#or either a master puppeteer or being the weapon of some bigger bad

[skellizo]

Rewatching some dsmp and other mcyt stuff and fuuuuuuuck if Tommy were to play a villain like role or something akin to his Patient Zero character I would be watching doesn’t matter what server but give Tommy the freedom to write a villain character and I know that he would hit that shit out of the park

[slightly-gay-pogohammer]

I haven't played less of p, but can keep asking questions!

Do you have any propaganda for playing the game?

hi welcome to the lies of p propaganda

literally a mix of bloodborne and american mcgee's alice when it comes to aesthetic, vibes, themes and battle systems. if you liked either of them and are upset that bloodborne won't get a port and alice won't get a sequel this is a good alternative

the devs confirmed a sequel and a dlc btw. and they're indie so they shouldn't have many problems

INCREDIBLE soundtrack, and here's some examples of my favorites because i need to share quixotic, memory of beach, shattered memories, hall of fame and arche abbey everywhere

the boss fights are difficult, but most of them are very fair and easy to learn the patterns of. while some are clearly fodder... anyone who played a soulsborne game know that every now and then you have to deal with a curse-rotted greatwood or a witch of hemwick if it means you can have a pontiff sulyvan or a lady maria in return!! if you don't mind spoilers i highly recommend checking out the battles with the king of puppets or with champion victor

tackles themes of overcoming grief, different ways to deal with it, rebirth, what it means to be human, being your own person and honestly and lies, with the latter especially being the most prominent one and heavily implying that even if honesty is good, sometimes a lie is a much better option for everyone

INCREDIBLE visuals hello

i need to talk about how good the monsters design is because body and mechanical horror fans rise UP

you can actually mix-n-match every single weapons you can find around, not including very overpowered boss weapons, and you can have a cannon arm?? like yes it's far from being the fastest weapon but consider: i can either hit and dash or i can make the boss explode

Your Choices Matter you know when a game promises you that they don't. well they do they DOOO literally every single choice starting with your very first one matter HEAVILY in the end

i can't stress enough how good the characters are, they're all full of life and energy and Love. you get a puppet in love, a beautiful charismatic old woman, a spunky young mechanic, whatever the fuck venigni my dad venigni has going on, an actually pretty fun version of the cricket and even pinocchio, who like most soulsborne seems to have little to no personality, is way more human from the get-go, with a lot of characters noting that he's so easily annoyed by their bigger-than-life personality and dramatique

this game made me cry SO many times between the music the lore and the incredible writing and voice acting. it's weird to say i didn't expect that much from it, like when the first trailer arrived we all went haha bishounen pinocchio bloodborne game, but the various npcs and even some bosses feel so human that inevitably seeing them going through situation destroyed me fr fr

but seriously the small details fuck me up so bad. the fact that pinocchio starts by making heavy mechanical noises whenever he moves and occasionally twitches and makes no noise when he attacks and the more "good ending" choices you make the less mechanical noises he makes and the more he occasionally grunts whenever he's hit is so nice?? they literally change every single one of his animation if you aim for that ending and it's so!!!!! aaaa

and also you can play fashionsouls the clothes have no effect other than being fancy so you can literally wear whatever the fuck you want and i, personally, find it very fun. big fan of the workshop master clothes btw that was my main until i unlocked the white clothes

i could go on but it would fall in spoilers territory fnasdmg point is. play lies of p

[btsvtworldsonfire]

chapter 8 — tear

As soon as the Latin command left Alex’s lips, Baekhyun and Eunwoo swiftly and quietly slipped out of the ballroom with the Familiar. Once Alex closed the door, all three of them broke into a sprint through the long, carpeted hallway that muffled their hurried footsteps. It was a good thing the Familiar knew the quickest way out of the huge manor and into the garden.

“I fucking knew it,” Baekhyun cursed. “I knew this day was going too well. I saw owls over the Wisteria Forest this morning.” Eunwoo was suddenly flooded with panic.

“Is that a bad thing?” Alex asked.

“Bad for New Gods. It’s a symbol of-”

Eunwoo failed to explain because the first thing that he saw was the chaos in the greenhouse. Baekhyun followed Alex’s hand and saw Jaehyun having a staredown with Lucas. Behind the demon stood Prince Ten, but strangely, behind Jaehyun was Fear’s older son, Kun. Baekhyun and Alex didn’t even bother questioning it and simply ran up to Jaehyun’s aid.

