and wasting no time entering them into some website he was using, Earth Search. Lord knows how he found it but it was Pope you were talking about.

“34°57’30” north. 75°55’42” west…” He muttered, fingers going a mile a minute across the keyboard.

“The continental shelf?” John B queried over the boy’s shoulder.

“That’s off the deep end…” You pointed out, leaning over Pope’s other shoulder. The website continued zooming in on the destination, footsteps and voices outside of the closed door had all of your hearts pounding as you waited.

“It’s on the high side. That’s only 900 feet.” John B added after it had expanded enough.

“Only?” You questioned, eyeing him with a look that said ‘are you crazy?’.

“C’mon, that’s do-able.” JJ spoke up from behind all three of you. You turned to him with the same expression, standing up slightly from your bent over position and planting a hand on your hip.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Aquaman. Do you plan on guiding us down there?” You retorted.

“Will we be taking your personal submarine?” Pope backed up.

“Ha ha.” The blonde shot back at you both, grimacing. “No, smartasses. The salvage yard has a drone that can drop one-thousand. Three-sixty camera and everything. It’s exactly what we need.”

“Aaand can your dad get his grimy little hands on that?” John B asked.

“My dad’s grimy little hands are what got his ass fired. But the drone’s in the impound yard in the back.” Sly, hopeful smirks were shared amongst you all before you shot up, gathering everything and rushing towards the door, Pope at the end of the line shaking his head.

“Can’t we do anything legal for money?”

“WHY DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS AGAIN?” You asked from the back of the van that had just arrived at the impound lot.

“Because, you’re two hot teenage girls that have the power to entice the middle-aged man at the front gate.” John B told you bluntly. You curled your lip at his statement.

“That wasn’t creepy or mildly perverted at all… Let me out.” You demanded, JJ sliding open the van door to let you as Kie hopped out of the passenger seat.

The two of you walked the short distance to the truck you’d be driving around the corner to the impound lot, Kie swinging the keys around her finger.

“We got this?”

“Hell yeah.” You smiled, giving your best friend a low high-five and hopping into the vehicle, engine starting as she twisted the key.

It was less than two minutes before you pulled up the gate, spotting the man inside of the booth to the left. You both got out of the truck, waving your hands to gather the man’s attention.

“Hello?” Kie called. “Excuse me?” The man’s attention was diverted from whatever he was reading, your presence prompting him to get up and out of his seat, leaving the tiny building to approach the gate from the other side, a stoic expression on his face.

“Can I help you ladies?”

“Hi,” You flashed a bright smile, shoving your hands in the back pockets of your shorts. “We have a flat tire.” You pouted, not missing the way his eyes roamed your frame for the briefest of moments. “We were wondering if you could help us out?”

The security guard looked around for a moment, as if maybe this was something he wasn’t supposed to be doing before nodding. “Yeah.” A mischievous smirk spread across his face.

“Yeah?” You reiterated cutely as he retreated back into his booth to open the gate. You turned to Kiara with a knowing look on your face, a playful side eye.

“How do you do that?” She asked with a small chuckle. You simply shrugged.

“It’s all in the eyes.” You taunted, watching as the man returned. Leading him to the back of the truck, Kiara gave the guys, who’d been hiding, the signal to go.

“It’s this back one. Must’ve been a leak or something.” You gathered the older man’s attention, attempting to keep it on the truck for as long as possible.

“Probably just been sitting in the yard too long?”

“Yeah…” Kie cutely replied.

“I got this.” The guard replied, trying to seem all macho and manly. You watched as the three boys slipped their way into the gate. It was silent for a few moments as he worked on the tire and you and Kie tried to keep a non-suspicious look out.

Minutes passed before a dog’s bark was heard, loud and incessant. The security guard paused in his movements.

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?” You and Kiara said simultaneously, trying your best to act unbothered.

“Tebow’s got something…” He pondered aloud.

“Y’know how dogs are,” You scoffed with an awkward smile, trying to dismiss his concern. “He’s probably... terrorizing a squirrel or somethin’.” You offered.

“...Yeah, yeah.” It seemed to be a good enough answer as the man got back to working on the car. Suddenly, Kie was discreetly leaving your side and going to the other side of the truck, you questioned what she was up to before you heard the low hiss of air leaving a tire.

The guard must’ve heard it, too, his movements ceasing again before looking up. “Hey, where’d your friend go?”

“She, uh, had to pee really quick.” You tried to dismiss his concern carelessly.

“...There’s no bathroom out here.” He spoke, standing up to his full height now, equipment in hand.

“Y’know, how it is,” You chuckled nervously under your breath , shoulders square as you became visibly tense and tried to side-step and block his path. “When a girl’s gotta go…”

He didn’t say anything back, quickly walking past you in wide strides to the other side of the truck, catching Kiara releasing air from another tire. “What’re you doing?!” She stuttered to find words before the man was dropping the equipment and running into the impound lot.

Your hands gripped your hair. “Shit.” You cursed, scurrying to get back into the truck with Kie. There was nothing you could do to aid the boys now. You could only hope they had enough time to grab the gear and go as you and Kie sped off.

AFTER REUNITING WITH GUYS, who had successfully stolen the drone, Kie offered to feed everyone down at The Wreck. The sun had gone and it was nightfall, the diner lit up dimly by the time you’d all arrived in The Twinkie.

“What I would do with a beer and shrimp 'n grits right now…” JJ longed, hopping out of the door.

“Amen.” You agreed. “The crimes I would commit for a single fry right now are horrendous.” None of you anticipated how hungry stealing drones, flirting with creeps, and running from dogs would make you.

Upon entering The Wreck, you were met with shadowy lights and a few leaving guests, the restaurant close to its closing time. The boys ventured off into the seating area while you and Kie stuck around to greet her father.

“Hey, Mr. C.” You smiled, greeting the older man with a hug.

“Heyy, kid. It’s been a while. It’s good to see you smilin’.” He greeted back enthusiastically, patting a fatherly hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, dad.” The girl hugged her father. “How’d we do?”

The older man sighed, shaking his head and drawing his lips into a thin line. “Didn’t turn it over once.” You and Kie shared a look of pity for him, small frowns on each of your faces.

“It’s probably just bad luck because of the storm.” The brown-haired girl tried to reassure her father.

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to tell the banks that.” He grimaced.

“Guess now is not the best time to ask for free food for me and my friends?” She attempted sheepishly, peering back at the three boys eyeing the food like shelter dogs.

Her father’s demeanor did a complete one-eighty. “Look at them,” He started, eyeing the trio of boys with disgust. “They’re greedy pelicans. I told you to stop hanging out with them.” He told his daughter, eyes drifting to you. “The both of you...” He added.

You hated the way Mr. C spoke of the guys. They were your best friends and he, himself, used to live on The Cut. He talked about them like a purebred Kook, like someone who has never known poverty. Sometimes, you thought he held a grudge against you for bringing Kiara into your friend group with them. But you’ve known her just as long as them.

“Everybody at the Kook academy hates us, Dad.” She protested, shifting her weight and rolling her eyes.

“‘Cause you never gave them a chance.”

“We did give them a chance.” She argued back for the both of you, knowing you weren’t likely to step in against her own father. “They got all stuck up on us. They care more about shoes and coke than anything else, I mean, what’re we supposed to do with that?”. All the man could do was sigh, Kiara looking back and JJ, John B, and Pope pitifully. “Those are our friends.”

“Look…I gotta throw it out anyway, might as well take it.” He caved. Bright smiles broke out on both of your faces, the two of you encasing the man in a bear hug before releasing him and turning back to the three boys who were patiently waiting.

“Sit down.” Kie said, the guys cheering and pulling out seats. It wasn’t long before Mr. C brought the food out — french fries, crab legs, soda, chips.

The guys ate like they’d never eaten before. Maybe they really were hungry pelicans.

The Wreck had closed by the time you guys started eating though, allowing you to play music on the eatery speakers while you ate.

At some point Kie, who’d been dancing by herself, invited John B to get up and dance with her, the brunette accepting the invite. However, one absentminded glance to your left had you watching Pope, who was watching them. He looked sad.

You never thought about that — Pope having a thing for Kie. You couldn’t really picture that in your head but you still felt bad.

In a group of three guys and two girls, someone is bound to catch feelings for someone.

Breaking your gaze on Pope, you looked around to find JJ staring at you. You flashed him a smile and tossed a fry at him to which he caught in his mouth, you both bursting out with laughter.

THE FIVE OF YOU WASTED NO DAYLIGHT THE NEXT MORNING, testing out the gear the second the sun reached its peak. Kie and JB were under the water helping to test out the quality of the camera, both of their faces seen on the pixelated screen.

“God bless geeks, Pope. Truly.” JJ spoke over the boy's shoulder. You were sitting on the wooden railing, legs swinging and adorned in nothing but your bikini. “What would we do without you to control the drones?”

“Technically, it’s not a drone, it’s an ROV-”

“Shut up. Shut. Up. It’s too early for that right now.” You chuckled under your breath at JJ's dismissal, you wondered if JJ and Pope ever got tired of bickering. They were like brothers or an old married couple, either or. Just then, the pair in the water came up for air, John B shaking the water from his hair and being the first to speak.

“Hey, once we get footage of the wreck, we’ll bring it to a lawyer in town and file a formal claim.” He threw out. “We can go through your mom.” He directed the statement at you.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, even if they were squinted from the sun beaming in them. “I wouldn’t trust my mom to help us. It’s like she’s been in cahoots with Shoupe ever since we moved to Figure Eight and everyone knows he really works for Ward.”

“Why would we have to do all of that anyway?” JJ asked the boy in the water.

“There is a maritime salvage law.” Pope cut in. “You can’t just go to the ocean floor and scoop a bunch of stuff up.” You’d been examining the equipment while they talked amongst themselves. Noticing something before speaking up.

“The tether on the ROV is really long. In the wrong kind of weather, it could get pushed around.” You said, turning to face them. “We should go at dead calm. It’s our best option.”

“And today is not that day.” Pope said, eyeing the sky that was turning a dangerous shade of gray in the distance, a storm brewing.

“YOU THREE GET THESE GROCERIES TO FIGURE EIGHT. GET STRAIGHT BACK HERE WHEN YOU DONE.” Heyward told you, JJ, and Pope. “I promised delivery by this afternoon.”

He handed JJ the last of the groceries, the blonde piling them onto the platform in the middle of the boat before Pope got the engine going. Heyward’s boat moved faster than the HMS Pogue, you were on Figure Eight territory within minutes, the boys eyeing the properties and estates like puppies.

“It doesn’t even look like the storm hit here…” Pope said, astounded, staring down one of the bigger houses. He had a point, the house looked like the storm purposely moved out of its way.

“It’s ‘cause they got generators, bro.” JJ began, his disdain for Kooks peeking through in his tone. “And then they say the juice will be out all summer at The Cut.”

“It must be nice to be a Kook.”

“Lucky bastards.” JJ shook his head, you simply ignored them. They weren’t wrong and technically, you were now a Kook yourself so you had nothing to add.

Financially, you were a Kook. But you’d always be a pogue at heart.

“Isn’t that your place?” Pope pointed out, speaking to you. Your house was coming into view up ahead.

JJ whistled at it — the exterior was polished, the yard was kept, the trees were trimmed, no weeds or overgrown plants obstructing the view of the home. Your house wasn’t as old as most on Figure Eight, it has only just been built when your mom bought it a few months back. You could even see Marley running a muck in the yard from the boat.

“Look at that beauty. Must be nice going home to that every night, huh?” JJ poked.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the blonde. “You’d be surprised.”

YOU WERE ON YOUR LAST DELIVERY OF THE DAY, the three of you had split up to get the last of the orders done quicker. You and JJ had completed yours but Pope had to go through the golfing trail behind the Country Club, so you’d figured he hadn’t finished yet and you both decided to go after him.

“You can’t seriously tell me that you don’t like living on this side of the island.” JJ kept nagging about how much life had changed for you. You wished he would drop it.

“It’s not Figure Eight that I hate, JJ. It’s the people. I don’t know them and they’re all assholes.” You started, walking alongside the blonde, watching the Country Club members golf. “I’d feel safer taking a walk on The Cut at night than I would here. Might get jumped by some coked up college kids.”

“Meh.” He started. “I wouldn’t let that happen. And if it did, y’know we’d find those guys and kill ‘em. Rocky Balboa style.” He joked, throwing air punches and making sounds that made you laugh.

“What the hell?”

You heard someone exclaim in the distance, you and JJ sharing a look as your laughter died and you slowed in your steps. The voice sounded eerily like Pope.

“You owe me for that!”

The pair of you started sprinting, arriving just in time to catch Topper swing Pope to the ground after snatching the beers he was supposed to be delivering out of his hands. Pope was shoeless and his hat had come off, sand and blood littering his face.

“What the fuck?” You yelled, not even taking into account Rafe’s presence at the moment.

“Hey, hey!” JJ shouted, running over to Topper and snatching him up by his collar. You didn’t know what was happening, all you know was that all of a sudden, Pope was charging at Rafe who was quick to whack him in the stomach with his golf club before hitting him over the back with it.

The sound of metal hitting his spine caused you to flinch. “Stay down, bitch!” Rafe screamed. You stood frozen in place, a fear you’ve never felt before. But you knew why. You were hoping, praying, pleading that he wouldn’t notice you were standing there. That he’d be too caught up in his own rage to see you.

Topper had managed to push JJ off of him in an effort to calm Rafe. You took the opportunity, with Rafe’s eyes on Topper, to try and aid your beaten friend. You kneeled next to him as JJ stood angrily off to the side, probably making sure Rafe wouldn’t try to pull anything else.

“Pope…” You muttered, voice laced with concern as you examined his face — blood between his teeth and sand in his eyes.

Your hair was shielding your face slightly from Rafe’s view, you were sure. “Hey, no, don’t help him,” He started, raving and ranting. “I said don’t fucking help him!”

Breaking past Topper’s defense, the man stomped toward you before kicking you over, a grunt falling from your lips. With you now laying in the sand on your back, clutching your side in pain, he could see your face clearly with your hair splayed around you, no longer obstructing his view.

“Leave them alone!” JJ tried, but Rafe was quick to swing the club in his direction as Topper stood anxiously behind him, but his eyes were still on you. You hadn’t seen him in months, the same goes for him to you. All he did was chuckle, a laugh with no amusement behind it as he crouched down above you.

Even while you were in pain, you managed to glare at him, a mean snarl on your lips as you tried to control your breathing but every intake of air hurt. “Where you been hidin’, sunshine?” He spoke softly but so menacingly. When his finger trailed across your bottom lip, you used whatever energy you had left to bite down on the digit. Hard. “Ah- fuck! You stupid bitch! I’ll-” He lifted the club up, preparing to slam it back down until Topper gripped his shoulder.

“They got it, man! Let’s just go.” He urged, Rafe eyeing your figure on the ground, breathing heavily like a bull. His eyes then scanned JJ and Pope before he spoke.

“We don’t want you over here, you got that?” He warned angrily, eyes landing on you once more. “Any of you.” That was all he wrote before Topper was pulling him away from the scene, the two boys disappearing.

Your mind was racing a mile a minute, probably faster. You rolled over, ignoring the searing pain in your side as you pushed yourself up. You felt a hand on your arm , trying to help you but for some reason...it just made you angry.

“I got it.” You strained out.

“Let me help you-” JJ tried.

“I don't need your help, JJ!” Then his hand was reluctantly leaving your arm and offering it to Pope who brushed him off in a less aggressive manner as you stood to your full height, a slight limp as you began walking away.

The walk back to the boat was silent — suffocatingly so. Nobody said anything when you boarded, or when Pope got the engine running, or when you passed all the houses on Figure Eight.

You didn’t expect JJ to sit next to you, especially after yelling at him. “Listen, I don’t know what happened out there, alright? And maybe you’ll tell me or maybe you won’t but I mean seriously, are you guys just gonna let them get away with that?” He scoffed angrily.

“What’re we supposed to do?” Pope shot back.

“I don’t know, something, man! Anything!”

“...Turn the boat around.” You spoke up from where you were sitting, an idea sparking in your rage-filled mind.

“AND WHY NOT RAFE’S BOAT?” JJ spoke up from your place across the water, eyeing down Topper’s brand-new boat.

“Because,” You started, stripping down to your bikini. “Rafe doesn’t have boats. They all belong to Ward. This? This is Topper’s personal possession. So, we go for him.”

The answer seemed satisfactory enough for the blonde as Pope also took off his shirt. “They hit us, we hit them.” He said before turning to you specifically. “I know you’re a swimmer-slash-diver and all but I don’t think you should be swimming in your...condition.” He warned, eyeing the large bruise blooming along your side.

“I’ll be fine.” Was the last thing you said before jumping into the water, Pope splashing in close behind you. You both swam your way over to the speed-boat, jumping onto it. It took seconds for Pope to release the seal that kept the boat from sinking, water bubbling into the base of the wakesetter as you threw your fist against the windshield, effectively cracking the glass.

The pair of you dove back into the water, making your way back to a bandana and sunglasses clad JJ who was waiting. Climbing back on to the boat, Pope handed JJ the plug to which he chucked farther into the ocean.

“You can’t tell anyone.” Pope spoke breathlessly, watering dripping down his frame.

“I won’t, dude-” JJ assured

“No, not anyone. Not Kie, not John B, nobody, got it?”

“Got it.”

NIGHT HAD FALLEN ONCE AGAIN. It was like it never ended as of recently. You were all back at The Chateau, the events of earlier still fresh on your mind and the ache in your side still throbbing to remind you.

“You really think it’s out there?” Pope asked JB. The boy simply shrugged in response.

“My father thought it was.”

“...But do you?” Pope reiterated. The sound of crickets and cicadas filled the silence as you all waited for him to answer, thunder rumbling in the distance.

“After hearing his voice on that tape? I think I do.”

“We’re gonna find it.” Kie reassured.

JJ yawned, stretching on the hammock you two were sharing with Kie as Pope and JB shared the other. You and JJ were squished on one end with her on the other. “I’m gonna dream about shipwrecks.” He spoke through his exhaustion, his arm somehow landing behind your neck and curling it towards him, effectively shoving your face into his neck. “And I’m taking this one with me.”

“JJ!” You muttered against his skin as they all laughed. "Let go of me, Maybank!" Your muffled voice came through as you struggled to push the blonde away.

“Shh, just let it happen.”

IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING AND YOU WERE STILL HALF-SLEEP BY THE TIME YOU’D BOARDED THE BOAT. John B wanted to get a head start on this whole ‘X marks the spot’ thing and you’d reached the spot where the Royal Merchant was allegedly sunk by noon.

“Alright, ladies and gentleman,” The brunette spoke, far too chipper for how early it was. “To going full Kook!” He cheered as he and Kiara lowered the ROV into the water slowly. They fed the cord down inch by inch, monitoring everything and JJ steered the boat.

“Alright, JJ we’re right over it!” JB called out. “Ten seconds northwest!”

“Ten seconds northwest, got it.”

You were leaning against the side of the boat, watching the screen with Pope as you struggled to keep your eyes open. The morning breeze hit you every now and then, in nothing but your bathing suit and a large shirt, a lazy attempt to avoid questions about what happened to your side until you could come up with an excuse that your friends would believe.

When Kie was about 400 feet of rope deep, thunder rumbled in the sky, causing your eyes to examine the ocean. “The tide’s turning.” You warned tiredly, perking up slightly at the change of events. John B directed JJ to change the direction of the boat, over and over again until they got it right.