“Don’t!” Kun yelled then grabbed Alex by wrapping his arms around her before she can get any closer to Jaehyun. “It’s too dangerous.”

Baekhyun gulped as soon as he saw what was in Lucas’s hands. He had a theory in mind, but he didn’t want to say anything.

Meanwhile, back at the party, the three Healers simultaneously stopped whatever they were up to. Their breaths hitched in their throats. 

Seungkwan immediately stopped talking. His smile faded as his eyes filled with a mix of confusion and worry. Seokjin and Seokmin turned to each other, wondering what caused their friend to react this way.

Jimin was leading Bee to the dance floor when he felt it. His footsteps got slower and slower until he was standing completely still. He scrunched his brows together as he tried figuring out what was going on.

“Is everything okay?” Bee asked. Jimin’s trembling hand was the answer.

Hoseok was with Fey at one of the cocktail tables with a plate of hors d'oeuvres. “Say ah,” the Familiar hummed happily. The Healer smiled and was about to take the bite when he felt it. He slowly retracted, making Fey worry. She didn’t do anything wrong, so why did Hoseok seem so upset all of a sudden?

“Did I… do you not like deviled eggs?” she asked, giggling nervously as she tried to read his expression further.

“It’s not that. I think…” he looked up to her. “I felt something. Something strong.”

“My heart, i-it felt like it exploded in my chest,” Jimin said to Bee.

“It felt like somebody pulled my soul and slammed it into a void of despair,” Seungkwan thought out loud.

The people who were with the Healers looked more perplexed. What was going on? 

The Healers, who all stood in three different areas of the room, looked at each other.

“Something happened in the Death Realm,” the three of them said in chorus.

Back in the garden, Eunwoo arrived at the greenhouse to a scene of Clip stabbing a demon in the back and kicking it to the side. She moved quickly and pinned the foul creature down to the ground. Meanwhile, on top of some broken pots and unfortunate plants was Taehyung, wincing in pain.

“Which master do you serve?” Clip taunted.

The demon hissed. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here with the ruler of the Shadow Realm. And I’m going to kill the Kim Performer.” It thrashed and screamed in an attempt to break free, but the Familiar was much stronger than the demon thought. 

“Oh yeah?” Clip sneered at its threat. “Sucks for you then, demon. Taehyung’s protractor is here.”

Eunwoo couldn’t help but chortle in the middle of such a serious scene. He moved to Taehyung and helped the guy get up on his feet. The Performer dusted himself off.

“What do we do?” Taehyung asked.

“Do you know the incantation for opening and shutting a portal?” Eunwoo said to him.

“There’s such a thing?! I thought only New Gods can do that!”

Eunwoo sighed. “Seriously, your entire kind is not utilizing the gifts from Rhetoric. You’re all so traditional.”

“Tell me about it.” Taehyung rolled his eyes. “But even if you do teach me, how sure are you that it’ll work? I mean can’t you do it instead?”

“You need to learn how. I’m not gonna stay with you forever.”

“Okay but-- but how are you so sure that I can do it? I don’t know. What if I can’t do it?”

Taehyung never acted like this in front of anyone. Never. As the gifted Performer that he is, he never backed down from a difficult lesson. He was always so willing to learn even the most advanced techniques both as a swordsman and as a Performer. That’s why he became so fluent in Latin before Seokmin started attending school. That’s why he was taught how to wield a sword while Joshua was still learning the basics of his powers.

Taehyung was always confident with himself, and Eunwoo, who knew the Performer even before he was born, was surprised by this.

“What? Why would you ask that?” Eunwoo asked. “You know what you’re capable of.”

“I do but this is something I haven’t done before. I haven’t practiced.”

“Just trust yourself, Taehyung. You can do it.”

“This is some high-level shit though.”

“So? That shouldn’t even be what’s on your mind right now! We’re dealing with a demon here!”

“But opening a portal? That sounds-”

“Kim Taehyung.” The New God said sternly. “I know you can do it. Wanna know why? Because Jaehyun’s father himself gave you your gifts.”

Both Taehyung and Clip looked at Eunwoo in surprise. Only now did the New God realized what had slipped from his mouth.

“... what?” Taehyung and Clip said at the same time.

Eunwoo sighed. “Truth is, some of the New Gods sensed that the Ancient One was going to win over the Human Realm during the next Ritual. That’s why Rhetoric decided to bless the next child of the Performers himself. He wanted to give the Families and the human race a fighting chance.”