The storm was getting scarily close, so close you could see it building in the distance. It suddenly got strong, pushing the boat back by at least a couple of feet. It became a frantic fight against the storm, with Kiara warning John B that they may lose the ROV and John B instructing JJ on how to navigate the boat while you and Pope kept an eye on the visuals.

Kiara was at 950 feet and you and Pope still couldn’t see anything, even when JJ managed to steady the boat once again.

“Okay, we’re on the floor.” You announced, signaling to Kie that she could stop feeding the rope.

“You should be seeing something-”

…

“You see anything?!” JJ called from behind the wheel, the four of you staring at the screen in disbelief and relief.

“It’s The Royal Merchant.” John B said as you all watched the ship come into view, clear as day.

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

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charnelhouse · 2 years

Text

mausoleum (2)

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader (other pairings later) Wordcount: 4.5K Warnings: gore. ptsd. references to captivity and torture. implied cannibalism. implied sex. there are mentions of hair. blood transfusion. needles. Summary: Red is grievously injured. 141 races against the clock to save her. A/N: Many thanks to @sprout-fics and @moondirti for reading through this because my damn eyes were crossing. Also, huge thanks to @ghostaholics who helped me with all the blood transfusion nonsense and ghost thots in general

Chapter 1

The rain continued to pour down with a violence. The pharmacy was cold-the kind of cold that was trapped in the linoleum and sunk into Price’s skin. Red’s hair had fallen out of its binding-spreading across the dirty floor. The blood was syrupy and dark as mud. Her eyelids hung heavy; her lips parted around uneven breaths. As if time had shifted, Price was suddenly seeing something else: Red Fox lying on that metal table in Kursk, her wrists bone-thin and strapped down. Her face so swollen it was nearly unrecognizable.

It had only been a month. How could they have done the damage they’d done in a single month?

But Price wasn’t an idiot, and he hadn't been an idiot then. He knew their enemies would have seen Red as something worth destroying. The sounds the men of 141 had made at the sight of her would never quite leave him. Incredulity. Shock. Rage. A wellspring of sadness had taken up residence within their circle. Red had been precious to them. Perhaps it was unfair to say that, but it was true. Regardless of what her and Simon had been, she’d also embedded herself into each of their lives and refused to move. She fought well. She survived better.

Having to witness her be completely broken had destabilized them. It was as if the sky had cracked and fallen. The stars had collapsed against them and they could not push them back up.

Now, she had been nearly killed again.

Soap’s low cursing brought him back to the present. Johnny was hovering over her still form, his fingers gently pulling at the blood-drenched scarf Ghost had wrapped around her shoulder.

She was conscious, but her coloring was worrisome. Soap worked on her vitals, revealing a penlight from his vest to check her eyes. The backdoor to the pharmacy jingled and Ghost whirled around, gun aimed. It was only Gaz.

“They had nothing,” he said, stalking down the aisle. “Guns had no bullets so it was all for show.”

Price rubbed his jaw, feeling the tender hump of a bruise from a hit he’d taken outside. Cannibals. He hadn’t been surprised, though he felt like it was too soon for that level of desperation. They were probably the individuals who’d always wanted to-unafraid to commit something that barbaric when cans of food remained on the shelves. He’d seen men like that, especially in the military. They were the ones who signed up because they wanted a license to kill.

He glanced to his left where Red’s attacker lay, his head twisted at the wrong angle.

Good riddance.

If they hadn’t gotten here sooner…fuck. He didn’t want to think of that. She’d certainly been through enough with Kursk only a year or so before. Truthfully, it felt somewhat cosmic. Price was a logical man. He believed in what he could see, taste and feel. But after the outbreak, he had lost contact with his reason.

Today had been lucky.

“Christ!” Gaz exclaimed once he spotted Red on the floor. “She alright?”

“Obviously,” Red replied before Price could. The words were faint, whistling past her lips. “Hi, Kyle.”

“Hey, darling.” Gaz’s eyes swung to Price. His expression worried.

“Captain,” Soap murmured, turning to look up at him. The “captain” had stayed though Price had told them that they were all on equal footing. He supposed it was easier for them to remain in their positions. It allowed order. Familiarity.

The fact was that there were no clear plans left. There were no predictable outcomes. Everything was belly-up, ass backwards. Fucked beyond comprehension. It made his teeth itch and his chest hurt.

“What is it?” Ghost asked, striding past Price and crouching down beside Red. His gravelly voice was cut with a vulnerability he didn’t bother hiding. Ever since Red had been placed on leave, Ghost wasn’t himself. He’d been less cautious and more aloof if that was possible. He took mission after mission and then hid away in his room. Price watched as Ghost’s hand automatically went to her shoulder, his thumb finding her jaw to stroke it briefly before he moved it away. Another memory from Kursk shuddered through Price’s head.

“You know what they fucking did to her,” Ghost choked out. He was losing it, completely falling apart. “You saw the reports. What the doctor said. What she said. She fucking remembers everything and-and I wasn’t there.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You know it is. If I hadn’t run…fuckin’ hell…if I hadn’t run…” Ghost couldn’t finish the sentence.

”I can patch it for now,” Soap explained. “But I need more supplies. We’re runnin’ low.” He chewed his lip as he glanced down at the black bag beside him. “Everything is soaked in rain water and mud. I’m nervous she’ll get an infection.”

Red suddenly lifted her head, fingers twitching against her stomach. “House,” she rasped, lashes fluttering. She coughed and Ghost wordlessly curled his arm around her shoulders before subtly maneuvering himself behind her so that she could rest against his chest. It was an intimate move. She was a little thing and Ghost was unnaturally tall and broad. With her collapsed against him, it emphasized how Ghost dwarfed her in every way. They fit well together.

“What’d you say, love?” Soap urged, nudging her hair away from her face. “Your house?”

She nodded weakly before looking at Price. It took her a worrisome amount of effort to move her eyes. “Up the road. We-we have supplies…Price knows where it is.”

“I do,” he confirmed. “Soap—bandage her shoulder and we’ll get her there.”

“Aye,” Soap said as he began to rummage through his bag. Abruptly, he stopped. “Did she say we?”

***

The rain spat at them while the dense mud packed their boots. Thank god for the road. Gaz sat on the horse with Red, his arms secure around her waist as she rested against his torso. They’d swamped her in their dirty, sweat-soaked jackets to keep her warm. Beneath her hood, the tip of her nose and strands of her hair were the only things visible.

The path was eerie, cloaked in a veil of mist and shadow. Price had seen the occasional body off to the side, rubbery limbs hidden in the grass or trees. He’d experienced a lot of fucking death in his life, but the kind he was witnessing daily made him prickle. It was wrong. You expect corpses on the battlefield, but not outside a quaint village and wearing giraffe-print galoshes.

They walked in a single file line. He took the front with Soap. Ghost at the rear, shadowing the horse holding Red and Gaz.

“So,” Soap began as he inched closer to Price. “Have you been to her home before?”

“No,” Price’s fingers itched for a cigarette. “She recently inherited it from her parents. Before she left, she gave me the address.”

“It’s big I presume?”

Price chuckled. “It’s got its own wikipedia page.”

They’d come here for a few reasons. One-he’d wanted to find Red. She was part of their group. She was his family. She was vital and he wouldn’t leave her out here. Truth be told, he’d been scared. He knew her mental state when she’d been put on leave. She was in perpetual rigor mortis—her mind completely brutalized from what had happened to her in Russia. Even he didn’t know everything they’d done to her, though he could guess from her medical records. When he’d sat beside her hospital bed, she’d been so raw that he’d been terrified to say the wrong thing. He’d attempted to be a physical presence, offering her quiet words of comfort, but then she had left. She’d been effectively kicked out and Price wished he’d done better by her.

It was why he’d been so adamant to find her.

The idea of Red in isolation as the world ended left him stricken. He’d called and called, attempted to find her on the radio, but had only been met with static.

The second reason was that he figured moving away from the cities and into farmland was their best option. Many of the great castles and estates had been running since the middle ages. They’d be ideal shelters when modern infrastructure ceased. No gas. No electricity. They’d go old school.

He hadn’t really asked for the other’s opinions when he’d made the plan. 141 had been forced to flee the barracks, seeking refuge in one of their previous safehouses outside Edinburgh. After he was unable to make contact with Red again, Price had walked into the room, ready to declare the mission, but Ghost had beaten him to it.

“Red?” he’d asked, his mask pale in the dark. His head bent forward with his massive shoulders hunched. Ghost had been a fucking mess, forlorn and deeply angry.

That was all he had to say. Red. The rest didn't matter. Where else would we go? What else would we do? Because they couldn’t move forward without confirming if she was alive or dead.

“Yeah,” Price had replied. “We’re going to find her.”

We’re going to find our girl.

In the distance, Price could see the road split. The entrance to the estate was to the right. He could make out the looming iron gate. There was so much greenery, overwhelming foliage.

Before they’d left the pharmacy, Red had described the traps she’d set up around the property.

Be mindful of areas with too many leaves. Also, a bunch of trip wires. You’ll get your head shot off.

“God,” Soap drawled. “I missed you.”

“Such a sicko,” Gaz snickered, reaching out to take Red’s hand.

Slowly, but surely the enormous house came into view. You could only make out the tips of the estate's spires rising above the trees. Red’s family crest gleamed from the center of the gate’s bars.

Soap whistled. “That ‘duchess’ nickname was a little on the nose. Thought Simon came up with that.”

“He did, but I don’t think he really knew Red was-” He gestured vaguely in front of him. “-all this.”

“Captain!” Gaz shouted and Price whipped around, gun raised and ready. Even from a distance, it was apparent that Red had gone boneless, head lolling forward.

Simon was already beside the horse, his hands disappearing beneath Red’s hood to engulf her face and lift it up. Soap cursed and sprinted toward them.

“She wasn’t responding to me,” Gaz hissed, voice tense with unease. He grimaced as he lifted his arm to reveal the front of his shirt awash in blood. “I-I didn’t realize-everything’s fuckin’ soaked from the rain.”

“Open her jacket,” Soap ordered and Ghost ripped at the top of it, pulling it away from her body. Crimson sheeted down her chest, soiling her thin shirt. Ghost’s hands slipped from her arms to her cheeks, cupping them and incidentally smearing blood across her jaw and chin.

“Jesus fuck, Johnny!” Ghost’s tone was one Price had heard only a few times in his life. It was wrinkled with nervousness–unhinged fear. “Did you not wrap it right?”

“I did!” Soap sealed his hand to her shoulder, but it was impossible to see shit in the rain. “Could have nicked an artery and we just—just didn’t know.” She was ashen, a waxy sheen clinging to her pallor.

Price steeled himself. “How much can she lose?”

He wouldn’t crack. Not here. He couldn’t afford it when everything was already bad enough.

“Twenty to thirty-five percent?” Soap checked her pulse. “Her heart rate is accelerating.”

“God damn it,” Ghost growled, his eyes darting from her shoulder to her rapidly deteriorating color. “Red?” He shook her gently and her head lolled. She made a soft, whimpering noise before going quiet. “C’mon, Red—wake up for me.”

Her brow furrowed, her lids parting a crack before they shut again. Simon swallowed thickly, the muscles in his neck spasming. The hem of his black mask had ridden up to reveal blonde hair stained dark from rain and sweat.

“Simon–” Price tried before the larger man suddenly straightened, snapping to attention.

Wordlessly, Ghost repacked the sodden gauze into the wound and rewrapped her shoulder. He shoved his gun at Soap and lifted her clean off the horse. He maneuvered her into his arms, cradling against his chest.

“I can take her, Simon,” Gaz protested.

“No,” he replied flatly. “Have to avoid the trip wires and you can’t see shit from a horse.” He began to move toward the house. “Price-be my eyes here. Don’t want to get shot. Johnny–what do we need?”

He was holding her like she was a fragile egg, stalking towards the looming iron gate without jarring her. Soap and Price jogged after them.

“Needle, blood bag, a rubber tube,” he replied. The storm had picked up again and Price wondered if God was fucking with them. “A donor.”

“I’ll give it to her,” Ghost said without skipping a beat. “I’ve done it before…” he trailed off and the rain washed out the rest of his words.

***

Simon couldn’t think, at least not in a straight definitive line. Not good. He was capable of coldness on the field. He could patch one of his teammates up with one hand while shooting with the other.

But, Red? Different. So fucking different.

He’d broken the man’s neck in the pharmacy, but too little too late. She’d still been hit and she was now close to death. He rushed through the front gate, stepping over the wires that Red had described before she’d gone quiet. He should have been more aware. He should have been watching her the second she’d stopped speaking on that damn horse. It was torture as he attempted to race toward the front door of the estate while keeping her comfortable. He felt as if he was straddling a knife edge, kicking up gravel as rain water sluiced into his vision.

The air was frigid. The wind was biting at his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured through the wet seal of his mask. “You’ll be alright.”

Simon hauled ass up the stone steps just as Soap barreled past him to open the door. It was locked.

“Fuck,” Soap punched the wood before turning to Ghost. “We can break a window?”

“Ghost,” Gaz shouted–a warning.

Soap punched the door again, his knuckles splitting.

“Ghost!”

“What?” he roared, whirling around to find a woman aiming a gun at them that was far too big for her. She glared, long dark hair falling in limp strands around her face. She was dressed in only shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Her green rain boots were covered in mud.

“Who the fuck–” Her eyes fell to Red and she blanched, her mouth gaping in shock. “Oh my god!”

Soap stepped in front of Simon and Red. “Alright, lass-”

She lifted the gun higher. “What did you do to her, you fuckin’ assholes.”

Gaz slid around her, hands up.

“Nothin’,” Gaz defended, voice steady and calm. “Look–we’re friends of Red’s. She got attacked in the village and she’s bleedin’ out-”

“How do I know you didn’t do it yourself?” The girl's lip trembled. “You-you could be using her as bait and-”

“WE DON’T HAVE FUCKING TIME FOR THIS!” Ghost bellowed. The girl flinched and Gaz slipped between them. Always the voice of reason.

“She’s dying,” he explained. “Please let us in-”

Price appeared behind her and seamlessly snatched the gun from her hands. “Safety’s still on, love.”

Startled, she nearly stumbled backwards over the steps before Gaz grabbed her by the arms, tugged her to him, and locked her against his chest. “Will you open the door now?”

Simon was done. He felt real fear begin to pour out of him, his whole frame shivering with it. He was taking on water too fast. He was sinking. Rage. Terror. He could not accommodate them both. He glowered at the woman, vowing to kill her if Red died. “Open. The. Door.” His threat spurted between his clenched teeth. His tone was frigid-dark and unyielding.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay–Slim–Slim said never to open it for anyone even if-if-”

Gaz released her and when she stepped toward the door, Simon realized she was crying. The rain had disfigured her features.

“Just open the door, love,” Price murmured. He squeezed her shoulder and guided her closer. She winced when she brushed past Simon.

Visibly shaking, she pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked it.

***

It was utter chaos. They’d placed on the table, her injury no doubt staining the expensive wood. Simon scanned the kitchen and found it unadorned. It was all stone and wood, enormous and obviously meant to be utilized by an entire staff. He assumed that only the appliances had been updated, the rest was centuries old. He blew out a breath, feeling uneasy. The corners of the room were shadowed by the storm that howled outside. The windows provided little light and the woman-Bambi-was lighting several candles. Price and Gaz were searching for medical supplies in the storage closet across the room. Red had apparently invested in a plethora of equipment and tools long before the pandemonium had begun.

Good girl - Simon thought. Red had always been one to prepare rather than wait for the other shoe to drop.

“What happened?” Bamb was hovering beside the table, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. She looked dazed, eyes focusing on the crimson-drenched bandages at the base of Red’s neck. Soap removed a pair of scissors from his bag and began to cut through her shirt.

Bambi winced. “Oh-don’t-she doesn’t have many-”

“It’s fucked, lass,” Soap replied bluntly. “You should maybe sit in the next room.”

“I can handle it,” she returned with conviction. “I’ve…” she swallowed. “I’ve seen worse.”

Soap shrugged before removing the bandages. Heart thundering in his chest, Simon watched as Red’s blood spilled in rivers, pooling beneath her. Immediately, he flattened his palms to the wound.

“Steamin’ Christ,” Soap rumbled before yelling at Gaz to bring him more gauze. He turned to Bambi. “You have small hands.” He gestured to the large first-aid kit on the table. “Find the sewing kit, clean and thread a needle for me.”

There was red up to his elbows, everything drenched and slippery. The room stank of pennies. Tasted like he’d licked a metal instrument. Blood had never bothered Simon before, but he was beginning to feel lightheaded. That’s fear.

“She’ll be alright,” Soap muttered, glancing momentarily at Simon before focusing on Red’s face. “She’s survived worse, yeah?”

Simon steeled himself, aware that he couldn’t lose his head here. It was bad. Her coloring was frightening and how could they have been so stupid to not have realized she’d been fading out?

“Foolish girl.” Simon grunted as a deep, unsettling frustration began to simmer beneath his skin. Typical Red. Fucking martyr. Probably, felt herself losing consciousness, but didn’t want to be a bother.

Anger was an easier emotion to carry. Anger had been the feeling he’d harbored when she’d told him about her condition right before Kursk. He’d run away from her. He’d been an immature fucking child and left her. He’d been inexplicably pissed at her and for what? Something totally out of her control. A complete accident that they were both responsible for.

“We can figure this out, Simon,” she’d told him. “We don’t have to make any rash decisions. We don’t-we don’t even have to go through with it.”

“I-I just need some time,” he’d said. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back and we can-we’ll talk.”

He’d gone on a mission. Left her. It was only supposed to be for a couple of days, but she’d been so upset and desperate for her own distraction that she’d taken on a mission herself. A simple recon assignment.

He had never forgiven himself when she didn’t come home.

“Simon,” Price had said, meeting him the second he’d stepped off the helicopter. “Simon-”

His stomach had dropped. He’d known it was about her by the look on Price’s face.

“Where is she?” he’d growled and Price’s expression dismantled into something distressed.

“We don’t know,” he replied. “There was an explosion. She got separated.We-we think the Kursk faction took her.”

Next to Red, Price had always been Simon’s anchor in certain situations. He was reliable and he withstood every horrible disaster thrown at him. But when Red had been taken prisoner, the Captain had been visibly shaken.

“Alright-shit’s about to get really messy,” Soap said as he yanked on a pair of latex gloves.

“Here!” Bambi passed Soap the threaded needle. Soap had become the resident medic only because he had nimblest hands from dismantling bombs. He’d also picked up quite alot when he’d been fucking one of the nurses a few years back.

“Hopefully she doesn’t feel this,” Soap murmured before he poured rubbing alcohol over the angry slit.

Red’s eyes flew open, mouth slanting into a gasp. She twitched and moaned before attempting to shove Soap away.

“Hold her, hold her,” Soap gritted. “I won’t be able to close it.”

Simon placed one hand on her uninjured shoulder and the other on her face. His palm encased it-spanning the entire side of her cheek and temple. Price appeared at the end of the table and held her legs down.

Simon said her name softly. Her real one. He said it the same way he used to say it when it was just them and the morning and her shitty narrow bed and they’d probably just had tender, desperate sex. Her eyes found his and Simon smiled before realizing she couldn’t see it due to his mask.

She hiccuped, her chest hitching. She was beginning to cry.

“She needs to calm down,” Price barked. “Simon-”

Fuck it.

Simon ripped off his mask and threw it somewhere. Even though all of his enemies were likely dead, the mask still served as a crutch. It was still his armor.

But Red needed him.