Taehyung fell quiet. Meanwhile, Clip was jeering at the demon that she had pinned down.

“So please, Kim Taehyung. Give it a shot,” Eunwoo begged.

The demon screeched at Clip that nearly made her let go. She screamed back at it then turned to the two boys.

“Less talking, more opening of gateways to other dimensions please!” she shouted. The demon was able to free one of its hands from Clip’s grasp but the Familiar quickly pushed it down.

Taehyung gulped. “Okay, what do I do?”

Eunwoo smiled. “Muster up the same energy as you would when you puppet a demon. Only this time point your energy in front of you. The incantation is aperi paulo porta.”

The demon screamed once again. “HURRY UP!” Clip yelled.

Taking a deep breath in, Taehyung closed his eyes and gathered his energy. Happy memories of him with his family flashed in his head. He took another deep breath in and more memories flooded his mind. One last breath in, and he saw a vivid image of him on a picnic with his parents. He remembers this. It was one of the few times his uptight parents decided to spontaneously take him out somewhere. They brought little Taehyung to a field of tulips and enjoyed a picnic on a small hill overlooking the flowers.

“Always remember Taehyung. You’re not just a Performer. You mean the world to us.”

Taehyung immediately opened his eyes and shouted the incantation with Eunwoo with all of his might.

“Aperi paulo porta!”

A cloud of black smoke appeared before the two. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger until it was a full opening to the Shadow Realm. The wind blew violently and shattered more glass and pots. Plants flew everywhere. Muffled screams and cries of the evil spirits who resided there filled the greenhouse.

It was a mess.

Acting quickly, Clip grabbed the vial of rust from her pocket and threw its contents at the demon’s face. It let out another annoying scream as the powder temporarily blinded it. With the demon weakened, she dragged it to the portal by its hair.

“Begone forever, you foul creature!” she cursed at it before shoving it into the portal. It sensed what Clip was trying to do so it resisted.

But the Familiar was stronger. She kept kicking it and pushing it. Neither of the boys helped because she had the situation under control. She continued using her strength against the demon until nothing was left of it in the Human Realm.

“Now shout the incantation with me. Porta semper clauserunt,” Eunwoo instructed.

“Porta semper clauserunt!”

The portal to the Shadow Realm closed in on itself, and the violent wind stopped with it. All three left in the greenhouse were breathing heavily. Taehyung and Clip both collapsed from exhaustion. Eunwoo tried to hold himself up but his legs gave out.

While all of the chaos was going on in the greenhouse, Jaehyun and Baekhyun were preparing to fight Lucas. They knew it wasn’t going to be easy because the demon was wielding a New God’s weapon. Ten and Kun sensed the terror in the two. The younger prince smirked.

“You’re scared, I see.” The prince scoffed. “Afraid you’re going to end up like Chanyeol and Yixing?”

Baekhyun almost murdered Ten right there and then if it wasn’t for Jaehyun.

Alex turned to Kun. “What does he mean?”

“Another New God killed Baekhyun’s closest friends and Ten saw the whole thing. Okay look, I don’t know what you know about New Gods, but the ugly truth is we also die,” Kun explained.

“What? But aren’t you-”

“We’re flawed. We’re incredibly flawed,” he butted in. “I know it makes absolutely no sense because we’re supposed to be higher beings, but the Old Gods are too selfish to make us closer to them than to humans. That’s why we have Mendae--flaws that either weaken us or cause us to go out of control.”

Lucas lunged after Jaehyun with the scythe. The New God jumped to the side and delivered a powerful kick to the demon’s neck. Lucas stumbled a few steps, but he quickly gained back his posture and swung the scythe again. He continued throwing one attack to another and Jaehyun kept dodging. Avoiding the blade was a matter of life and death -- literally. Not because he was afraid of bleeding to death from a huge wound, but because that scythe was strong enough to rip out a human’s soul and kill a New God. Even the smallest scratch can hurt them.

Frustrated, Jaehyun yelled “Lacta creatura est quam maxime dolore.” Lucas flew back and crashed into Ten and Baekhyun, who were busy throwing punches at each other the whole time.

Ten had the upper hand. He was much faster than Baekhyun so by the time Lucas was sent flying across the garden, he already had the New God beaten up to a pulp. Baekhyun propped himself up with one arm. He groaned in pain, cursing Fear’s son in his mind as he tried to get up to continue fighting. Ten was amused. He wanted to see how much more Baekhyun can take, so he walked over to him and kicked his stomach.

Alex could only wince in pain and watched Ten mercilessly beat up the New God. Kun on the other hand was nervously watching Jaehyun try and steal back the scythe while avoiding getting killed by Lucas. He hasn’t noticed what his brother was up to.

“Kun?” Alex started. 

“Hmm?”

“Baekhyun… he mentioned something earlier. Something about seeing owls flying over the Wisteria Forest.”

“WHAT?!” He exclaimed, causing Ten to stop momentarily to look at his brother and for Baekhyun to recover from the painful beating. But he shrugged it off and went back to doing this thing.

“Is it bad?” Alex asked and turned to Kun. He had a deer in the headlights look on his face.

“Really bad. It’s-”

He was interrupted by the sound of a knife getting pulled out of its casing. He turned his head and saw that Ten was already approaching Baekhyun with his dagger.

“It’sasignthatanewgoddiedokaystayheredontmove-” Kun said in a panic before leaving Alex alone behind the force field. He didn’t even care anymore and threw himself onto Ten. Next thing he knew he was wrestling with Ten like when they were kids--except this time they’re trying to kill each other for real.

“Alex!” A deep and worried voice called out. The Familiar turned in the voice’s direction and saw someone running up to her.

It’s Wonwoo.

“Wonwoo! Thank god you’re here. Those New Gods are killing each other and I don’t know what to do!” Alex said to him.

He put one hand on her shoulder and gave her an assuring smile. He gently pulled her away from the force field and stood in her place. He carefully eyes Lucas, trying his best to read him. Wonwoo winced a bit because of Lucas’s resistance. He and Jaehyun were having a close fight but with Wonwoo’s interfering, Jaehyun got the upper hand and was able to stun Lucas with a non-verbal spell. Wonwoo finally got a good read of Lucas. Despite being terrified of what he just saw, he managed to weave a nightmare for the demon. It’s not as strong as he had hoped but it was enough to buy Jaehyun time to steal the scythe.

Jaehyun turned around and mouthed “thank you” to Wonwoo.

Kun had also won against Ten. Panting, he looked over to where Alex was and put down the protective force field. Once Jaehyun had Lucas properly restrained, Wonwoo releases the demon from the nightmare.

“I… what… how did you…” Lucas said in his dazed state. Jaehyun tightened the restraints.

“We’ll take it from here. Thank you for all your help Alex and Wonwoo,” Jaehyun said before taking the demon away. Eunwoo arrived at the scene and helped carry Baekhyun. Kun struggled a bit with Ten but the brothers quickly disappeared into the shadows and back into their Realm.

Something else happened as the New Gods finally left the Human Realm. A portal had opened in the mirror in the Familiar’s dorm. Jaemin, who was there the whole time, kissed the girl on the forehead and smiled. The kind of smile that made her wanna punch him again.

“This won’t be the last time you’ll see me. I know you’ll come back when the truth spreads to the others,” he said with a wink before slipping into the mirror for good.

Meanwhile, at the party, Yoongi and the eldest of each Family sprinted out to the garden to see what was going on. Hoseok immediately sensed that someone had fainted in the greenhouse, so he ran back to get Seungkwan and Jimin to help him heal.

Mark felt something sharp hit his chest. Odd, he wasn’t supposed to feel anything. But he was was sure he felt something sharp. And he felt it again. And again. And again. Not realizing that he was disappearing from Pau’s grasp and fading into nothingness.

“Mark! No!” Pau yelled, but it was too late. Mark was gone again.

“We’ll help find him later. Now c’mon! We have to follow the hyungs and your siblings!” Jungkook said to her while dragging her out of the ballroom.

“But-”

Everyone was gathered around Wonwoo and Alex who were trying to explain what happened. Alex recalled everything that happened. Soon Clip and Taehyung arrived and they too explained how they got attacked in the greenhouse. Seungcheol stepped away for a bit to speak to the Familiar who encountered the New God in their dorm.

As all of this was happening, Pau caught something moving in the corner of her eye. She jerked her head in its direction and once her eyes landed on whatever was moving, she felt a sense of expanding, exhilarating joy in her. Almost as if this feeling was lifting her above the ground.