Simon readjusted his grip and lowered his face so that it hovered over her own. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he demanded. “Look at me.” She blinked at him rapidly before she seemed to focus. Her lips twitched into what could have been a smile. It broke something inside him.

“I’m here, alright,” he continued. “We’re all here. We’re just sewing you back up so we need you to relax.” The stench of blood and disinfectant wafted from the table. It stained his boots and hands. He drowned in it.

Her mouth moved, but he couldn’t understand what she was trying to say.

“Only a flesh wound, duchess.” His voice was dangerously close to cracking. He couldn’t find his direction. He couldn’t find much of anything when she looked so fragile.

It’s fine. We’re okay now. Out of the woods.

And then shit went south.

Red’s lashes fluttered, her eyes rolling back. Simon reached down to grip her wrist. “Her pulse is elevating, Johnny.”

Soap cursed.

“What’s happening?” Bambi asked. Simon took a deep breath in an effort to hold it together. He jammed his aching terror into his guts because he knew Red needed him strong. She needed him to be solid and dependable.

“She’s going into shock,” Soap explained before he continued to stitch her now that she had gone fairly still, pinned to the table by Simon and Price. He was sewing faster than Simon had ever seen him do before. It would be a mess, but it would save her life.

“Thatta girl, Foxy,” Soap cooed even though she was hardly cognizant. “Doing beautifully, lass.” He cast Gaz a sharp look over his shoulder. “Start on Ghost. Price can help me.”

Simon didn’t need to be told twice as he dropped into one of the chairs. It creaked violently beneath his weight. He ripped at the buckles and straps of his vest before removing it and his jacket.

“Lucky for us, Red apparently stole multiple sorts of kits.” Gaz lifted an oven tray with a catheter set, elastic and needles.

“She raided the medical facilities nearby before anyone even knew what was going down,” Bambi said. “Went a little overboard.”

“Typical.” Soap grinned as he poured antiseptic over her shoulder. She was unresponsive, which caused him to frown. “She used to tell us what she’d do in a zombie apocalypse. The girl was ready.”

Gaz slid next to Simon and lifted his left arm, flicking at the inside of his elbow. Simon curled his hand into a fist while Gaz secured the elastic around his bicep, the black rubber blended into the ink scrawled across his skin. It pressed deep into his Fox tattoo.

Her gaze was locked to the top of his bicep. She squinted, her tongue darting along the cracked flesh of her lower lip. With a gentle finger, she traced the tattoo, her expression melded into a soft sort of wonder. After a moment, her eyes watered and she blinked it away.

“A fox?” she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Is that for me or another lady?”

He scowled. “Don’t be cheeky, duchess.”

Undeterred, she grasped his bicep and kissed the tiny fox. His declaration for her. He couldn’t help the shudder that vibrated through his bones. The warm, wet pressure of her pretty mouth. A devastating feeling burned through him as he watched her, small and beautiful and his. He must protect her, curl himself around her. Destroy everything else. Start at the root and tear it from the soil. Any fucking threat to her safety.

Well, he had failed her. Spectacularly.

Gaz pierced Simon’s vein with the needle before directing it into a tube. He sighed, shaking away the dizziness. He was dehydrated and hungry and on no sleep, but it hardly mattered.

Soap took the other needle and elastic before tying it around Red’s right arm. The IV catheter sat between Simon and Red as the dark - nearly black blood - was transferred between them.

Simon studied her intently, feeling that if he looked away she’d die. Her heart would stop right on that table and he’d never be able to speak to her again.

Red had been human for him. He’d watch her cry after a tough mission and she’d allow him to hold her. Burrow her face into his chest, cling to him and sometimes they’d fuck and sometimes they wouldn’t. Simon demanded her tears. Give them to me, love. Let me take your pain and I’ll never fucking forgive myself for being so late—for being unable to find you when you needed me most. Yes - he had failed her spectacularly and it felt as if he’d failed her again.

Your heart is soft, duchess.

It is not.

Soft as Soap’s.

Soft for you, maybe.

Gaz taped the needle to his arm, helping Simon elevate it just enough. Simon braced his elbows on his knees as he studied her skin and its new scars. He hadn’t even realized she was completely bare on top. He felt a weight drop in his gut-a basket of stones turn over beneath his ribs. Most of those marks were from Kursk. He swallowed. Rage. Again, rage. It set his nerves on fire and made his muscles spasm.

You killed them. You killed all of them for what they did. You tore them apart.

Suddenly, Simon reached out and took her hand. Due to their size difference, it was utterly dwarfed in his grip. He dragged his thumb across the vein in her wrist and felt the delicious thrum of it.

“Her color is coming back, L.T.,” Soap acknowledged before finally stepping away from the table and dragging both hands down his face. He exhaled loudly. “Christ–I think I’ve lost a year off my life.”

Bambi glanced at him. “She’ll live?”

“Looks like it. Just pray she doesn’t get an infection.”

Simon prayed.

***

Please share/reblog your thoughts, babes!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #captain john price x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #captain john price #johnny soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #cod fanfiction #cod mw22 #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #john price #ghost x reader #ghost fanfiction

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andreawritesit · 5 months

Text

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: Aizen x Wife!Reader

Warnings: none really.

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

Prologue: Here

Chapter 1

Time had passed. Hinamori had recovered almost fully and the Soul Society was starting to regain the peace that had been disturbed by the treacherous captains. Head Captain Yamamoto had finally issued a statement regarding the betrayal and the ex-captains. The three squads left without their captains were being monitored by their lieutenants for the time being. After trying really hard to ignore the memories, you had finally taken up on Ukitake’s offer and moved to another room. Aizen’s face haunted you day and night. Not the one you were used to, the one with glasses resting on his nose and a kind smile on his face, no. The face that had taken over your dreams was the one he unveiled while leaving the Soul Society; the one that no longer had strands of hair decorating it, the one that had discarded the kindness from itself. With the vast lifespan shinigami had, you wondered if any amount of time would ever heal the scars he had left on your soul. Whatever short amount of time you had felt peaceful was once again destroyed by Aizen’s schemes. Orihime Inuoe had been on her way back to the World of Living when she disappeared halfway. Every possibility was taken into account and an emergency meeting had been scheduled with the Captains and lieutenants present in the World of Living. Upon hearing that Orihime had apparently healed Ichigo’s injuries, Yamamoto had decided that she had defected on her own and declared her a traitor. That hadn’t stopped the orange-haired man from heading to Hueco Mundo by himself. All that had led to this:

You were currently with Kisuke Urahara, the banished ex-captain of squad 12. You were helping him with transporting the real Karakura town to Soul Society as word had spread that Aizen would be attacking the town shortly. You had nearly lost your mind by this point. After all, you’d be seeing him again. You were sitting on the roof of a house, thinking over how your reunion with your traitor of a husband would go. Would he even acknowledge your presence? He hadn’t hesitated to stab his loyal lieutenant. What if he had also never cared for you, even once? What if he decided to kill you too? Would you be able to strike him back?

“Ahem.” You turned around at the sound of the very obviously fake cough. Ukitake stood behind you with a warm smile gracing his face. Maybe the cough wasn’t so fake…

“Captain Ukitake, I’m sorry I didn’t notice you there.” He laughed and sat beside you.

“Of course you didn’t. You were lost in your thoughts.” His voice was gentle.

“Yes. I was thinking about…”

“About Aizen?” You sighed and held your head in your hands. It was so obvious how rattled you were with the situation. Ukitake didn’t say anything but wrapped his arm around your shoulder and gave you a light pat. The white-haired captain had been by your side throughout these turbulent times. His calm presence had been a silent shore in the loud sea of your emotions. Even now, when there was an inevitable war looming over your heads, he had found time to sit down and reassure you, knowing that the upcoming confrontation would be the hardest on you.

“What if I won’t be able to stand against him? All this time, I’ve been telling myself that I’m strong enough to keep my emotions in check and stand for what’s right. But what if I’m not? What if when I see him, I’ll fall back into his arms? What then Captain?”

“I understand why you feel that way. We have known Sosu-Aizen for a long time. His betrayal came as a shock to all of us. But you shared a deeper bond with him. You have known him in the most intimate ways. I say I understand but the truth is that I will never be able to feel what you do. To have someone so beloved abandon and betray me… I’m not sure I would’ve been able to go on as you have. You’re stronger than you believe you are. And even if you do fall weak to your emotions, there’s nothing wrong with that. He is your husband; you have loved him more than anyone. It won’t be unseemly if you want to run to him in a moment of emotional vulnerability. Just don’t let him use your love as a weapon.”

You didn’t say anything in response. Every word he said was true and yet there was still doubt lingering in your mind. Not because you thought Sosuke might sway you to his side, but because if you did show emotional attachment to him still, you might lose everything else. Yamamoto had been very strict in his words when he had said that anyone found to have any sort of contact with the traitors would be counted as one and dealt with as such. You were torn between your feelings and your duties. And yet all you could do was wait. Wait until he showed up there.

Ukitake sensed your despair and hugged you sideways. You wanted to hide away in his embrace but he let go of you quickly. Getting up, he offered you his hand.

“Come on now, get up. Time to meet up with others.” You took his hand and stood up. He was right. It was time to get up.

-------- at Urahara’s shop ---------

The meeting had gone by quite quickly. They all had their orders. You were sitting next to Urahara who was busy tinkering around with something. At first, you focused on the teacup in your hand. But soon curiosity got the best of you and you glanced his way. You almost wanted to facepalm when you saw what he was doing. Kisuke Urahara, in this time of war, was fixing his fan. You put the cup down and tapped his shoulder. He turned around quickly and gave you his signature stupid smirk.

“Oh, is the beautiful miss interested in my doings?” you couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s words.

“No sir, not quite. I’m only wondering how your poor fan got broken like that.”

His smile turned upside down and he let out a dramatic sigh. “How kind of you to ask. This is the doing of Yoruichi sama. She’s so careless around things. She has broken my delicate fan four times already.”

“How impolite of her! Breaking a man’s fan like that!”

“Exactly! And when I request her not to be so reckless with my things, she just hits me in response. She has no regard for me or my things.”

His words bring out laughter from you, a sound you hadn’t heard in a while. Kisuke looked at you with a gentle smile and went back to fixing his fan. After a few moments, you finally stopped laughing and stood up.

“Hey Kisuke?”

He turned to look at you and you nodded at him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know for what. I’ll be with the Captains and lieutenants now.”

He tipped his hat at you and you left the room. After looking around for a bit, you finally found the others assembled on the roofs of some houses. You went to them and stood next to Ukitake who welcomed you with a smile. Shunsui was sitting on a roof, looking as bored as ever. Upon your arrival, he stood up and walked to where you and Ukitake were.

“Well well, if it isn’t the one who stole my best friend!” he commented as he nudged you with his shoulder. You smirked back at him and hung your arm around Ukitake’s shoulder.

“It isn’t my fault if I’m better company than you, isn’t that right Captain Ukitake?” The Squad 13 captain just shook his head at you both.

Your little banter was suddenly cut off by the abrupt presence of dense spiritual pressure. And soon enough, a Garganta opened right above where you were standing. Everybody rose up into the sky and readied themselves to unsheathe their zanpakutos. You stood between Ukitake and Shunsui, hand on your own zanpakuto. You were trying your best to calm your nerves and then you felt it. He was here. Surely enough, three people walked out of the opening. Your eyes went straight to him. Aizen. He was standing between Ichimaru Gin and Kaname Tosen. His eyes almost immediately found you and you both were locked in each other’s gaze. He looked so different yet so familiar. His hair was slicked back, with only a few strands falling across his face. His glasses were gone and he looked taller than before, if it was even possible. While observing him, you felt someone grab your wrist. You saw Ukitake from the corner of your eyes as he squeezed your hand to reassure you.

This wasn’t missed by Aizen’s keen eyes as he saw Ukitake’s hand grab yours. An unexpected emotion flashed in his mind and he had to look away. Had you finally moved on from him? With the Squad 13 captain? He scoffed at his own assumptions and summoned Gin to him.

“Anytime now.”

Gin understood his captain at once. After all, they had come to this wretched town for only two things, the Oken and his captain’s wife. But before they could even move an inch, Yamamoto used his Ryujinjakka to trap them inside the burning fire.

You watched in awe as the Head Captain conjured a fiery prison for the traitors. As the fire encircled them, the last thing you saw sent chills down your spine. Aizen had smiled.

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

tag list @fabulouslyflamboyant5 (let me know if anyone else wants to be added) ---------------------------------------------------- Next part: here

#at first i wanted it to take place when he was still in hueco mundo but then i thougth “fuck it” and changed it to this #i'm not sure if that would've been better but oh well #i can alwasy write that as a separate fic #but for now #here it is #aizen sosuke #aizen #sosuke aizen #aizen x reader #bleach #bleach x reader #bleach fanfic #andreawritesit

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olivexii · 4 months

Text

⁀➷ ┄─ ˑ VI . ☆ ──ㅤ Knee Socks

Joseph Descamps x reader

Chapter 6

Masterlist

Warnings: Smoking, swearing

┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐

“Hurry up. I want to get going.”

“Calm down, Joseph. I just need to copy this sentence.” I sighed back at him from his desk.

Today was Saturday, Monday was the day we were to present the exposé.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked, turning to look at him as he smoked a cigarette out the window, leaning against the white frame.

“Yes.” He exhaled.

“Good. Tomorrow you’re writing the script, then we need to rehearse it for Monday.”

“Yeah yeah I know.” He pushed the tip of the cigarette against the glass ashtray that sat on his bedside cabinet before walking towards me.

As he approached me I craned my neck up to look at him.

“Okay you’re done now. We’re going.”

“No I’m not, just give me a few minutes.”

He sighed and took the pen out of my hand, stuffing it into his black jacket pocket.

“Yes you are. Let’s go.”

It was a hot day today, unusually hot for September. I had asked Joseph the day before if he wanted to do something fun as a reward for nearly finishing the exposé.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“So…” I said, turning around in my chair to look at him sitting on my bed, book in hand.

“So?” He replied looking up from the Camus biography.

“I was wondering if you wanted to do something fun? Y’know, for nearly finishing our work.”

He hummed in thought and I waited for a response, biting my lip nervously.

“Well, what’s the weather going to be like?”

“My mother’s been keeping track of the temperatures the past few days so she knows when to hang out her washing.” I giggled, “She said it’s going to be warm.”

“How warm?” He tilted his head.

“Guess.”

“I don’t know, Like 16?”

“21” I smiled.

“What. 21? Really?”

I nodded in response, still giggling at him.

“Well shit. And I told my mother not to worry about the cars and new machines polluting the sky and heating us up.”

We were both silent for a moment, admiring the smile on each others faces.

“So, what do you want to do?” Joseph put the book down beside him on the bed, folding his arms.

“I’m not sure. I was hoping you had an idea.”

He thought for a moment, looking down onto his lap.

“Yeah I have a spot.” He looked back up.

“You have a spot?”

He nodded, smiling at me.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

We walked side by side along the dirt path, the surrounding trees occasionally shading us from the sun.

“Are you not hot?” I questioned, looking up at him on my right. He wore a blue shirt underneath his black leather jacket, as well as long dark trousers. While I wore a flowy white dress with a baby pink button up over top, and carrying a white bag for the both of us.

Joseph shook his head and turned to look at me, his brown hair covering the top of his eye patch.

“Aren’t you cold?” He smirked and look down at how my dress fell a couple of inches higher than it normally does.

I scoffed in annoyance, turning to look back at the floor.

“How much longer do we have to walk my feet are killing me!” I complained and tried not to drag my flat mary janes across the dirt.

“Not much longer don’t worry.” He reassured, “I’ll take the bag.” Joseph offered, taking if off me and throwing it over his shoulder.

“What a gentleman.” I said sarcastically.

“Shut up.” He mumbled, smiling slightly.

“There.” He pointed, suddenly walking towards the lining of trees.

“There?” I stood still for a moment, watching where he was going.

He realised I wasn’t following him and stopped, turning to look at me. This made me run towards him quickly as he waited for me to catch up.

“Just over this branch.” Joseph said, lifting the bag over the waist high branch, resting it on a part of the tree that was sticking out.

“Come on.” He said, grabbing my waist from behind softly and lifting me over. I put my hands on his arms and inhaled a sharp breath in fear, my legs kicking up over the branch before he gently put me down on the other side.

“Thanks.” I mumbled awkwardly and grabbed the bag as he climbed over.

“Is it just me or has it gotten hotter?” The boy exhaled and turned to look at me, hands in his pockets.

“It’s probably just all the walking.”

“Probably.” He mumbled and starting walking down the small mound that was a mix of sand and dirt.

“Anyway we’re here now.” He said, offering me his hand to help me down the slope.

I grabbed onto his hand with my right one, my left one going to a tree for support. I jumped down and he grabbed my right arm with both of his hands for support, butterflies filling my stomach.

I looked up at the boy and smiled before taking in my surroundings. Trees lined a large pool of water, shading the glistening water and the sand and rocks that lay on the ground.

“Oh wow, it’s beautiful.” I gawked, “Michèle and Simone would love it here…”

I heard Joseph sigh and I turned to look at him.

“Are you alright?” I asked, concerned.

“I’m fine, just don’t bring them up, you know I don’t like you hanging out with those two girls.”

“They’re my friends Descamps, you have no right to tell me who I can and can’t be friends with.”

“I know. Just don’t bring them up again, it annoys me. You’re lucky I like you.” He mumbled the last part, taking off his jacket and resting it on a tree branch.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I folded my arms at him.

“Nothing. Anyway, this is my spot.” The boy said, taking the bag off me and hanging it on the same branch as his jacket.

“It’s lovely, how did you find it?” I asked, taking a step towards him as he turned to me.

“Messing around with Dupin. We took Pichon’s books and wanted to hide them somewhere.” He smirked.

“You’re cruel.” I sighed, turning my back to him and walking closer to the water, crouching down and dipping the tips of my fingers in to check the temperature.

“Yeah well, girls love it.”

“I don’t know what girls you’re meeting Descamps, but we do not love it.” I replied, taking off my button up and walking past him to hang it up on the branch.

“Some girls love it.” Joseph mumbled.

I searched around in the bag for my book, rummaging through the snacks that we brought from the shop on the way down.

“What are you looking for?”

“My book.” I sighed, “I want to read it over there.” I nodded my head towards a large branch that was sticking out above the water.

“Right.” He nodded, not knowing what to do next.

After grabbing my book I swiftly took my white shoes off, resting them on a large rock nearby before walking over to the branch.

The soft crunching of Joseph’s feet against the sand followed me, and I smiled knowing he was behind me.

I put my book onto a flat part of the branch before reaching my hands up and attempting to push my body up onto the wood, rising myself about a foot off the ground before not having the strength to pull myself up even more.

“Need help?”

“No I’m fine thank you.” I grunted, trying to reach the floor with the tips of my feet so I could push myself up more.

“You look like you’re struggling.”

“Well I’m not. Thank you for the offer Descamps.” I grunted.

As I attempted to swing my left leg over the branch (failing miserably as my leg just fell back down) I felt his hands grab my waist again and my face turn red.

“Swing your leg up when I say go.”

“I don’t need your help.” I sighed, looking over my right shoulder at him, my arms now beginning to hurt from holding myself up so long.

“Yes you do. Now go.”

I swung my left leg up as he lifted my waist. My leg hooked onto the top of the branch and I pulled myself the full way up, finally straddling it. I’m so lucky I decided to wear shorts today, even in the hot weather.

I looked down at the boy, his arms folded over his chest as he waited for me to say something.

“I could have done that on my own.” I said to him, pushing a strand of hair which had fallen behind my ear.

“No you couldn’t, so I helped you. What do you say to people who help you?” He smirked.

I rolled my eyes at him, contemplating if I should give him the satisfaction.

“Thank you Joseph.” I sighed, looking away from him.

“That’s better.” He laughed, walking closer to me.

“What are you doing now?” I questioned, turning to fully face him as my legs dangled in front of him.

“Nothing.” He shrugged, looking up at me as he walked closer.

My breath hitched in my throat as I watched him, smirk at me.

“Move over.”

“What?” I questioned, tilting my head slightly.

“Move over, I want to sit on your right.”

“Oh.” I replied, grabbing my book and moving over to the left.

He grunted as he pulled himself up, and I looked away, quietly giggling to myself.

“Shut up.” He sighed, “You couldn’t even get up here on your own.”

“Yes I could.” I turned to look at him now sat next to me, his long legs dangling off the side of the branch.

“No, you couldn’t.”

“I could have, you just didn’t let me.”

“Sure.” He smirked.

I huffed and turned my back to him, straddling the log again and opening my book to where I had folded over the page.

“What are you reading.” I heard him beside my ear and jumped, turning my head to look at him leaning over my right shoulder.

“My book.”

“What book.”

“L’eau des collines.”

“What’s it about. Water?”

“I-i’m not sure yet, something about rabbits and a farm.”

“Interesting.”

I nodded, turning back to my book and blushing at his proximity.

After a while he moved away and leaned back against the large trunk of the tree.

I read a couple of pages before my back started to hurt from hunching over, so I lay back against the branch, lifting my book above my head to read it.

“That’s not comfortable.” The boy behind me said. I leaned my head back more to look up at him, my vision now upside down.

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not.”

“You can’t tell me if I’m comfortable or not.”

“Just come here.” He sighed

“Where?”

He raised his eyebrows in annoyance. “Okay fine, guess you’re going to have to write the script yourself tomorrow then.”

I frowned while the boy smirked.

“You’re so pushy.” I sighed sitting up and scooting back so that my head was rested against his torso.

“See, that’s better isn’t it.” Joseph said, his hands on his thighs as his legs dangled down either side of the branch.”

“I guess.” I mumbled, trying not to show how happy I was about how close I was to the boy.

“Sorry? Didn’t hear that, it’s rude to mumble you know.” He laughed.

“I guess.” I said more loudly this time, picking up my book again and opening it as I crossed my ankles over one another and rested then on the branch.

“That’s better.” He sighed.

We didn’t speak again, and I assumed the boy had fallen asleep.

After finished my chapter I leaned my head back a bit more to look at Joseph, noticing he had indeed fallen asleep.

His chest rose up and down and I smiled, admiring him. I don’t like him in that way though. He’s a bully and I shouldn’t. We’re only working on the project together.

My eyes became heavy after a while, and I became tired, most likely from all that walking we had to do to get here.

I turned on my side, my hand underneath my head, still resting on him, but now my palm was flat against his blue shirt.

I smiled at the interaction and clutched my book tightly against my chest with my other arm, slowly falling asleep.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I was awoken by the sound of my book hitting the rocks below, and I jolted up.

The sun looked like it had just only set, and a soft orange glowed the sky.

“Oh shit.” I exclaimed. My sudden jolt had woken Joseph up who was now behind me, rubbing his eyes and groaning.

“What time is it?” He mumbled.

“I’m not sure. But my brother will kill me. He told me to be home before the sun set and the street lamps came on.” I panicked trying to get down from the tall branch.

“Calm down, it’s not that big of a deal.” Joseph sighed, jumping down from the tree before standing beneath me, his arms up indicating me to jump.

“It is that big of a deal!” I said as I grabbed onto his forearms and jumped, quickly pulling away from his grasp to pick up my book and run back to our belongings.

I slipped my button up on and stuffed my book in my bag, not bothering to put my shoes on, only putting them in the bag as well and hurrying back the way we came when we first arrived.

“Just slow down, let me help you over.” Joseph ran after me before helping me over the branch, going back to retrieve his stuff as I waited for him.

“Joseph please, my brother will kill me.” I whined.

“I’m coming.” He replied, jumping over the log.

The jog back was long, the sun setting as we reached my house, the cold evening air hitting my knees and giving me goosebumps.

I ran up the three stairs that lead to my front door, briefly saying goodbye to Joseph and putting my hand on the door handle.

“Wait.” I heard him speak from behind me. I didn’t question him, the thought of my brother being mad at me slipped my mind.

The boy walked up the first two steps, leaving me eye level with him. I could feel his breath on my cheek, and butterflies arose in my stomach again.

“My place? Same time tomorrow?” He whispered softly, fiddling with the end of his leather jacket.

I didn’t speak, only nodding and looking at his face.

Suddenly he leaned in, planting a soft kiss on my forehead, as his hand cupped my jaw. I tried not to let the disappointment show on my face as he pulled away, wishing the moment lasted longer.

“I had fun today.” He simply stated.

“Yeah, me too. Thank you.” I replied as he slowly walked backwards down the stairs, not breaking eye contact.

“Better get inside.” He laughed, starting to walk down the street, occasionally turning back to look at me.

His words didn’t process in my brain for a few seconds, just trying to come to terms with my short interaction with him.

“Oh shit” I said once I remembered the rush I was in to get home, opening the door and shielding myself from the cold evening breeze.

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

A/N: I started writing this when the weather was hot. Now it’s a week later and raining, so I lost motivation, sorry if the ending is rushed. EXAM SEASON!!!!

#x reader #mixte1963 #joseph descamps #joseph descamps x reader #reader insert #vassili schneider #enemies to lovers #fem reader

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fortheloveofwonderland · 1 year

Text

No Distance Left to Run | Part 5 | S.R

Previous Part

Chapter Summary - Spencer puts his hatred for Cat aside in order to try and save you before it’s too late. But even if he manages to get you back from the clutches of her partner, can the two of you really have a future?

Pairing - Spencer Reid / BAU Fem! Reader

Category - friends to lovers | mutual pining | angst with happy ending | smut minors DNI

Warnings - spoilers for 14.08 Ashley, hostage situation, guns, swearing, talk of miscarriage (canon compliant), vomit, blood.

WC - 8.2k

Part 5 - Red Light, Green Light

Present Day

“We need to talk.”

“No we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

Your eyes fluttered, your brain flitting between consciousness and sleep. You tried to fight to stay awake but you were just so tired.

“We need to talk.”

“No we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

The dark haired woman was still playing on her phone, feet up on the counter. The bracelet was sitting on the corner of it, tauntingly sparkling at you.

She wouldn’t tell you how she’d come to be in possession of it, of course she wouldn’t. But it made you fear what had happened to Spencer.

He was the last person who had it, what had this woman done to get her hands on? Was he here? Was he being held in another room? Was he…dead?

“We need to talk.”

“No we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

Images kept flashing before your lids every time your eyes fluttered closed. Shimmers of gold and twinkling lights. Large, spherical golden orbs hanging from the ceiling, strings of fairy lights illuminating the otherwise drab BAU lobby.

“We need to talk.” Spencer sidled up to you, whispering so no one else would hear.

“No we don’t.” You kept your eyes focused on the elevator shaft, gripping your champagne flute tightly in your hand.

“Yes, we do.” He hissed and then you felt his hand on your back as he started leading you away.

You’d just arrived back from a case in New Hampshire where little girls were being abducted after their parents were killed with the unsub trying to rehome the girls with more “worthy” parents.

It was Spencer’s last case before he took a sabbatical to teach classes at the university and honestly you’d been quietly looking forward to him being gone.

It had been nearly three months since the night in Varnville and the tension between you was close to reaching fever pitch.

“Now is really not the time.” You spat as he continued to lead you down the corridor.

“Yeah well there has never been a good time.” He removed his hand from you as soon as you were far enough away from the others.

“Spencer, Rossi and Krystall are imminently going to come up in the elevator and either they will be engaged or Rossi will be crushed. Either way we need to be there.” You huffed, half wondering if you might crush your champagne glass with the grip you were holding it in.

“I can’t keep doing this, Y/N. It’s been months of you giving me the cold shoulder. The team knows something is up, they’ve been asking questions. I…I miss you.” He softened, his eyes full of sorrow. “I miss my best friend.”

You swallowed thickly, loosening the grip on your glass a little.

“I miss mine too.” You admitted. “But every time I look at you, I am flooded with guilt, Spencer. What we did…it should never have happened.”

“I just want us to be ok again.” He rolled his lip between his teeth.

“So do I.” You nodded.

“At least we can agree on something.” He offered you a slightly wistful smile.

“It’s going to take time though, Spencer. For us to get back to how things used to be.”

“But we can try?” He asked, hopefully.

“Yeah,” you sighed a little. “We can try.”

“She said yes!” Rossi’s voice suddenly carried down the hall followed in quick succession by cheers of congratulations.

You went to pass Spencer to hurry back to the festivities but he stopped you with a hand on your shoulder.

The look he gave you said so much. There were so many things he wanted to say to you, you could tell he was struggling to pick just one.

Eventually he sighed and simply whispered, “you’re too good for him” before turning away from you and walking away.

“I think it’s time we up the ante, don’t you?”

Your heavy eyes shot back open at the sound of her voice. She was on her feet, her phone dangling from one hand.

“Just tell me what you want.” You groaned, your throat was so dry.

“I already told you. For you to see what he’s really like.” She scowled at you like you were a misbehaved child.

“I don’t know what that means.” You tugged on your bindings.

“Do you think they’ll find you?” She cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Wh-who?” You frowned at her change of subject.

“Your team. SSA’s Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi, Tara Lewis, Luke Alvez and Matt Simmons? And that’s not to forget technical analyst Penelope Garcia and of course Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“Bravo, you know my team's names.” You rolled your tired eyes.

“Do you think they’ll find you?” She repeated.

“While I’m alive?” You huffed. “Or after you kill me?”

Her lip twitched up at the corner in a wry smile. She pocketed her phone and moved back over towards the camera on the edge of the counter. She pressed a button and the bright red light illuminated.

“It’s time we talked about why you’re here. Cat Adams wants you to know what your lover boy is really like.”

***

“Goddamnit,” Spencer groaned when he almost lost his footing for the hundredth time.

To his right came the sound of Cat’s playful giggle.

“I figured a genius like you would have a mathematical equation or some kind of scientific theory for this.” She snickered.

“Gravity dictates that my body is naturally being drawn towards the floor.” Spencer huffed.

“It has nothing to do with your gangly and uncoordinated limbs?” She laughed again.

“I’m not gangly.” He grumbled, wobbling again on his roller skates.

“You can’t skate backwards?” She chirruped, showing off her skills, keeping her eyes on his as she expertly manoeuvred herself backwards on the skates.

“I can barely go forward.” He scoffed.

“You need to keep your head up.”

Spencer pulled a face but did as she said, lifting his head, rolling it back a little too far and he stumbled again.

Cat laughed, quickly skating to his aid and grabbing him before he could hit the floor.

“Not that far.” She linked her arm through his, keeping him upright and slowly started to move them both on the rink. “Is someone having fun? I’m having fun.”

Spencer’s hand was on top of hers which rested on his forearm. He didn’t think he meant to put it there. He glanced at her and she glanced at him. He couldn’t speak, so Cat continued.

“If your stupid chaperones weren’t here, I’d ask the DJ to put on some Savage Garden for the guy-girl skate and we could totally make out.” Her tone was teasing but it made Spencer’s chest constrict.

He stumbled a little at the mere thought as she let go of him so she could look at him.

“You, uh, you realise what I have to do, right?” He fought to keep his balance,

“Uhm lemme think. Ask me a bunch of pointed questions and hope that I trip up?” She rolled her eyes, skating backwards again like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“What happened to your baby?” He asked, arms flailing a little.

“What?” She frowned.

“The last time I saw you, you were pregnant with someone else's baby that you said was mine.” Spencer shrugged but it threw his balance off again and he stumbled before managing to correct himself,

“Why are you asking me about that? I don’t wanna talk about that.” Her tone suddenly turned defensive.

“Hormonal changes during pregnancy expand the brain's capacity for empathy. I was actually just trying to see if I could use it against you.”

“Oh really? What about, um, sex?” She suddenly skated closer to him, really close. Soon her whole body was pressed against his and her arms were wrapping around his neck. “Why don’t you use that against me?”

He instinctively held her by the waist whilst swallowing thickly. She noticed the shift in his eyes, could see exactly what he was thinking about.

She pulled herself away and shook her head angrily. And then she was raising her arm and her palm collided with the side of Spencer’s face in a slap that echoed around the roller rink.

Spencer fell to the ground on his knees, hissing at the sensation of the hard floor slamming into his old injury.

He looked up to see her standing over him, her eyes dark with rage.

“You can’t even give me five minutes? Five minutes where you aren’t thinking about her?” She spat before she was turning effortlessly and skating away,

“Cat!” Spencer tried to scabble to his feet. “Cat, wait!”

By the time he got himself up she was already off the rink, sitting by the side and working her feet out of her skates.

He managed to push himself towards the edge and used the little wall to guide himself to the opening in the rink.

“She’ll never love you.” Cat spat harshly, standing back up once she had the skates off. “Not like you love her.”

“You’re going to make sure of that right?” Spencer rolled his lip between his teeth. “That’s what this is about. “You want Y/N to be scared of me the way she is of her husband.”

Cat’s expression didn’t change, she was always so hard to read even for a seasoned profiler.

“I don’t want to talk about her.” Cat folded her arms. “If you can’t go five minutes without thinking about her while you’re here with me then this date is over. Wrap it up boys.”

Spencer clenched his jaw, glancing over his shoulder towards Luke in the booth and shook his head subtly.

“You have my undivided attention, I promise.” Spencer spoke as he looked back at her.

“I don’t believe you.” Cat shook her head.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to prove it to you.” He shrugged, powerlessly.

“You’re pathetic, do you know that?” She surprised him with her words.

“How so?” He humoured her.

“Pining after a married woman all these years.” She clucked.

“Yeah well I think you know enough about her to know that he’s out of the way now. You’ve had eyes on her, your partner, Juliette, she’s been stalking her. When Jared was arrested you found your perfect time to strike, the perfect leverage over me.

She was at Rossi’s wedding, I remember her. She overheard me talking about Y/N and what happened to her husband and the fact that I have feelings for her. And now you want to use that against me, you want her to hate me because me and my team had Lindsey arrested. I know you’re game, Cat, you’re predictable. And I also know you won’t have her killed because it’s too easy.”

“You think any of this has been easy?” She scoffed. “Clearly I’m not as predictable as you think.”

“What does that mean?” Spencer swallowed thickly.

“You should have Garcia check her emails.” Her lips turned up into a wicked smirk.

Spencer felt his blood turn to ice in his veins and he turned back to Luke once more who was already on his phone calling Quantico.

***

“Ohemgee. Ohemgee!” Penelope screamed as your face materialised on the big screen in the round table room, tied to the chair just like you had been in the photograph.

Emily nudged her in her arm to silence the blonde as the video started to play.

“It’s time we talked about why you’re here. Cat Adams wants you to know what your lover boy is really like.” Weaver’s voice flooded the speakers.

She was barely in shot, all of her that could be seen was one shoulder and half of her back. Clearly the point was to have the focus on you.

“Ah, of course she’s behind this.” You croaked, sounding exhausted. You didn’t look to be injured aside from the dried blood still on your face and matted into your hair. “So this is about Spencer, I’m some kind of pawn in her sick revenge fantasy?”

“Oh finally, she gets it.” Weaver scoffed.

“Why me? We’re friends, that’s all.”

“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” Weaver’s shoulder tensed, they all saw it. “I’ve been watching you for a while Y/N, I know exactly what you and Spencer are to each other.”

Emily, Tara, JJ and Rossi frowned at the screen, not sure what she was getting at. Garcia chewed on her lip guiltily, remembering what Spencer had told her at Rossi’s wedding.

“I don’t know what you mean.” You sighed, but they all saw your jaw tighten.

“He must mean something to you if you’d cheat on your husband with him. Even if your husband does beat you, it’s still infidelity.” Weaver chuckled.

“She…Spencer…no, no way.” Garcia frowned now. He had not told her that.

“Shush, Garcia.” Emily scalded her.

“I don’t know what you think you know, but I would never cheat on my husband.” You told her but all the agents watching knew it was a lie.

They could read you well enough to know you were bluffing, hopefully Weaver couldn’t.

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t lie to me if I was you.” Weaver spat and then she raised her arm into frame.

Penelope gasped as the gun came into view, pointing right at you. Emily, Tara, Rossi and JJ all stood frozen in fear.

“I hate to break this to you, but you aren’t the first person to hold me hostage. You aren’t the first person to hold a gun to me.” You tried to keep control of the situation, refusing to show her your fear.

“He’s no better than your jerk husband.” Juliette changed the subject.

“Reid, was right.” JJ muttered under her breath.

“And how would you know that?” You sighed again.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“You mean what he did in prison? I know all about that. He did what he did to survive.”

JJ wrapped her arms around her body, her legs shaking a little but unable to move to sit down. Emily’s eyebrows were furrowed deeply and she was gnawing on one of her fingernails. Penelope had silent tears rolling down her cheeks beneath her lime green glasses.

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what he did after prison.” Weaver chuckled darkly.

“And what would that be?” You rolled your eyes.

“His time inside changed him, Y/N. He’s not the same man you fell in love with.”

“I never said I was in love with him.”

“Yes, you did.” Juliette laughed again, the gun shaking a little as she did so.

“I’m getting a little tired of this cryptic thing. Just tell me what you’re talking about.”

Rossi exhaled loudly through his nose while Tara clenched her hands into fists.

“Truth or dare, Y/N?” Juliette chuckled deeply, stepping back behind the camera.

They saw your eyes follow her, and they also saw the way your body straightened in the chair.

“Reid was right.” JJ repeated. “She was at the wedding, she overheard him talking to Max.”

“Excuse me?” You tried to remain calm.

“Truth or dare? Please pick truth because I am dying to hear you confess a secret you would never admit out loud.”

“How do you know about that?” You finally gave over, knowing there was no point in denying it anymore. It didn’t matter how she knew, she did know.

“I know a lot of things.” Juliette replied curtly. “I know you are in love with him, I know you cheated on your husband with him. And I also know what a monster he is.”

At the roller rink, crowded around Luke’s phone as they watched the same video, Spencer’s back stiffened and tears flooded his eyes. Matt was holding Cat roughly by the arm a few feet away and he could see her in his peripheral vision.

“Spencer Reid is not a monster.” You retorted with a scoff.

“Oh really?” Weaver spoke sarcastically. “So you think nice men strangle women?”

Spencer’s nostrils flared and he closed his eyes briefly trying to stop the tears. Luke’s grip on his phone tightened.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that Spencer strangled someone? Ok, I’ll bite, what do you think you know?”

Spencer held his breath, so did Luke and Matt. So did Emily, Garcia, JJ, Tara and Rossi back at Quantico.

“You never saw the tapes did you?”

“What tapes?”

“The tapes from the interrogation room in which Spencer Reid held Cat by her throat against a wall and threatened to kill her while she was pregnant.” Juliette spat viciously.

“That didn’t happen.” You shook your head.

“Sweetheart, it most certainly did happen. He is worse than your husband, at least you weren’t pregnant when he had his hand around your throat. And to make matters tragically worse, Cat lost her baby as a result.”

Your eyes widened as you started at Weaver over the camera, your bottom lip quivering slightly.