“Mark!” she yelled out in elation.

Everyone turned their heads and couldn’t believe what they were seeing. There he was, the Keeper of the Shrine, in the flesh. Unlike his appearance earlier, he was dressed in the same clothes that he wore before he was attacked. He was looking at his hands like he’s never seen them before. He was still processing what on earth just happened to him.

He’s alive again.

When he looked up, the first thing he saw was Pau running up to him then enveloping him in her arms. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was actually feeling her embrace right there and then. He hugged her back, burying his head in her neck. His tears didn’t hesitate to spill out of his eyes. He couldn’t tell if they were tears of joy for being alive again…

Or if he was sobbing because of what he just went through. Probably both, he thought.

“I missed you.” These were his first words.

Mark pulled away shortly and locked eyes with her. His gaze was full of love and adoration for the girl in front of him. His eyes fell down to her lips and right before he could lean in, he saw a crowd walking up to the two of them. It’s a mix of the Familiars and some of the members of the Seven Families

Guess that kiss is gonna have to wait.

“Mark I… how? How was this possible?” Pau asked. Not that she didn’t want him but because it’s probably the question on everyone’s mind.

He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. He was still processing what he just witnessed before he came back to life.

“Mark?” Pau called out to snap him out of his thoughts.

“Jenny. She brought me back,” he answered promptly. Pau sensed the fear in his voice.

The Familiars exchanged looks. Aly looked the most confused out of all of them. How could that be when his spirit was in the Min Mansion?

“Mark, something tells me there’s more to that,” Pau said gently. “Please tell us. What is it?”

“She’s gone. Lucas did it.”

[insane-control-room]

Make a Claim

A collaborative work with the wonderful, incredible, lovely, @randomwriteronline (ilysm <<<333)

ao3 link here

inspired by her fic The Thought 

After a grave mistake, the doctor finally asks him, plain as day, to make their claim their own.

“I am at my wits end, Bandit!” Doc Carver muttered in a loss as he repaired the foolhardy puppet’s strings. “I have tried everything - letters, poems, offers to help him, repair him, even repainting his chipped coat! I cannot understand how a man can be so, so oblivious!”

Bandit did not say anything, merely sighing. He was used to the Doctor’s spiel at this point.

“And to add insult to injury...! After I repainted him, he hugged me, and I felt so overjoyed, but…” a noise of frustration broke out of the taller puppet’s mouth piece. “It was too short lived! And then he ran off, and I, like a coward, was too dumbfounded and startled to even try and go after him, so I didn’t follow. Ugh, that was just simply pathetic, wasn’t it, Bandit?”

“Dunno, doc,” he shrugged. “Never tried courtin’ someone, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Carver grumbled. “You know, you’re a great listener, Bandit.”

Looking into Bandit’s tired, cold, dead eyes, one could see that yes, he did in fact know he was a good listener, especially after having to hear these exact words being told to him a plethora of times. Far too many times, in his opinion. Doc had a bad habit of repeating himself, nearly as bad a habit as Banker’s natural stutter. But, honestly, Bandit did not really mind - it was comforting to have some sort of repetition, something natural and flowing, a familiar back and forth between the attempts at not dying any time he stepped outside of his few friends’ sight.

So he just stood, with the face of someone who was about to doze the hell off, as Carver grumbled away his woes and stitched his strings up. To the doctor's reminder to take care of himself, he replied with a firm thumbs up, and then he waddled awkwardly into what in an episode might have been the glorious sunset, but in this case was only another door through to the wild.

Leaving the good doctor alone. Wooden fingers drummed against the unpolished counter of his workstation, filling the deathly quiet world with a steady rhythm. An impatience filled his head, that constant nagging feeling to do something, anything. Instantly his thoughts turned to the Banker, the sweet, timid, scared Banker, and those thoughts curled around daring ideas and wishes like ivy growing steadily on an old house's wall; he shoved them away, just as the Banker had shoved him away. Yet they kept coming back, filling his mind over and over. Carver leaned against the wall heavily with the soft thud of wood on wood, rubbing at his face with a grumble. Another day, another lovesick time. He smiled wryly to himself, humoring his conundrum. A doctor's worst patient is themself, he concluded bitterly, and he could not heal his own aching heart, despite his biggest efforts. He slid down the wall, trying to quell his murmuring mind, so absolutely wanting, no, craving, no, needing another’s touch. Specifically, the gentle, shaky, newly restored touch of Banker. But it was not like he could just, just up and ask him! Oh, goodness, no! The gall, the audacity! Carver scowled, stuffing his hands into his pockets, then took out, picking up his saw to go out into the wild. He was running short on needle and thread anyways, especially with how often Bandit was getting himself de-stringed nowadays.

So he would return to his old place, murder decimate destroy harvest some aracknits, and pick up more thread.

On his way, he encountered a bank booth. He only got a glimpse of something - or rather, someone, a particular someone who wore a shirt of the same light blue as that of the sleeves he saw retreating into the dark right before leaving the place completely empty. Carver stared at the empty bank for a little, recalling the man that had been in it but moments before. Then, with a heavy, sorrowful sigh, he forced his legs to move past it. It would not have done much for either of them anyways, standing in front of each other, waiting for something to happen, and that yet, knowing their clashing natures, simply never would. Hefting his saw over his shoulder, he crept into Dead Man’s Gulch -- and then into the place he used to call home.

The sound of the spider-like creatures sent shivers up his wooden spine, the inebriating thrill of the hunt filling his chest. He forced himself to keep calm and still his nerves, knowing the adrenaline rushing in what he could consider veins would only give him shaky hands, like those of the Banker he so cherished. But he could not risk having them, not now. He silently stalked through the halls, a thin and lithe coyote between hazy sand stone creeping up to its prey.

A distinctly recognizable sound caught his attention. Ah-ha!, he thought, crouching furtively out of sight. There it was: one of those awful little yarn devils, scuttling around in the shade of the doctor's old home with his needle tick-tick-ticking all over the wooden floor. A quick, painless bounty of thread for the blade of Carver's saw. The Doc slowly crept closer and closer, trying to hide the glint of his weapon from his eyeless prey, sneaking forward without letting himself make a single sound…

A fulminous zac!, and the aracknit dissolved into a bunch of strings with four needles attached.

Carver grinned, at least, the best he could with a solid mouth, satisfied. He still got it.

He stopped to gather the materials, keeping himself from humming and attracting too many of the little beasties. A skittering passed behind him.  He froze, readying his saw once more. He turned his head ever so slowly, his motions nearly unperceivable... An aracknit rushed by, and he swung, missing, his saw flying out of his nervous grip. He swore under his breath, chasting his own hastiness and going to retrieve it, but another spider ran by him and stole it from under his reaching hand. A hiss, long and slow, and so, so, so very many quiet, ticking aracknits. He tried to creep out of his corner, but found every stealthy pass blocked by yarny webs. Without a weapon, there was no way he could go through an open area. He would lose his strings in a matter of seconds if he even attempted to do so! Color slowly drained out of his vision, and he cursed his worsening luck. He could feel his wooden heart beat, faster and faster. More scampering. He demanded of himself to slow his breathing, and could not.

“Well, well, well, well, well,” the air turned cold. The supposed to be jolly and high voice creaked and rasped lowly, angrily, softly, dangerously.  “What, or rather, who, do we have here, caught in the webs of his own prey?”

Carver stayed silent, going at a crawl to the thinnest web, planning on breaking through it and making a mad dash to the exit. The sound of the Faceless Bandit’s three footsteps clacked loudly in the still, dusty air, the scampering aracknits now far too quiet in comparison to the terrifying approach. Perhaps because they too, as simpleminded as a bug of raw yarn can be, could not help but being afraid of the scarred danger slowly coming closer.

“I didn’t know you were Dr. Jekyll,” Faceless chuckled, making the wood of Carver’s back to ripple in disgust. “Seeing that you’re playing around with Mr. Hyde.”

Doc Carver scowled. Goodness, how much he despised the other’s use of terrible puns.

“Stop playing around, my dear Doctor,” his words turned the land foul. The dead shivered and rose, disturbed from what should have been their peaceful eternal rest. “You can’t avoid me forever, you know….”

‘Yeah, right’, Carver rolled his eyes, then refocused onto the web he planned on escaping through. He poised himself to run, breathing in, waiting for Faceless to turn around… and the moment he did, he bolted with a, “Ha !”

It was a mistake.

A grave one.

Of course it was all planned out, of course there would not be a weak spot. After all, wherever a bone breaks, it becomes stronger than before.