Back at Quantico Garcia gasped yet again while JJ shook her head in disbelief.

“Is that true?” Spencer glanced up at Cat, being held roughly by the arm by Matt. “That’s not true.”

“It most certainly is true.” Cat subconsciously placed her other hand on her belly.

The tears forced their way out of Spencer’s eyes and as he looked back at the phone he saw tears rolling down your cheeks too.

“No, no that didn’t happen.” You shook your head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Weaver’s voice had a hint of amusement to it. “Cat wants you to know the truth before I send you to your grave.”

And then the sound of several gunshots screamed through the tinny phone speakers and the screen suddenly went black. Spencer whimpered, staring at the dark screen for a few seconds before looking up at Cat.

“What have you done?” His tears streamed hot and angry down his face. “What the fuck have you done?”

He yanked her free of Matt’s hold and held her roughly by the biceps as he started shaking her.

“This time, I will kill you. I will fucking kill you!” He spat in her face and he shook her harder.

“You can’t win them all, Spencie.” Cat smirked menacingly at him.

He felt a set of strong hands on his shoulders and Luke was trying to pull him back from Cat while Matt worked on freeing Cat from his hold.

“Don’t, stop it!” Spencer fought against Luke. “Let me kill her!”

“Not gonna happen, Reid.” Luke growled and between him and Matt they managed to get the two of them apart.

Spencer was breathing heavily, his tears never ending. Luke held his arm as if afraid Spencer would go after her again. He started at Cat through bleary eyes for a moment or two before shaking his head. He snatched his arm out of Luke’s hold and pushed past the other man, away from Cat and towards the door.

His footsteps were heavy and loud as he stormed away before he did something stupid. When he reached the door he threw it open so violently it bounced back against the wall.

He fled into the dark night as his breathing got heavier and his vision was almost entirely compromised. His head started to spin, the world started to spin.

He stumbled down the steps of the roller rink, using the handrail to try and keep himself upright. When he reached the bottom his stomach lurched and he suddenly vomited all over the concrete.

He vaguely heard the door open but didn’t pay it any attention as he emptied his guts onto the sidewalk.

Soon there was a hand on his back, rubbing up and down his spine in soothing motions.

“It’s ok, Reid, let it out. Let it all out.” Luke cooed.

Spencer stayed doubled over until he had nothing left and he simply dry heaved. Tears were still rapidly falling from his eyes when he stood back up.

And when he looked at Luke, he swore the other man’s own eyes were misty with tears.

***

“Oh my…no…no! No she didn’t…she didn’t…” Penelope stumbled on her heels until she hit the table, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“She can’t be.” JJ croaked. “She couldn’t…”

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked at Rossi through tear riddled eyes.

“It could be a trick.” Tara’s voice was equally as cracked as JJ’s. “It has to be a trick.”

“We need to find where they are.” Emily spoke, voice devoid of emotion as she continued to stare at the blank screen. “We need a location.”

“The emails are untraceable.” Penelope whined.

“There had to be something in the video, some kind of clue.” Rossi agreed, reaching over to Garcia’s laptop.

“I can’t watch it again.” Garcia sobbed.

“Go then. Get a cup of tea and calm down.” Emily finally turned to face them. “I know what we just witnessed was beyond horrible. But if Juliette Weaver really did just kill our friend, then she has to pay for what she's done. So regroup, refocus. Y/N needs us.”

Garcia sniffed and nodded at her boss, turning on her heels and wobbling to the door. JJ followed her whilst Emily, Rossi and Tara stayed put.

Emily gave them both a look, one that asked if they were up for this and they both nodded stiffly.

“Ok,” Emily swallowed. “Play it again, Dave.”

***

Spencer couldn’t speak, couldn’t even blink his eyes on the drive back to Quantico. Matt went with swat who were taking Cat back to prison while Luke drove him and Spencer back to the bureau.

“Reid, you gotta think.” Luke tried to engage him as he drove, glancing at the younger man out of the corner of his eye. “This is a game to Cat, a meticulously crafted game. Nothing is left to chance, wherever Juliette took Y/N means something. You gotta think.”

Spencer exhaled shakily, keeping his eyes trained out of the window of the SUV.

“What’s the point? She’s dead. It’s over.” His voice sounded haggard, fractured.

“We don’t know that, man. The video cut out, we don’t know she’s dead.” Luke tried to convince him but he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. “And if she isn’t dead, we’ve gotta find her before Weaver kills her for real.”

Spencer closed his tired eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool window. He tried his hardest to focus on the small details of those images which haunted him, which may haunt him for the rest of his life.

It was a relatively plain room. The floor was out of shot and he could only see one wall which had been behind you. It was an off white colour, nothing of interest. Nothing stood out in that damn room.

“They could be anywhere, Luke.” Spencer opened his eyes again.

“Try harder.” Luke was stern. “There was something, something you’re missing. This place means something to the two of you, it has to.”

Spencer scrunched his brow in thought as he tried to recall places that might mean something to the two of you. You had fifteen years of history, how could he filter through all of that right now?

“I really don’t know, Luke.” Spencer groaned.

“Yes, you do. Somewhere in your brain you know exactly where she is. Your mind is clouded right now because it's trying to process too much. It's the same reason it took you longer than it normally would to recognise Weaver. You know where they are, think. Off of the top of your head, where is a place that means something to you and Y/N?”

Spencer huffed loudly, closing his eyes again. This time however he didn’t see the images from your final moments behind his lids.

The sun was shining and he was standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, twiddling his thumbs, feeling like the world's biggest idiot for getting this so wrong.

“Sorry, sorry I’m late, I know.” Penelope Garcia tottered towards the two of you, pushing her bangs back off her face.

“It’s ok, it doesn’t start for another ten minutes.” You smiled as you embraced her.

Spencer looked dumbly between you and Garcia, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows so high they almost hit his hairline.

“Happy birthday, boy wonder.” Garcia grinned at him.

“Uh…” He swallowed thickly. “Thanks?”

“Shall we?” You motioned towards the front door of the movie theatre and Garcia nodded, taking the lead.

You hung back a little, looking at the confusion that was still spreading across the young genius's face.

“You don’t mind, do you? Penelope loves Harry Potter almost as much as I do.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Why would I mind?” He shook it off but was quickly pushing past you inside.

As he entered the Film Factory, the hole in the wall movie theatre he took in the scent of popcorn that wafted up his nose and the sounds of you and Penelope chatting among yourself flooded his ears.

Maybe he could have been a little more specific about his idea of tonight, because clearly you’d gotten the wrong end of the stick and invited Penelope along on what was supposed to be a date.

He tried to ignore the way his stomach tightened and his chest constricted at his utter stupidity.

As he passed towards the booth, the small room with the little window peeping out between large, plush red curtains, his eyes scanned over the sign perched above the booth…

“Give me your phone.” Spencer’s eyes shot open and he turned to Luke in a panic.

“Uh, ok?” Luke frowned, fishing in his pocket with one hand whilst keeping the other on the wheel.

He soon handed the device to Spencer and the younger man was quickly trying to navigate his way through the smartphone. After a few failed attempts he found the video again.

He paused it as soon as it started and zoomed in on the still. On the wall behind you, mostly out of frame, he was just able to make out a sign. In cobalt blue he could see the letters FI on one line and FAC on the line below. And underneath that he could see part of a drawing of a film reel.

“Turn the car around.” Spencer hurriedly told Luke.

“What?”

“Turn the car around, I know where they are.”

Luke did as he was told and was quickly making an U-turn whilst switching his lights and siren on.

“It’s a place called the Film Factory, it’s an old movie theatre that shut down a few years back. I took Y/N there on what was supposed to be our first date but she misunderstood and invited Garcia. We’ve been there countless times since, it’s like a…oh fuck.” Spencer trailed off with a gasp.

“What?” Luke asked as he weaved in and out of traffic.

“The wedding wasn’t the only place I recognised Weaver from…”

As he passed towards the booth, the small room with the little window peeping out between large, plush red curtains, his eyes scanned over the sign perched above the booth with the theatre's name and logo before looking at the young girl in the booth.

She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, possibly even younger. She had dark hair and an incredibly bored expression on her features.

“I just need to grab one more ticket to The Deathly Hallows, please.” Spencer spoke politely,

“Seven bucks.” The young girl smacked a piece of gum in her mouth.

Spencer handed over a ten and she handed him his change and a third ticket. He felt her eyes on him all the way to the concession stand.

“She worked there. For years actually. She was there nearly every time I’ve been there. She’s seen Y/N and I there on multiple occasions. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner.” Spencer shook his head.

“You were in tunnel vision. Your brain was clouded because this was personal.” Luke stepped on the gas, dialling Emily’s number via his car display.

“My inability to see what was right in front of me might have just gotten her killed.” Spencer spat, balling his hands into fists.

The phone started to ring. Before Luke could reply Emily had answered.

“Alvez, how did it go?”

“That’s not important. We know where Weaver is, we’re heading there now. Reid will send you an address.”

“Wait for back up when you get there.” Emily instructed.

Spencer scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“With all due respect, Emily,” he spoke harshly. “That’s never going to happen.”

***

“Because, Cat wants you to know the truth before I send you to your grave.”

She curled her finger around the trigger and didn’t hesitate in pulling it. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

You closed your eyes and screamed out into the small room, knowing it would do no good, no one would hear you. It took you several seconds to realise you didn’t feel any pain.

Your heart beat frantically against your chest and you slowly opened your eyes to see the woman laughing at you as she put the gun down on the desk.

Your eyes fell down to your torso. No blood, no pain. Blanks. She’d fired blanks.

Your breathing was erratic, your close brush with death forcing a few tears from your eyes. The woman laughed hysterically at the fear on your face.

You tried to focus and noticed the red light was off on the camera now. She toyed with both the camera and her phone for a while, still laughing to herself. You could only assume what she must be doing, it was the same she’d done when she’d taken the photograph.

And if like you’d suspected she was sending it to your team, they would think you were dead.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” You whined slightly.

“Cat gave me very specific instructions. She doesn’t want you dead, she just wants you to know what kind of a man Spencer Reid really is.” The woman spoke softly, almost like she cared. “You have a type.”

“Spencer is nothing like my husband.” You growled.

“When I’m done with you, and you scurry back to Quantico, watch the tapes. You’ll see for yourself. He had Cat around the throat just like your husband did to you.”

“So you don’t plan to kill me?”

“Well that will depend.” She smirked.

“On what?” You sighed.

“Cat’s orders. If she doesn’t get what she wants out of Spencer, I may have no choice.” She shrugged.

“Cat Adams is a psychopath. Did she make you feel special? Do you think she cares about you? I hate to break it to you but we’ve seen it before. You aren’t her first partner. She used another woman just like you to have Spencer arrested. But ultimately her game with him was more important than the woman she claimed to love. Cat cheated on Lindsey, got pregnant by a prison guard just so she could pretend she’d had Spencer sexually assaulted.

Cat doesn’t care about anyone but herself. She will toss you aside as soon as she doesn’t need you anymore. You’re disposable, sweetheart. You’re not special, you’re just the only one who fell for her act.” You didn’t mince your words.

You saw the woman’s face fall, her nostrils flare at your summation. She moved closer to you and quickly dropped to the floor in front of you. She grabbed your jaw in one hand, digging in firmly with her fingertips.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know her!” She spat.

“I know her better than you do. She’s using you! You will end up in prison for this, whether you kill me or not. And where will she be then?” You dared rile her.

“You don’t know anything.” The woman spat, tightening her hold on your jaw.

You saw her other hand moving behind her back and soon you caught the glint of a blade catching the overhead light.

You swallowed, trying to wriggle free of her hold. She brought the tip of the blade to your chest, right beneath your collarbone.

“I thought you weren’t going to kill me?” You spoke as she squeezed your jaw.

“Yeah well,” she let go of your face and pressed the blade harder against your skin. “Plans change.”

***

“Reid, wait!” Luke ran after him towards the boarded up old movie theatre.

The second the car rolled to a stop Spencer had leapt out of the passenger seat and onto the street, throwing his Kevlar vest on as he went.

“I’m going in there and you can’t stop me.” He barely had it over his head when he was drawing his gun.

“We need to wait for back up.” Luke reminded him, working his own vest on.

Spencer stopped by the door of the old building, fastening the Velcro straps with one hand.

“Alvez, if for whatever reason, we didn’t witness Y/N’s death, if she is still alive, she might not have much time.” Spencer stared at him in frustration.

“If you go in there without back up you might end up dead, Reid.”

“You’re my back up.” Spencer got his vest done up and turned to the door. “Cover me.”

Before Luke could even blink, Spencer was heading forward, gun outstretched as he reached for the door with his free hand.

It was unlocked. He shoved it open, eyes quickly taking in the entrance way, gun following his line of sight.

Luke exhaled and drew his firearm, following in Spencer’s footsteps hurriedly. This seemed like a monumentally bad idea, but there was no way Luke was letting him go alone.

He followed hot on Spencer’s heels as they canvassed the lobby. Spencer clearly had a destination in mind and he pushed forward towards the little ticket booth window.

The place was a mess of cobwebs and ripped and torn movie posters everywhere. As he walked Luke heard cracking under foot. He looked down, the floor was littered with little beads.

Popcorn kernels.

The curtains were draped closed but there was a door to the right hand side. Spencer stopped in front of it and glanced at Luke over his shoulder. His other hand reached for the door handle.

Spencer’s heart thumped in his chest, beating more fiercely than he’d ever felt it before. His stomach lurched like he might be sick again and he took a deep breath to try and stem the nausea.

As he tried the handle, another SUV pulled up outside and Emily, JJ, Rossi and Tara all threw themselves from the vehicle.

Spencer pulled down the handle and shoved open the door.

“FBI don’t move!” He yelled into the small room.

Juliette Weaver was on her knees on the floor but quickly jumped up, spinning around the chair you occupied and holding a knife to your throat.

The relief that flooded him seeing you looking back at him, very much alive, was almost overwhelming. His knees buckled a little but he pushed past it. There would be time for him to fall apart later.

“Welcome to the party Doctor Reid, you’re just in time.” She smirked.

Spencer’s stomach lurched again at the sight of the blood spilling from an open wound of your chest. Your eyes met briefly as he stepped into the room.

“Juliette, you don’t want to do this.” He held his hands up before slowly lowering them and holstering his gun. “Put the knife down.”

“I’m not going back to prison.” She shook her head, her other hand was on your shoulder, gripping you tightly.

“Don’t do this because of Cat. She manipulated you.” Spencer tried to reason with her.

He was blocking Luke’s shot and Luke was sure he was doing it on purpose.

“You don’t know her!” Juliette screamed at him, holding you tighter.

You whimpered as the blade pressed harder against your throat. You had tears rolling down your cheeks as you stared at Spencer.

You tried to commit every little bit of him to memory, convinced this was the last time you’d ever see him. He really was so beautiful, you wished you’d gotten to tell him that.

“I know she wanted to prove a point.” He held his hands up and took another step forward. “She wanted Y/N to know that I am no better than her husband. It’s true, Y/N, what she said about me. I did try to choke Cat to death because she kidnapped my mother. Prison changed me, maybe I am no different from your husband.”

“Don’t say that.” You sobbed. “It’s not true.”

“It is true.” He nodded. “I would have killed her if JJ hadn’t been there to stop me and I wouldn’t have felt bad. I’m not a good man, Y/N. I’m not the man you think I am.”

Luke knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to make you hate him the way Cat wanted in the hopes if he achieved that Juliette would let you go.

Luke had his gun trained towards Juliette but Spencer was still blocking his shot. If he just moved a little to the side he could get a clean shot.

He heard soft footsteps behind him and he didn’t need to look to know who they belonged to. He kept his gun high, on the off chance Spencer would move.

The footsteps crept to his right, further down the corridor. They were surrounding the place, if Weaver made it out of that ticket booth she wouldn’t get much further.

“Are you listening to him? Do you see now?” Juliette shook you.

You made eye contact with him again and you understood. You understood what he was trying to do.

“I see it,” you nodded. “You’re no better than him.”

Hearing those words from your lips made his stomach lurch again. His jaw clenched and he felt tears behind his eyes.

“You’ve made your point Juliette. Let her go, please?” Spencer pleaded with her.

Spencer took another step forward, creating enough space behind him for Luke to manoeuvre into the small room.

He pointed the gun at Juliette who still had the blade against your throat.

“Juliette, there’s no way out of this. Put the knife down or I will have to shoot you. You don’t wanna die today.” Luke tried to talk her down.

Her eyes flicked over to him and then back to Spencer. She squeezed your shoulder, blade pressing dangerously against your flesh.

“I ain’t going back to prison.” She repeated and her hand holding the blade twitched.

Less than a second later Luke fired his weapon. The bullet penetrated her right shoulder, surely hurting her but not killing her. She yelled out in pain, stumbling backwards and dropping the knife from her weakened hand as she fell against the wall and slid to the floor.

Luke hurried to her side, holstering his weapon and kicking the blade away. She howled again when he knelt in front of her and pressed on her gunshot wound, trying to contain the bleeding.

“We need a medic!” He called out the door where he knew his team was waiting.

Soon the small room became crowded, Rossi was by Luke’s side, keeping an eye on Weaver while Emily and JJ holstered their weapons and allowed themselves to breathe a sigh of relief that you were ok. Tara was hurrying behind you and cutting through your bindings.

Spencer knelt in front of you, his tears now escaping as he looked at you and you looked at him and he thanked every higher power that you were alive.

Tara helped you stand up, you were still bleeding from the cut on your chest and your legs shook as you stood. Spencer got to his feet too and the two of you continued to stare at each other.

“We need to get you seen to.” Tara spoke softly, placing a hand on your lower back.

You nodded but kept your eyes on Spencer, smiling weakly at him. You allowed her to lead you from the room and Spencer watched you go.

He stood there for some time, letting the tears fall, letting him feel the relief wash over him. He wasn’t aware of what was going on around him, the people moving around, the medic coming to take care of Weaver’s gunshot wound.

The world seemed to move slowly around him. He could see what was happening but he didn’t feel connected to it. He felt as though he was watching it all unfold from above, no longer tethered to reality.

He thought he’d watched you die. He thought he’d lost you forever. He hadn’t even had a chance to process your death when he’d found you alive.

The amount of thoughts running through his brain caused him to switch off from reality while he tried to sift through them. He didn’t feel JJ’s hand on his shoulder, he didn’t notice that she’d led him outside.

He was brought back around by the temperature change as JJ led him out to the sidewalk. He blinked several times taking in the street, the SUVs, two ambulances, lots of people.

Juliette Weaver was taken to the hospital to be patched up before she would be detained. Cat Adams was on her way back to prison where she would soon meet her end at the hand of the lethal injection.

Spencer stood still on the sidewalk, his mind unable to shut off. You were supposed to be dead. His brain had already started trying to grieve you. But you weren’t dead. What did that mean now?

Rossi was at his side now, holding something out in his hand. Without thinking too much, Spencer held out his own hand and Rossi coiled the item into his palm.

When he closed his hand around it, it was cool beneath his fingers. He knew without looking exactly what it was.

“Hey kid?” Rossi spoke quietly.

“Hmm?” Spencer croaked.

“Garcia wanted you to know something…”

***

You refused to go to the hospital, that was the last place you wanted to go. The cut on your chest and your head wound weren’t bad enough to warrant it and you insisted the paramedic patch you up in the ambulance.

Your heart rate was still erratic and you wondered if it would ever return to normal. You had been so sure you were going to die today and that adrenaline still ran through your veins.

Emily was the first to come and see you, holding her cell phone out for you. When you put it to your ear your children's voice encompassed you, causing you to cry once more.

“Mommy, when will you be home?”

“We miss you mom.”

Knowing they were safe and hearing their voices calmed you a little. Liv had collected them from school when you couldn’t and taken them to her place in case your own home wasn’t safe. It was late and they should have been in bed already, Liv said she would keep them for the night and drop them off at school in the morning.

You were crying still when you thanked Emily and handed her phone back. When you looked away from Emily, Spencer was hovering nearby, looking unsure if he should come over. You offered him a small smile which gave him the green light.

Taking a breath he slowly started towards you. Emily saw him coming and patted your shoulder gently.

“I’ll give you a minute.” She whispered before turning and heading away.

Spencer ambled over, hands in his pockets and rolling his lip between his teeth. He cautiously sat down next to you on the lip of the ambulance. He looked at you, his eyes full of so many emotions.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.” He exhaled shakily.

“It’s not your fault.” You sniffed, wiping your tears on your sleeve.

“It kinda is though. She used you as a pawn in her sick and twisted revenge against me.” Spencer shook his head.

“It’s fine, it’s over now.” You breathed. “You know I don’t really think you’re anything like him? I just said that because I thought it might save my life.”

He looked away from you, out across the street. His body deflated and he closed his eyes for a few long seconds.

“I wasn’t lying, Y/N, I have changed since prison. What I did to Cat…I don’t feel bad about it. The miscarriage, I do feel bad about. If I had caused that, the death of an unborn child, I would never have forgiven myself. But Garcia checked, she actually miscarried months later. And so I can’t bring myself to feel bad. She kidnapped my mom, she had me arrested. But it makes me no better than your husband.” He shook his head, sniffing lightly.

You placed your hand on his arm and he looked back at you, unshed tears in his eyes.

“Spencer, I don’t think you’re anything like him.” You shook your head. “You’re probably the only person in the world who has ever really loved me.”

“But things are just….so complicated.” He frowned.

“True, I probably still have a long battle ahead of me to keep Jared out of my life. I have two kids who are going to need me more than ever. But life is always going to be complicated and messy and if we try to wait for the right time…” you trailed off and squeezed his arm softly.

His eyes flit down to your hand and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw your now empty ring finger resting on his arm.

“If we try to wait for the right time, we might be waiting another fifteen years?” He finished for you, a small smile creeping to his lips.

“Exactly.” You nodded, your own lip twitching at the corner.

“But that really begs the question…”

“Ask me.”

Spencer rolled his lip between his teeth, turning his body a little so he was facing you properly. He reached out and took hold of your hand, threading his fingers in yours.

“Y/N,” he whispered. “Truth or dare?

“Truth.” You replied quickly.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” You didn’t hesitate in responding. “You were my first love, Spence. I was always too scared to admit it and then I met Jared and I thought it might help me get over those feelings. But it didn’t. And I pushed you away and I’m sorry, I’m sorry for doing that.”

“Hey, it’s ok.” He squeezed your hand gently. “I understand. The truth is I don’t know how to be in this world if I’m not wishing for a future with you.”

His free hand went back inside of his pocket and he pulled out the item Rossi had handed him. The silver and gold of the bracelet shimmered in the light from the ambulance. He let go of your hand and you held it out for him to drape the metal around your wrist before he clasped it shut.

You smiled softly at each other, his hand finding yours again and for a moment or two you sat in silence. You took in the street, the old abandoned movie theatre you and Spencer had spent so much time in together.

All those memories seemed so clear now. All the old horror movies he’d taken you to see which you told him you hated but you secretly loved because when you got scared it gave you an excuse to curl in close to him.

All the foreign movie festivals you’d gone to, some of which lacked subtitles and Spencer would lean in close and whisper the translations to you.

All the shared popcorn and the accidental brushing of fingers as you both reached in at the same time.

The hours you must have spent inside of those walls together, in your own little bubble all came flooding back, all of those adventures you’d watched playing out on the screen side by side.

And it made perfect sense that you should be sitting here now, on the cusp of your latest adventure together.

You glanced back at him and as if sensing your eyes on him, he looked at you too.

“Hey Spence?” You whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Just to confirm, because you didn’t actually say it…” you trailed off and Spencer chuckled lightly.

He was quick to move his free hand to your cheek, drawing you closer and then he kissed you.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you heard fireworks going off like it was the Fourth of July. He was gentle with you but his adoration was spoken silently against your lips.

It was a new hope, a new beginning. It was two people who had been unfathomably in love with each other for well over a decade finally coming together.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go too far and he kept his hand on your cheek as though scared he might lose you again. He smiled at you softly.

“I love you too, Y/N.” He laughed.

“After all this time?” You whispered.

“Always, my love. Always.”

@andiebeaword @measure-in-pain @muffin-cup @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @thebloomingeagle @frostandflamesfanfic @pixiehex1985 @release-your-sweets @megan-mars @hales-17 @onlyspence @werewolfbansheelove @gubsi @vivian-555 @ropickle @meowiemari @dil3mma @wolfstar-17 @kylakins88 @shqwqrma

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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1perplexed1 · 4 months

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More ranting but its the protags now

Danganronpa, despite its out of pocket comments and shitty development sometimes, is actually still great with presenting how characters deal with trauma. This is mostly gonna be about the 3 main protags but yk (p.s. I haven’t watched the gameplays in over a year or two, so correct me if I’m wrong😓)

Makoto, being a cheery guy, still came to forgive everyone for their misdeeds. He didn’t yell at Kyoko for getting mad at him, he kept Sakura’s secret, he still got along with everyone, and he didn’t hold a grudge despite being sent off to the execution. He never held a grudge (apart from Junko but that’s cause she’s a bitch!!). He obviously went through a lot, watching people he actually knew for 3 years die right in front of him while he thought he didn’t know anyone, as well as nearly dying from the execution. But even so, he still kept his optimistic self and continued encouraging everyone despite knowing what the cycle would be, never giving up. In the Dr3 anime, in the scene where he’s driven insane, you can actually see that a lot of his trauma is internalized. Meaning he still holds regret in his heart, but chose the healthy way out and continued to work on it, despite having to go through 2 different killing games. His trauma had a heavy impact on him, which was the reason why he could be driven to despair, but even so, he’s a strong character, which allowed him to keep his mindset and still fight for the best

Now onto Hajime. Hajime is a whole different story. We don’t know much about his backstory or family, apart from a few glimpses into his Reserve Course life. We can easily tell that he truly dreams of becoming talented because Ultimates were a big deal in the world, but the Reserve Course was deemed as being desperate for that (they were lmao). So dealing with obvious self-esteem issues and somewhat implied self-loathing, he sold his damn body to scientists to experiment on.

What you believe is entirely on you. You can believe that Hajime and Izuru are two seperate identities, sharing the same body and brain, as a split personality, or you can believe that Hajime and Izuru are one in the same, with his brain just getting a few modifications. And there is no humane way for him to be able to accommodate all of those talents without obvious body modification, so imagine that, some parts of him aren’t even his at that point. Anyways, Hajime deals with trauma a bit differently. He gets agitated and deals with it like any average person: panicked and desperate. Constantly seeing his friends die, it gave an impact on his brain where he had slowly, but unknowingly grown used to it, with still being obviously impacted, but each time less and less, though it’s really faint. By chapter 6, Hajime let those bottled up feelings out, since he never lets his guard down and is always tense, and is obviously upset and angry because he had no reason to be there, again his self-loathing. In the anime, we can see him getting better, accepting his past (via the symbolism of Chiaki fading out, though he still keeps her dear in his heart), and moving on by going back t his friends. So he most likely also ends up dealing with it healthily!

Shuichi? Oh fuck he’s a mess…

Shuichi obviously also struggles with a self-esteem problem, but it’s not severe. He generally doesn’t believe he’s worth his Ultimate, because he only solved one case the police couldn’t, and is quite shy or introverted on his own. Throughout the gameplay, he obviously builds up confidence, which could also play as tiredness and anger, because of continuously doing these class trials and losing people he tried to make a genuine connection with. Even so, he tries to stay strong, but again, he never truly built true confidence, which is why he’s so easily knocked down in chapter 5, where his feelings are exposed, revealing that he did in fact become/was already depressed. He gave up with everything, because knowing there was no point in killing, everyone’s deaths were a waste, and everything that happened was pointless, gives a pretty big impact. He even comes to a point of giving up on his own life. But with a bit of support from Maki and his friends, he gets back up on his feet again and continues on, making everyone’s deaths important because they never lost their value. Though in chapter 6, you can see his confidence waver again, but he still stands his ground, proving that he actually grew to accept everything, and built actual confidence, which I think is a nice touch to his character.

So truth be told, Danganronpa, despite still being shitty, is still good at character development when they actually put work into them. But of course, sometimes you just can’t get that

#danganronpa #danganronpa 1 #super danganronpa 2 #danganronpa v3 #dr1 #sdr2 #drv3 #hajime hinata #shuichi saihara #makoto naegi

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captainremmington-13 · 7 months

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A Lady Made of Snow

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own The Hunger Games franchise, the images above, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, or any of the characters in this fic other than Bellova.

SUMMARY: The 10th Annual Hunger Games begin, and things quickly dissolve into chaos. Bellova grows increasingly furious about Coriolanus’s dedication towards Lucy Gray Baird. When she realizes he has cheated just to keep her alive, she decides to ruin him once and for all.

Warnings: spoilers for TBOSAS, death, violence, cursing, overall dark stuff (it’s the Hunger Games franchise so that’s sorta a given)

A/n: I am using a combination of the movie and book version of the events that occur in this chapter. I sort of streamlined the events to make the chapter less boring. Also, I highly recommend listening to “…Ready For It?” and “Look What You Made Me Do” while reading this chapter.

Other than Sejanus throwing a chair at the screen and screaming that everyone in the room was a monster, Lamina killing Marcus in an act of of mercy, and Lucky’s stupid commentary, nothing much had happened yet.

Bellova was disappointed that her tribute was dead. Not because she cared about her, but because it meant she was missing out on the mentor experience. The thrill of having a say in someone else’s survival seemed quite exciting.

If she wasn’t so pissed at Coriolanus for his behavior towards Lucy Gray, she would’ve reconsidered his proposal to work together.

When the day was coming to an end, the majority of Academy students started to leave for their homes. Only a handful remained, consisting mostly of the mentors.

Bellova stifled a yawn, leaning back in her chair. Things has gotten dull, with the tributes doing nothing but finding places to hide from each other. She hoped that Dr. Gaul had something exciting in store for them soon, or people would start switching to Billi Bumble’s horrible comedy channel.

She picked up her Academy satchel and stood up from her seat. She noticed that Coriolanus was still present and slumped over on his desk, his head resting on his hand. He looked so peaceful asleep, his long golden lashes fluttering slightly. The light from the ceiling made his light blonde curls glow ethereally.

He looked like an angel.

Bellova suddenly felt a strong urge to wake him up. She had avoided him for the entire day out of spite, but was starting to miss interacting to him. It was routine, bantering and bickering every day. Not talking felt…weird. And lonely.

She sighed. On rare occasions, she wished she could go back in time and change the way they formed their relationship. Instead of it being based on competition and rivalry, it would be full of support and affection.

Then, an unpleasant thought hit her.

He had only stayed so late to ensure nothing happened to Lucy Gray while he was away.

Now utterly furious, she slung her bag over her shoulder and started towards the door. ‘He’s such a pathetic sap,’ she thought. ‘He’s acting like a fool, I really should stop associating myself with him.’

But she found herself glancing over her shoulder to look at him one last time. And she knew, deep down, that she’s always come back, no matter how much he pissed her off.

She’d never be able to stay away from him.

Not for long, anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellova passed out as soon as she climbed into bed, and didn’t wake until nine hours later. She hadn’t slept well in nearly a week, as she was still recovering from her injuries. This was the first time she was able to achieve an uninterrupted night of sleep since before the bombing.

When one of her maids woke her up, it was already 8:00. Usually Academy classes started promptly at 8:00, but because of the Games, the schedule had been loosened a bit. And Bellova, who didn’t feel like interacting with anyone, was in no rush to arrive on time.

After eating a breakfast of fruit and assorted pastries, she slowly pulled on her uniform. She has always hated the Academy uniforms, but with the right accessories and makeup, she had learned to make it presentable by her standards.

Bellova checked her makeup one last time in the mirror and then headed downstairs to meet her driver at the front of her estate. He opened the passenger’s side door for her as she slid into the seat.

“How are you this morning, Miss Bellova?” he asked, starting the engine and taking off towards the main road.

“Fine,” she said, leaning against the window. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope that once the Games are over, you can rest up properly.”

She nodded. “That would be nice. As much as I like the Games, they’ve caused quite a lot of stress this year.”

He laughed quietly. “Most certainly. Everyone was so worried about you when you were hospitalized, your father most of all. I haven’t ever seen him so upset in my twenty years of working for him.”

Bellova sighed. She and her father, Julio Augustus Reginelle, had a nice relationship. But he was rarely home, for he worked almost ten hours a day and often didn’t come home until Bellova was asleep. She cherished the rare moments she had with him. He had taught her to be proud of her wit and her combative nature, even if it sometimes got her into trouble.

“You are much more like your father than you realize, Miss Bellova,” her driver said.

“How so?” she asked.

“You are both kind until someone disrespects you. You are incredibly intelligent just like him, and pursue your goals relentlessly.” He paused for a moment. “And, you seem to have the same disdain for certain other Capitol families.”

Bellova raised an eyebrow. “Which ones?”

“Well, he’s not fond of the Cardews, as you know. He thinks they hold too much power for how little work they actually do.”

Bellova laughed. “That’s true.”

“He has never gotten along with the Creed family. He finds them irritating and foolish.”

She smirked. “I’m not surprised. Festus can be insufferable. Who else?”

Her driver sighed. “He despised Crassus Snow.”

Bellova felt her stomach twist. “Really?”

He nodded. “I don’t know exactly why he hated him so passionately, but I’ve heard they were rivals during their Academy days.”

‘I suppose I really do take after him then,’ Bellova thought, remembering her and Coriolanus’s worst arguments. ‘Crassus’s son gets under my skin nearly every day.’

Her driver pulled onto Scholars Road and stopped in front of the Academy’s main building. He stepped out of the car to open the door for her, and she gave him a nod of thanks.

“I’ll see you later, Miss Bellova,” he said, bowing slightly and getting back into the car to drive off.

As Bellova walked to the auditorium where the mentors were undoubtedly already at work, she pondered what her driver had said about Crassus Snow and her father. She was eager to know more about their history, but didn’t want to pry too far. Her father had a temper just like her, and she didn’t want to be on the wrong end of it.

When Bellova reached the room and walked through the doors, she immediately noticed three things: one, that Coriolanus looked exhausted and distressed, two, that he has brought his cousin Tigris to watch the Games, and three, that Sejanus was missing.

She grabbed a spare chair and sat next to Coriolanus. He didn’t greet her or even glance look at her.

“What’s wrong with you today?” she asked, looking at the large television screen in front of them.

He scowled. “I’m not in the mood for your snide remarks, Bellova.”

“Clearly something happened. Either tell me or I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Coriolanus gave her a sharp glare, but sighed in defeat. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Satisfied, Bellova turned her attention back to the Games. According to Lucky Flickerman, one tribute, Bobbin, had died overnight. However, there was no footage shown of him perishing.

Bellova found that awfully suspicious. There was such a lack of action in the arena that the gamemakers would have undoubtedly shown the death of a tribute.

When Bobbin’s death was announced, she noticed Coriolanus tense ever-so slightly. The average person wouldn’t have noticed, but she had learned to read his body language as well as the back of her hand. Clearly, something about his death made him nervous.

She decided to cast it aside for the moment. She’d pry the information out of him later.

“They aren’t showing us what happened to that little boy,” Lysistrata Vickers said. “He clearly was killed right there. There’s cameras everywhere. It doesn’t make sense.”

“They said they were old cameras, Lyssie,” Festus responded. “Probably just another one of Coral’s.”

“Festus, sit down,” Lucky Flickerman ordered. “Same seats.”

Festus scowled but did as he was told. He and Lucky clearly had some animosity, and it was quite amusing to witness their petty interactions.

Suddenly, after a few moments, Lucy Gray appears on screen, looking horrified. Bellova had to bite her lip to refrain from grinning. It seemed that the songbird’s luck was finally running out.

Jessup emerged a second later. He was clearly not well, he looked much worse than he did before the Games.

“What’d you do to me?” Jessup shrieked, backed Lucy Gray against a pile of rubble.

“Nothing!” she responded, her eyes wide with fear.

“Lyssie, what is he doing?” Bellova heard Coriolanus asked frantically.

“Something’s wrong,” Lysistrata replied, bewildered. “He wouldn’t turn on her like this.”

“Jessup going after Lucy Gray,” Lucky commented.

“Stop running!” Jessup demanded. “What did you…” He groaned mid-sentence. “What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Lucy Gray insisted.

“Both tributes from District 12. The same district folding in on itself.”

“Wait, look. The foam,” Coriolanus said.

“I think it’s rabies,” Lysistrata said, clearly disturbed. “That bite. From that train.”

Coriolanus stared at the screen, looking helplessly at his tribute who was nearing her inevitable doom. Then, he turned back to Jessup’s mentor.

“Send him water.”

“Wait, what?” Lysistrata asked.

“You remember the posters in the war? Rabies. It makes you afraid of water. Send him a drone.”

“That’ll scare him,” she protested.

“Yes. Away from her,” he insisted.

Bellova stood up. “Coriolanus-“

“Bellova, be quiet,” he snapped, not even bothering to look at her. “Jessup is done. Lyssie, you’re the only one that can get it right to him.”

Lysistrata clearly didn’t want to, but with a few clicks on her computer, water was being sent to Jessup by a drone.

“Thank you,” Coriolanus whispered.

Within minutes, Jessup was dead, and four lethal tributes were cornering Lucy Gray.

“Oh, look at this,” Lucky Flickerman said. “The Pack doing what they do best. Packing it in. Lucy Gray is swarmed, cornered. Mizzen, propellering his net.”

It looked again as if she was done for, but then-

“Mr. Snow going for his communipad,” Lucky continued. Bellova saw him send nine - no, ten drones towards Lucy Gray.

Bellova knew exactly what he was doing. He was using the drones to give her a chance to escape.

The drones came flying into the arena, causing The Pack to scatter. A few of them got hit, causing them cry out in pain and tumble to the stone-covered floor.

“These drones are not very good,” Lucky commented, as if it weren’t obvious. Some of the students who had caught onto Coriolanus’s plan started to jeer at him.

“Hey!” Vipsania Sickle said indignantly. “You can’t attack the tributes.”

“I’m just sending water,” Coriolanus said casually, as if he was completely innocent.

After gathering her bearings, Lucy Gray scrambled into a tunnel with Coral on her heels. She managed to pull the vent closed just in time, the metal door nearly crushing Coral’s fingers.

Bellova positioned herself a few inches away from Coriolanus. She was seething, but it didn’t show on her face. She simply looked indifferent, despite all of the violence that had just occurred in the Games.

“Snow, do you that time before the Dark Days when you pulled on my pigtails, so I slammed your face against my school desk?”

“Yes,” Coriolanus said, furrowing his eyebrows. “What about it?”

Bellova smiled crookedly, the violent glint in her eyes making Coriolanus visibly uncomfortable. “I’m about to fucking do it again, and this time, you’ll have more than a bleeding nose.”

He straightened his posture, smoothing out his Academy blazer.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Bellova’s hands twitched. She knew that decking him in front of the majority of the student board would get her in severe trouble, but it was very tempting.

Instead of punching him, she started to storm out of the auditorium.

“There goes Miss Reginelle. Clearly, the violence on screen has finally gotten to her-“

“Shut the fuck up, Flickerman, before I snap your microphone in half!” Bellova hissed. She threw up open the doors, and made sure to slam them behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellova sat in the hallway outside of the auditorium, leaning her head against the wall behind her. Her anger was threatening to spill over, and her father would be very disappointed in her if she murdered someone on Academy grounds.

She had vowed to make Coriolanus pay if he pulled any more strings for his little songbird. And he had by sending that fleet of drones after her attackers. But clearly, nobody batted an eye at that. He had not been punished, or even reprimanded.

The thought of Coriolanus thinking longingly about Lucy Gray was almost enough to drive her mad.

Before she could do anything drastic, she heard the speakers inside the auditorium amplifying Dr. Gaul’s voice. Curious, she stood up and pressed her ear to the doors.

“Capitol citizens, I’m afraid I must interrupt our Games to announce a tragic loss, one that affects us all. Felix Ravinstill, son of our beloved president, has, this morning, succumbed to his injuries sustained in the rebel bombing.”

Bellova felt her heart drop. Felix wasn’t all that bad, when he wasn’t bragging about his life at least. She had even gone to the end-of-year Academy gala with him a couple of years ago. They had a wonderful time, and she was gifted a priceless gold necklace by him at the end of the night. She had worn it for a week straight afterwards, which delighted the young son of the president.

“Out there in the districts, they will be celebrating this young boy’s death as a triumph. I will not allow my Games to give our enemy such a victory. I swear to you, here and now, before the sun goes down tonight, a rainbow of destruction will engulf our arena. Even if it means there’s to be no victor in these Games.”

She gasped. She knew Dr. Gaul well enough to know she was completely serious. If she wanted someone gone, she’d stop at nothing until they dropped dead.

Mere moments later, Coriolanus burst through the doors, nearly slamming right into Bellova.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked, scowling at him.

He sneered down at her, beginning to walk away. She followed him, despite knowing he really didn’t want her to. “As if I’d tell you.”

Bellova sighed. “I told you earlier, Coriolanus, if you don’t tell me, I’ll figure it out on my own-“

“Fine!” he huffed. “I’d do anything to shut you up at this point. You’re insufferable.”

“The feeling is mutual, Snow. Now spill it, what’s going on?”

Coriolanus, against his better judgement, told her everything. Well, almost everything. He told her about how he retrieved Sejanus from the arena, but omitted the part about killing Bobbin. He explained that he needed to see Dr. Gaul immediately, for the stitches in his back from the previous evening were coming loose.

Bellova frowned. She briefly felt bad that he was in pain, but couldn’t bring herself to actually care. She was still angry at him.

She also noticed he said was being very vague with his details. He was definitely hiding something.

“What’s that face for?” Coriolanus asked as they approached the Citadel, which housed Gaul’s laboratory.

“What face?”

“That scowl. You’re clearly not pleased about something, so what is it?”

She smirked. “As if I’d tell you,” she said, mimicking his words from earlier.

Coriolanus’s jaw clenched, which satisfied Bellova immensely. She loved seeing his patience waver, it was strangely addicting.

“Will you ever learn to keep your bratty mouth shut?” he asked, his voice raising a touch.

“Bratty?” Bellova scoffed. “I’d prefer it if you called me a bitch.”

Dr. Gaul’s lab was just a few corridors away at this point. Bellova knew that causing a scene here wouldn’t be wise, but she honestly did not care. She could easily talk her way out if it.

Coriolanus glowered at her, his blue eyes icier than ever. “Go back to the auditorium, Bellova. I know you love watching the Games, and you’re probably missing all of the action.”

She laughed. “So all of a sudden, you want me to be happy. Seriously, Snow, if you want to get rid of me, just say so.”

He smirked at her condescendingly. “Then I will. Get out of here, you have no place in Gaul’s lab anyway. It’s too much for your pathetically shallow brain to comprehend.”

Bellova stared at him for a moment. It has been awhile since he’d said something quite that harsh. It was normal for him to question her intellect, but calling her dumb? That was low, even for him.

Coriolanus was obviously anticipating a slap to the face. He was not prepared, however, for Bellova to swipe her claw-like nails across his face like a wild animal.

Stunned, he watched Bellova walk away as the new gashes on his face began to sting. As she reached the end of the hall, she screamed “You’re such an asshole!” before disappearing from Coriolanus’s sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellova sat in the stands instead of with the mentors, watching as Dr. Gaul’s “rainbow of destruction” engulf the remaining tributes in the arena.

She had no idea that when Dr. Gaul said “rainbow”, she was referring to hundreds of colorful, deadly snakes.

She watched, entranced, as the beautiful mutations smothered the tributes, picking them off one-by-one. She had never admired the “mad” scientist more. Her work was truly beautiful.

Wovey, Reaper, Mizzen, and Coral were soon dead, lying lifelessly beneath the swarm of snakes.

“Now, all colors lead to Gray,” Lucky Flickerman said.

Coriolanus stood watching the screen, amazed at his own success. “She’s… She’s won. It’s over, she’s won.” He looked over to Dr. Gaul, who was standing to the side. “She’s won, let her out.”

The doctor smiled. “Afraid that’s not your call to make, Mr. Snow.”

Bellova bit back a laugh when Lucy Gray began to sing. At least she’d be able to get in once last performance before her vocal chords went slack.

“Dr. Gaul, she won!” Coriolanus repeated, desperation seeping into his voice. “It’s over, let her out.”

“Why aren’t they attacking her?” someone asked.

“Must be the singing,” Coriolanus replied. “It’s calming them.”

He really was a terrible liar.

“She can’t sing forever,” Festus said.

Bellova noticed some of the students around her begin to cry as they watched Lucy Gray sing shakily. ‘Pathetic,’ she thought.

“Dr. Gaul, please,” Coriolanus begged. “Get her out. Get her out!”

One by one, the Academy students began to chant “Get her out! Get her out!”, almost overpowering the sound of Lucy Gray’s singing.

‘No,’ Bellova thought desperately. ‘Don’t. Just let her die.’

Then, Coriolanus said, “Who will watch the Games if there’s no victor?”

The chanting came to a halt.

Dr. Gaul looked around, seeing that she was vastly outnumbered. “Get her out,” she murmured just loud enough to be heard.

“She’s won! Lucy Gray!” Lucky Flickerman cried over the roar of the student body. “Coriolanus Snow is the winner of the 10th Annual Hunger Games!”

Bellova’s face burned with fury, her patience finally snapping after days of wearing thin.

She was no longer willing to overlook Coriolanus’s behavior. She had let him get away with too much.

It was time that he faced some real consequences.

As she exited the hall quietly, she smiled, a cruel, twisted smile. She knew exactly how she would make him pay.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊

TAGLIST: @daenerysqueenofhearts, @squidscottjeans, @euphemiaamillais, @gracieroxzy

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments! This was another decently long chapter, and I believe it has been the most intense one yet. Stay tuned for Chapter Six!

Also, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow x oc #original character #thg prequel #the hunger games #coriolanus snow x reader #dr gaul #lucy gray baird

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riftfic · 1 year

Text

14. Human

Who will save you now?

Warnings: strong language, referenced suicide, violence

Featured Characters: Sans, Chara/Frisk (Reader), Flowey/Asriel, Wingdings Gaster, Asgore Dreemurr

Note: If you haven't read the previous chapters recently (maybe even if you have outside the past few days), I recommend giving it another read. It's definitely not a requirement, but I added some extra details throughout the story and a few more scenes, most notably in Chapters 3 & 9, that should help the ending feel even more satisfying.

Several years later . . . here's the next chapter.

< Load | RESET | Continue >

From a single strip at the Underground’s heart, Waterfall tunneled away into a boneyard mess of caves. In one direction, the passage to Hotland sprawled in mushroom-light mazes and a boulder choke disguising Tem Village. In the other, a quiet bubble harbored a simple mouse, neck deep in plans to retrieve a wedge of crystallized cheese. Between them, from a silver door that had only been there sometimes, Sans stepped out into a flood of bioluminescence.

Though a door latched shut behind him, dark, damp stone replaced the surface he reclined against now. Its cold, unyielding texture met his fingertips, a reminder that there would be no second visit.

He clutched the spindly metal bars of that unnaturally gray birdcage. He tucked his chin over the iron rung at its peak, hardly dousing the light of the small monster soul trapped inside.

The task set before him was unconscionable. Even if he managed to survive . . .

“i can’t do that,” he had resisted. “i can’t kill Frisk!”

“They shouldn’t even be alive,” said Wingdings.

The words took Sans by surprise. He set his heels despite the encroaching void and a minute hand nearing his final stroke of midnight.

“oh, but ya want me to take this soul all the way back to asriel, huh?” he said. “make sure he survives? double standard, if y’ask me.”

"I didn't say it was fair,” Wingdings hardly breathed. His eyes gained urgency. “The human . . . might survive, if they're determined enough. But after you pull the lever . . .”

At that, Sans’ anger siphoned away, leaving behind a fear much broader than the fate of one human child. Their mistake had set so many events into motion. Lives had been built and destroyed, paths forged and buried. The machine could rewrite the course of everything as easily as it could leave the butterfly effect intact. They could remain here in the present or be sucked back to the day it all began. With a phenomenon this unpredictable, just about anything could happen . . . but whatever world they left behind, at least it might survive.

“if i do use their soul to run the machine,” Sans said more calmly, “what’ll happen to asriel, then? to me? to the underground? heck, what’ll happen to you?”

It was clear to Sans by the frown on Wingdings’ face that his brother had already considered this question. Despite his ingenuity, the once royal scientist only shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I do know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

In the present, Sans beat his fist against the rock behind him. Why did it have to be so fucking twisted? Why his Frisk? And why did he have to be the one to do it? Maybe it didn’t have to work out like this. Maybe there was more time than Dings thought. Maybe he could find another way.

His phone buzzed rhythmically at his waist. He pulled it from his coat pocket and looked at the screen. The image of Papyrus illuminated those shadowy cavern walls below several missed call notifications. Sans took a deep, shaking breath, then another, and answered.

“pup . . .”

“SANS!” Papyrus shouted. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR HOURS!”

“oh.”

“I’M NEARLY TO NEW HOME. A FRIEND HAS INFORMED ME THAT THE HUMAN IS IN TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE DANGER! IS THAT TRUE?!”

Sans nearly broke down then and there. Though seeing Wingdings again had restored many of the deeper cracks in his soul, it still felt fragile, even more when considering the path ahead of him.

“more than true,” he whispered.

A patch of silence followed. Sans dropped his cheek to rest on birdcage bars.

“tell me it’s gonna be all right,” he murmured into the receiver.

“Sans . . . where are you?” Papyrus asked, more gently than was typical.

“just tell me, please.”

“It’s . . .” Papyrus sighed. “It is going to be all right. Now, WHERE ARE YOU?”

Hearing the words in his brother’s voice quelled Sans’ fear, enough to return strength to his limbs. He lingered on the phone a moment longer, as if the connection truly placed him at Papyrus’ side.

“meet you there,” he said.

You followed in Asgore’s shadow, watching the folds of his cape sway and collide like cattails in the wind. His silhouette consumed yours. He could hold all of you in one hand, let alone the tiny red soul he sought to claim.

Past the end of that long hallway mirror of the Ruins, the barrier undulated with powerful magic. Its waves of golden white licked the crackled stone as if in search of escapees. It contoured Asgore’s silhouette in a crisp white line as he turned to face you.

That all-too-familiar smile prickled the fur along his muzzle. Looking up into his apologetic eyes, you remembered his hands on your shoulders, his all-encompassing embrace that threatened to lose you in his fur. The macaroni pictures, the crayon drawings, the sweaters . . . the buttercup pie. You shuddered.

“Human,” said the king of all monsters. His powerful voice trembled, and the earth trembled with it. “It was nice meeting you. . . . Goodbye.”

He held his trident firmly in both hands and lowered his head . . . but a stoplight glow kept his chin from falling too far. There you stood, hands outstretched, red soul hovering above your palms.

“I’m the last one,” you said.

Asgore stared at the heart-shaped spirit as if entranced. Its warmth illuminated your fingers with ruby firelight. It was in the crimson glint of your eyes, however, that he became lost, captured in the clutch of a ghost from years long gone.

“Do I . . . know you?” he asked, bewildered both by the situation and the question itself.

“Please, take it,” you said. Tears fell down your face. “It’s no good for anything else.”

Asgore’s eyes widened with recognition. “Chara . . . ?”

Intense heat flared in the hallway behind you. Before Asgore could say anything more, a brilliant ball of flame had launched him into the cavern wall. Flecks of gray stone spat out among a field of clouds.

You swung to face the spellcaster. Toriel stood framed in the doorway, her face scrunched in a scowl like a snarling lion. One smoking arm remained outstretched, clenched in a fist.

“What a miserable creature,” she growled, “torturing such a poor, innocent youth.”

You hadn’t known what path the timeline had taken or whether your friends would convene . . . yet Toriel had arrived, exactly the same as before. Though you may have jokingly called her “mom,” the name now rang through your head with the purity of a windchime in the breeze.

Undyne, Alphys, and Papyrus appeared after her, along with a swath of others you had met along the way. You wanted to tell them to turn back, that you did not deserve them, that if they had known the demon you truly were, they never would have wanted to be your friend.

Your color drained. As they approached, a web of vines crawled after them along the dark ceiling and cavern floors.

You ran to Asgore, who sat slumped amid rubble and a brand new hallway door in the shape of his back. He grumbled in discomfort. A layer of dust coated his royal robes and golden mane, which he shook like a dog. You slid to your knees beside him.

“Hurry, please!” you blubbered to the stunned monster king. You proffered your soul as if it were on fire. “There isn’t a lot of time . . . !”

Toriel snatched you back by the shoulders.

“What has come over you, my child?” she demanded. “Do you not know what he means to do with it?”

“Mom, I . . .”

“Frisk.” Her eyes had begun scanning the room in fright. “Where is Sans?”

The path to the barrier gave Sans more difficulty than expected. The last time he had attempted these roads with fewer than two shortcuts, he had been a century younger and taking his time, mushroom hunting with young Papyrus. His limbs lagged behind his will. His breath rattled in his chest. Though his fingers slipped against that birdcage no one remembered, he refused to release its colorless patina bars. Everything depended on this.

He took what natural shortcuts he could—river ferries and elevators—but even then, the trip cost more time than he had bargained. At long last, he had reached the innards of Asgore’s home in the capital. He ran, huffing and puffing, down the golden tiles of the Last Hallway.

Even as he sped past, his heart ached to remember your meeting here. The flare of sunlight on your head, the even brighter smile on your face, the secret passwords on your tongue. . . . The memory of that pure soul compared to the corrupted one he had read beside the rift overwhelmed him, and he paused. He touched a hand to the white pillar that once occluded him.

Who were you now? Frisk? Chara? Both? If Chara truly were your forgotten name, if everything he knew about the tragedy of Asgore’s children had happened to you, such terrible memories weighed down on your tiny shoulders. It did not surprise him, then, that your violence had escalated to remember those horrors. Ferocious thorns had been hiding in the soft petal corona of your soul, and neither of you had known it.

Clinging tightly to the forgotten prison in his hands, he buried his sentiments and tore through vine-swathed hallways into a dark passage. He skidded to a halt just past the silvery stone archway to the barrier, where his bones clattered with shock.

The cavern pulsed in radiant waves like the steady spin of a lighthouse beacon. Twisting, thorny roots filled the cavern like a briar patch, and their position changed with every flash of light. Among the vicious mess of chloroplast, monster figures had been tangled, their souls nearly devoured.

The dimming pinpoints of Sans’ eyes could not peel away from your small form, crumpled on the floor before a yellow flower. Your red soul snapped among his vines, barely shimmering in a ruby remnant before splitting apart into nothing.

Sans could not stifle the horror that clawed its way out his mouth. He nearly dropped the cage.

Flowey turned to grin at him. “Trash day already?” he asked, spinning his head in a full circle.

Sans shook. No. This couldn’t have happened. You couldn’t have fallen to that little heathen daisy so quickly. You couldn’t have lost your determination. If only he hadn’t lingered in the hallway. If only he had kept running . . . !

You blinked at the human soul still hovering in your outstretched hands. It glowed red, though not as brightly as it once did. Still alive. Still yours to give. Not torn to bits by a nihilistic plant.

Only moments ago, you had fallen to a flower, the same flower weaving his way into this chamber of darkness and light. Toriel’s hands rested heavily on your shoulders. Papyrus chattered away, as Asgore pleaded with Toriel to give him a second chance. While they were distracted, Flowey dug his way out of the earth, grinning deviously, ready to spring all over again.

Confusion waltzed with your mind, spinning you gently. You had experienced this rush backward a thousand times before. Just a short step in reverse to let you continue after falling or if you disliked the outcome . . . but you did not have the determination to do it now. You had intended to die. You had meant for one of two creatures to take your power and be done with it.

It hadn’t been you.

The world shifted. Time rushed away like the tide, back into the ocean depths. Darkness bled away into golden sunlit tiles and stained glass windows. Birds chirped among a distant rustle of leaves. The air danced with prisms for a fleeting moment before the world reappeared as it had only moments before.

Sans realized suddenly that he stood in the Last Hallway all over again. A glittering pocket of magic danced like a handheld star beside him, where he had touched the pillar and remembered you. It had not been there before.

Air filled his ribcage in jagged gasps. His soul burned as it usually did when you reset time, though somewhat gentler. His hands shook around the bars of that monochrome birdcage with fear, confusion, and exhilaration.

He had just turned back time. He could feel it. And if that were the case . . .

He ran. He sprinted faster than ever to reach you, but you lay still on the floor again. Though uncertain how, and though it hurt him, he turned back the clock a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Every time, the flower tore apart your soul like a horror movie on repeat, until finally, Sans arrived one split second earlier. Your soul spun a circle above you as if hanging from a string, and a ring of white pellets had only begun readying itself to deliver the killing blow.

Before Sans knew what he was doing, he was charging Flowey through a rough shortcut, foot extended to drop-kick the weed down into his roots. That cursed dandelion’s shriek had never sounded so satisfying. Sans’ dragon skulls had already manifested over his shoulders, jaws aflame—but when they blasted blue-hot magic out their mouths, Flowey had already disappeared into the earth.

A whip of green struck the ground where Sans had stood. He skipped out of the way in the nick of time, then again, and again, and again. He punched his free hand to the ground, and a wave of long, white magic bones crashed down through the air like meteorites. They speared into the cave floor with enough force to run cracks through the ceiling. Clouds of rock sprinkled down onto his shoulders. Flowey’s grip on his friends and family slackened just an inch.

Flowey surfaced again, undamaged beyond a few frayed petals.

Sans panted, his adrenaline quickly plunging. His bones began aching again, though his raging soul burned brightly through its seams. Sweat slipped down his skull into the neck of his shirt. He didn’t know if he could withstand this much longer. He did not know if his soul could survive another time jump.

“Ha,” chirped the little flower. “Looking pretty rough, there, old pal." His eyes glinted red within the skull-like hollows of his face. "Poor, flimsy little monster souls. Why bother trying? Even Chara was no match for me, and they were a million times stronger than you’ll ever be!”

Sans knew he was right. He did not have the full resilience of a purebred human. Even you had to try several times before making it past this bitter herb. Who in their right mind would bet on him: half blind, right arm nearly useless, only one HP? Just like every moment in his life, he would find a way to fuck this up. Just like every other time before, he would be useless to help.

His hope dwindled down, as did the fire in his soul. He could not find the strength to evade the string of bullets shooting toward him, but they were serendipitously blocked by a fence of small white bones.

“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM, SANS!” said Papyrus through clenched teeth. “YOU. CAN. WIN!”

“We are here to help you,” said Toriel. “No matter what happens.”

“Statistically it’s impossible,” said Alphys, “b-but you’ve beaten the odds before! I know you can do it!”

“Fuck you, Sans,” said Undyne.

Everyone looked at her. She shrugged.

“Sans,” said Asgore. “Listen to me.”

Sans clung to the bars of the birdcage more tightly, eyes glued to the smirking flower afar.

“You are not just your father’s son,” said the king of the Underground. “You have more than magic running through your veins. Remember that . . . and stay determined!”

Sans’ white pupils snapped to Asgore’s blue and brown at once. The statement had struck him somewhere deep beyond the monster white shell of his soul, and still more words passed between them unspoken. Sans then dragged his gaze across all his friends, who looked back with steadfast confidence, even Undyne.

Flowey coiled down on himself, pretending to be scared. “Urgh, no!” he whimpered. “Unbelievable! This can’t be happening! I can’t possibly withstand all of you . . . you . . . !” His face contorted into his evilest grin. “Idiots.”

His vines snapped taut around every monster, and yet another thorny coil snatched Sans from the ground as well. Through ropes of green and brown, Sans watched your red soul go down the flower’s throat, sealed behind hungry white fangs within a golden crown. Then, everything became lost in a flash of white.

Clang.

Sans moaned. Between that blitz of light and now, he had dropped to his hands and knees. His palms felt scorched—and dreadfully empty. Ahead of him, the last withering wisp of gray silver bars dissipated into the air as if made of smoke. Seeing it clawed the magic away from his bones with every mounting breath. His eyes became hollow.

The cage was gone—really, truly gone. Not even a step backward in time could bring it back, and with it, Asriel’s soul. Sans felt the world bottom out. Had he really failed, after everything?

A voice cackled overhead. “Finally,” it said. “I was so tired of being a flower.”

Sans looked upward and blanched. Aside from a few drawings you had scribbled out as a child, he had never witnessed this ungodly creature of countless souls. Sans had only been consumed by him, a coal block among many to fuel his hate. Now, Asriel Dreemurr hovered overhead in all his glory, raging with deathly power in a kaleidoscope of energy. No wonder you had nightmares.

Past the wreckage of their earlier fight, your body still lay heaped on the floor among stone and dead vines, seemingly asleep. As Sans crawled close, tears threatened to form.

He bit them back. No. He needed to hope. He needed to dream. He needed to be determined that he could call you out from the darkness, just as you had done for him a hundred times. It was his turn, now. Everyone would make it to the other side . . . including Asriel.

“Huh?” Asriel grunted as he caught wind of Sans below. “What are you still doing here? I ate your soul, you dirty lawn bag!”

“grass not,” said Sans as he stood, dusting the dirt from his jacket with his left hand.

“Ugh.” Asriel pinched his muzzle exasperatedly. “So annoying. How many times have you died now? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?” He thrust a rocket’s flare at Sans with a wicked smile. “Thirty-seven?!”

Sans gathered your body into his arms and stepped into a last-minute shortcut, safely away from that raw magical surge. After hiding your figure inside an Asgore-shaped wall hole, he flitted through the blue light of a portal once again. He reappeared in the air, directly in Hyperdeath’s path, only inches from his head.

“bone apétit, fucker,” he said and threw a handful of small bones at Asriel’s face. Though they caused no significant damage, they certainly got his attention.

Sans landed on all fours and scrambled. Bullets, fireballs, shooting stars, and lightning strikes raged after him. They left craters in the ground and drove deeper cracks into the ceiling overhead. Stalactites fell and shattered. Sans dodged every one of them. His body thoughtlessly followed the part of him that knew how to survive but had no time to ask permission, so begged forgiveness instead.

As Asriel Dreemurr took a moment to lift his hands, Sans struggled to catch his breath. His hood smelled of smoldering keratin. Holes had been burned through his sleeves. His body felt slick and ashen against his jacket’s cotton interior. The bones he had tossed like a scoop of dog biscuits into Asriel’s face had been the last magic he could muster. Whatever great power the prince of the Underground gathered now, Sans doubted he could survive it.

The world darkened. Sans could no longer see Asriel or the barrier, not even his hands if he raised them. Everything had become silent except the paddle of his own breath.

A skull three times his size suddenly materialized from the shadow. In appearance, it reminded him of those he and his siblings had mastered, though its horns and features mirrored Asriel instead. It laughed in his face—a grim, bone-chilling sound like grating rocks—but Sans stood firm. Brilliant red rage and determination surfaced among the cracks of his soul. How dare Asriel steal from Papyrus? How dare he turn Sans’ own family magic against him?

Waves of light drew into the open bowels of its snakelike gullet. Debris ran past his ankles, recalling images of a lab in shambles, a brother consumed by a beast of timeless indifference. He braced himself, ready to dive into the darkness as he did then and save the ones that mattered most.

A flash of brightness burst over him once more. This time, it ripped the soul from inside him and shattered it into pieces.

His mind floated through an abyss, bursting with the fireworks of everything at stake. He thought of Papyrus, never seeing sunrise; Toriel, never knowing the love of a new family; Alphys, never seeing the true greatness inside herself; Undyne, never free to explore the world; Asgore, failing his people. He thought of you, swallowed in the belly of the very thing you had sought to save. He thought of the entire world, destroyed by the god of hyperdeath, eaten alive by a hungry rift in time. The pieces of his soul quivered in a glow of crimson, ready to disperse.

*But it refused.

The shards sewed back together. A burst of bright red coursed through him like a new flame that had waited a lifetime to be struck. He had to live. He needed to live. He wanted to live! The darkness faded away, and soon the pulsing light of the barrier greeted his eyes once again.

He gaped at his shaking hands, eye sockets wide with confusion and amazement and, more than anything, determination. His soul felt aflame with a ruby-red blaze that forged the bleeding cracks of every pain, every hardship, and every sorrow into an armor stronger than the thickest alloy.

Asriel’s final form hovered ahead of him. Giant wings had sprouted from his back, flaring with blues, reds, greens, and purples. His teeth bared in needle points to rival Undyne’s, seething with fury and frustration.

“YOU . . . GARBAGE BIN SKELETAL FREAK!” he screamed. “WHY? WHY CAN’T YOU DIE?!”

Sans realized very suddenly he couldn’t move. Asriel’s true power had run rampant through the air, cocooning him in a chrysalis of magic he could not escape. He struggled with no result. With no way to resist, Asriel’s attacks barreled into him again, and again, and again. Every time his brightly burning soul rebuilt itself, a little was lost along the way.

“I can feel it,” Asriel growled with relish. “Every time you die, your grip on this world slips away. Every time you die, your friends forget you a little more. Your life will end here, in a world where no one remembers you.”

Sans thought of Windings, lost in a hell of the same description. He recalled how determined his brother had been to hold that same world together in one piece, forgotten or not. Sans could not fail him again, not here, not now, not after how hard Dings had tried, not when all his hopes were so invested in his success. His brother’s words rang through Sans' head, the last he would speak before the ghost of a gray door had separated them.

“I want you to know,” Wingdings had said, “I believe in you more than I believe in anyone else.”

“heh, yer jus’ tuggin’ my tibia . . .”

“For Tesla’s sake, Sans,” Dings snipped. “Can you just, for a second, let me spoon-feed your imperceptibly minuscule single-cell petri dish of a trait you call your self-esteem?” He took a deep breath and steadied. “I know it might seem like you’re my only option,” he said, “but you’re the best option I could have ever hoped for. My big brother. The one who sticks it out through thick and thin. The one I could always rely on to come through for me. You can do this. You can save everyone. I know you can. So, please . . .

“. . . don’t give up.”

Sans closed his eyes and reached his heart out to Asriel’s amalgamation of souls. His friends and family were there somewhere. He could save them. They believed in him. Dings believed in him. His determination to save everyone bled through the confines of Asriel’s magic, and deep inside that monstrosity, something began to stir.

Darkness closed in and images of his friends materialized, though their faces could not be seen behind swimming, fragmented blurs of pitch. Toriel, Papyrus, Asgore, Alphys, and Undyne stood like statues in a ring around him. Under their breaths, they mumbled their deepest wounds aloud: loss, rejection, loneliness, guilt, and captivity.

Sans stared up at his little brother’s towering silhouette, shaken to see him so reduced.

“hey, puppy . . .” he began. He inched nearer. “‘member me?”

Papyrus did not acknowledge him beyond summoning a few bones, which promptly flew in his direction. They were nothing compared to what Asriel had been punting his way. Sans stood perfectly still to allow a large blue femur to pass harmlessly through his forehead, then teleported behind him. He wrapped his arms around his waist until his face lay cradled in the lower curve of his spine, as if it were fashioned to hold his head.

“is that any way to treat your big bro?” he asked quietly. He searched his head for his worst possible joke and turned to the remaining souls. “uh . . . w-whatcha all starin’ at?” He whipped out a finger gun as nonchalantly as possible. “never metacarpal of skeletons before?”

A long, silent moment passed. Then, Papyrus groaned. So did Undyne. Toriel giggled alongside Alphys with a snort. Asgore only sighed.

Sans beamed, then dodged what he saw as a well-deserved barrage of attacks from all five of his monster friends.

“hey, undies,” he said to Undyne past the quick flash of a blue spear. “i liked the tuna your piano. think you can teach me some scales?”

A similar response. Another wave of dangerous magic.

“knock, knock,” Sans said to Toriel. A hand of fire tried and failed to snatch him off the ground. He brushed off the heat. “i’ll take that as a ‘who’s there’. it’s yer local sentry, sans gaster!”

Toriel mumbled incoherently, but her last words sounded clear: “. . . Sans Gaster who?”

“yeesh,” Sans said, tugging at the neck of his shirt. “and i thought we were friends!”

Toriel laughed, then, revealing her face in a glorious burst of joy. Papyrus groaned more loudly than ever into existence.

“THAT’S ENOUGH BOONDOGGLING, SANS!” he shouted.

“i think you mean bone-doggling.”

“I DO NOT!” Papyrus stomped his foot.

With that, the rest of his friends returned to themselves, holding their stomachs or their heads in laughter. Sans wiped a joyful tear from his eye. By then, Papyrus had swept him off his feet into the tightest hug he could muster, which might have broken a rib were they more than specters. The remaining crew piled in: Toriel, Alphys, Asgore, even Undyne. In that one gesture, Sans’ soul swelled with hopes and dreams and burned brighter than ever.

“You’re d-d-doing great!”

“We’ve got your back, punk.”

“We believe in you.”

“heh . . . i’m rootin’ for me too, i guess,” Sans agreed bashfully.

“THAT’S THE SPIRIT,” Papyrus said, then lifted his eyes over Sans’ shoulder. “ONLY ONE MORE TO GO.”

As he said it, their images dissipated. Sans turned to follow Papyrus’ gaze. Another figure stepped from the shadow, eyes burning red through a shifting black cloud. A blood-red knife glinted in your hand. Your ruby soul quivered in the pit of your chest, a beacon through the dark.

“kiddo,” Sans breathed.

You shambled forward and blindly slashed for his neck. He side-stepped the sloppy cut. Your blade lodged into the unseen ground, so deeply it took a few tries to pry it out. Like a marionette, you lolled about to face him.

“It’s all my fault,” you murmured. “All my fault.”

“that ain’t true,” said Sans. He grimaced and ducked another swing. “you’re a good kid. you’ve always been a good kid.”

“I'm sorry,” you mumbled.

“why?” he asked. “you saved us. you saved me. you gave up your resets for it!”

Your razor-edged swipes and stabs began to falter. “My fault . . .”

“the only thing you’re at fault for is trying too bleedin’ hard.”

Though shaking, you continued to jab and swing your dagger with reckless abandon, and he continued to evade its path with infuriating precision. Whipping air and shuffling feet echoed through the dark as if you fought in an empty chapel.

“c’mon, bud!” Sans panted. Sweat had begun to gather on his forehead. “it’s me, sans!”

“Sans?” you replied in a fog. “Sans is dead. I killed him. It’s my fault.”

“i’m not dead. i’m right here.”

He came close, a breath away. Your knife grazed his cheekbone, revealing a stripe of red that trickled down into his shirt collar. As your arm passed his shoulder, he caught you around the chest and held on tight. He buried his face into your neck.

“i’m right here.”

At this, you froze. You held your knife shakily over his head, prepared to strike down into his back—but you didn’t. Though the black, jagged strokes of paint shifting about your head did not cease, the red of your eyes had dimmed.

“frisk. chara.”

He cradled your hiding face between his hands and looked into your eyes a long, long time. You could feel him reaching through your soul, judging you, reading you from cover to cover like an unlocked diary.

“it’s not your fault.”

As the words sank in, tears sprinkled down from that stormcloud between you, raining over your shoes and his. That dreadful, bloody knife clattered to the ground, and soon you followed. You sat seiza at his feet and clung to his coat, your face no longer shrouded. You sobbed into his t-shirt, broken, yet overjoyed to see him alive.

He hesitated, then slipped his fingers down into the deep brown thatches of your hair.

“You’re really here,” you said, looking up into his face.

Sans crouched down to your level and shrugged. “think so.”

“Am I dead?”

“uh.” He scratched the back of his skull and winced. “ya ain’t in yer body, that much is for sure. hopin’ you might join me on the way back, though . . . if you’d do me the honor.”

You hugged him again, even more tightly than before. Conflicted by memories old and new, shame hooked onto your soul with claws sharper than the dagger at his feet. His hand in your hair was all that kept you solid.

“I’m sorry.” Your tears fell faster as you considered the road leading you here. “I made you fall into the rift . . .”

“that one’s on me,” Sans said. “i knew what i might find down there.”

Your face sombered. “Did you find . . . him?”

Newfound brightness ignited his eyesockets. “he’s . . . alive,” he said quietly. He could scarcely believe the words. “trapped between time and space. it’s just like i thought.”

You were never more relieved to be proven wrong. Still, questions encircled your head like stars. Where was his brother, now? If Sans had gone to that place, how had he returned? How had he survived the rift, and Flowey no less? Was he the one turning back the clock? That should have been impossible.

As you extended a hand to smear the streak of red you had carved into his face, a terrifying thought occurred to you.

“Determination,” you breathed. “Sans, you didn’t—!”

“no,” he said.

“Monsters don’t bleed,” you said firmly in an attempt to call out his bullshit.

“not full-blooded monsters, no,” he agreed.

Several moments passed in which you digested these words, and what they implied.

His smile slowly fell into a grimace, a mix of regret and weary sadness. He sat down in the darkness across you. Here, the two of you were truly alone. He breathed in, breathed out.

“skeletons are kinda hard to come by,” he began hesitantly, “if ya hadn’t noticed. we’re only born under certain circumstances . . . with . . . certain parents.”

He lifted his head to the darkness above as if he might see the sky. A piece of him drifted away into nostalgia on Noctis wings. Bittersweet was the only word you could surface for his expression now.

“hardly look nothing like dad,” he began with a half-hearted shrug. “he was like . . . a dragon made of blue stars, a constellation in a nebula. huge, bigger than asgore. gast clan always was, compared to the dreems. i see him in my magic, though, sometimes. his face in my blasters, even if just the skull.”

You couldn’t find words. Surely he didn’t mean what you thought.

“don’ hardly look like mom, neither,” he said with a partial smile, “but we got her bones. we got her structure. i got some of her determination.”

“You’re half human.”

“i’m all me, thanks,” Sans snipped. Talking about it seemed to crawl over his bones like a spider bake sale.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, genuinely hurt.

He paused and picked at the healing cut on his cheek. He rubbed the red fluid pensively between his thumb and forefingers. “everyone down here knows what it means to be a skeleton,” he said quietly. “i thought you knew too, at first. we all did. a lot of folks thought it was why you shacked up with us instead of tori.”

Your shoulders relaxed.

“by the time i realized it . . . honestly, i didn’t know how to tell ya, kid. it's a sensitive subject.” He drew his coat around himself more tightly. “we’re the only ones left, y’know; me and puppy-dog. and dings. when the war started, humans went for families like ours first. papyrus was a bean, dings was just the right age for it to hit him later, and i . . . i remember everything, as always.”

Your guilt ascended all over again.

“we were just kids," he went on, "but nothin’ scared those purist humans more than a fuckin’ mule.”

“i’m sorry,” you said.

“don’t be,” he murmured. “not your fault.”

“But it is,” you insisted. Your tears began rising again. "I’m human. I’m responsible. After everything humans have done—after everything I’ve done—I don’t deserve any of you. I don’t deserve to be here. You shouldn’t have saved me . . .”

Sans gently wiped your face with his sleeve. “lemme finish, kid,” he said quietly. He heaved a long, drawn-out sigh, as if releasing a toxin trapped inside his ribcage. “i got a reason to hate humans, sure. they drove us down here. they blocked us in. hell, even monsters gave us a hard time for that half of us. papyrus was so bent on catching a human just to prove what side he was on. thought people might like him more.”

You felt sick.

“but,” Sans said, forcing you to meet his eyes, “my human parent sacrificed everything to save us. she stayed behind so we could get away. so many of us are alive because of her. you wanna tell me that was wrong? you wanna tell me she was responsible for everything that happened to us, just for being human?”

Your tears continued to fall.

“you can’t help where ya came from,” said Sans, “but you can choose where ya go. and boy have you gone to some good places.”

“Like the dump,” you quipped with a faint smile.

“heh, yeah,” he said. “like the dump.” He hung an arm over your shoulder. “so maybe you’ve made some big mistakes . . . but your heart was never in the wrong place. you want to make up for it. you want to be good. that’s what really matters, right?”

You sniffled and nodded. You had said the same to Alphys. Were you really beneath your own advice?

He gathered you into his arms again. After a long time kneeling there, faces in shoulders, he helped you back to your feet.

“gonna need you to step in from here on out,” said Sans. “the chances hyperdoofus listens to me are about a million to negative one.” He smirked. “think you can handle it?”

You took his hand and squeezed.

“Only if you stand there with me,” you said.

His heart swelled in his chest. “i can do that."

Holding onto one another tightly, you stepped out from the darkness into a rainbow of light.

Notes:

And thus we have arrived at my third and final head-cannon: skeletons are what happen when a monster loves a human. I think my nervousness about dropping that bomb contributed to the delay in a latent sense, haha. Sorry for that again.

The idea of skeleton monsters always puzzled me, because in most folklore and fantasy contexts they have a direct tie to humans. Undead, more specifically. But in the context of the Undertale universe, undead didn't sit right with me. Skeleton monsters that conveniently mimic human anatomy didn't either. Then I had this thought. It explained several things for me: the blood from Sans' cut in the no mercy run, the reason he's so powerful, that "fourth wall" breaking tendency he and Papyrus both share... I massaged things some for the narrative here, but yeah.

I had been building to this a little bit as a possible reveal, then considered sidestepping it, but then as I really hammered out my ending it became an essential fact. I added more scenes and details in earlier chapters to get a little more traction on it, hence why I recommended rereading. :) Either way, I hope you find it at least interesting.

Thank you again to everyone who held on until now. Only three chapters left!

Next Up! Chapter 15: Determination.

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