Dozens and dozens of aracknits surrounded him, wooly fangs bared. Some trembled, others ducked away, and Carver realized that--

“They listen to me,” Faceless droned behind him. He grew very still. “Out of fear, yes, but still… aren’t they so cute? So sweet? So helpful?”

The doctor ran into the crowd of the small eight legged monsters, the spiders parting like a sea, but also like a sea, instantly drove back.

An aracknit jumped at Carver, and he tried to bat it away with his open arm, but it just scampered onto him, leaving a woven strand over his wrist, and jumped away.

Another did the same to his other side, and he struggled even more, despite the fact that he was given less and less ability to do so.

He felt a string snap, and his left leg gave out, leaving him stumbling to the ground. Second came the right arm. He screamed, not to ask for help, knowing no one would hear him, but to try and bolster his own strength: he bashed an aracknit down and restringed him arm, then going back to fighting with every ounce of strength he could have found desperately still kicking in his wooden limbs.

The aracknits kept coming, the few dozens that were cornering him turning into a swarm that only grew bigger at every turn of his head, crawling out of every single nook and cranny. They bit down on his strings almost faster than he could sew them back up (but luckily, not quite as fast), all while stabbing his legs with their small damned needles as they attempted to climb him, possibly to feed off of him, maybe to try to escape their terrifying master by reaching the top of the doctor's head.

Carver felt their webs wrap around him, pulling him back, swirling around him tight, tighter than the knot of a noose, tying him to the ground and the walls, nearly forcing him on his knees. He screamed - not to be heard, not to gather strength: he screamed in pure terror, almost as though he hoped the sound of his voice would delay the inevitable.

A fly. He was a fly, a careless naive fly, who had thought he could outrun the spiders only to fall in their mother's trap, the hunter becoming the hunted - and soon to be the slaughtered.

He gave one last weakened kick before his legs became a useless mermaid’s tail on land, only barely managing to hit an aracknit strong enough to shoo it away before the string wavered away, dropping onto ash. The little beastie tumbled over, legs frantically moving in a terrified attempt to scramble back onto them, and he pitied it, the shared pain of two prisoners trapped beyond their powers, and he wished that it could get to its feet, to give him a sign of hope that he too would rise, but alas.

It was crushed under the handle of an approaching scythe.

Its needles stiffened and twitched, fighting one last time against their lightning quick rigor mortis; then, it dissolved into a puddle of string under Carver's horrified eyes.

Silence. Accursed, blasphemous, terrifying silence. All the doctor could hear was his own panting breath. He had one string left, and a scythe tugged on it for a moment before sliding down his face, making his head tilt this way and that, as if inspecting a specimen most curiously.

The two puppets were still, and silent.

Not a spider crawled, not a soul moved, nothing breathed and it was all so strikingly obvious to Carver. Of course, of course, why should he have gone back here? He should have baited the aracknits out instead of going in like a fool, a cretin, a pup still unaware of the sly tactics of hunting, thinking it all as fun and games. How foolish he had been!

He wished that he was somewhere else.

Somewhere safe.

Somewhere to feel at home.

Hanging up his apron in the hall after a fulfilling day of making puppets feel better and smile, going into a cozy living room to join hands with a smiling Banker, to rest with tea in front of a warm fire and good book, simple domestic perfection and tranquility. That was all he wanted. Was it really too much to ask for…?

It seemed so.

A golden tear bubbled up in his eye, and he blinked rapidly to force it away.

It slid down his face, trailing down his scar.

His wooden skin crawled as a scarred and ripped hand came to rest on that mark, and he turned icy cold, shivering. God, how he wished a different, trembling, gentle hand were there! Even if he were in the same position, bound and inflexible and defenseless, he would have given anything for it. For that sweet intoxicating touch, the throne of which was instead being usurped by dirty, loathing, scratching fingers.

“Oh, my dearest Doctor Carver,” the mangled puppet laughed, his words airless. “You always were my least favorite. Always stealing from me those delightful strings of the weakened, of the broken and bent. And you, so resilient and resistant! Why so much of a fuss, hm?”

The doctor felt a knot tie in his throat. He forced himself to stare straight at the eyeless being looming cruelly before him in total defiance: if he was going to die there and then, he would have not given that piece of tumbleweed the satisfaction of seeing him bend his head to him.

“What is it, Doc?” the Faceless hissed, yanking him with annoyance at his silence, scratching at his face, gouging three sharp cuts under his scar that would have bled if the doctor had blood instead of sap, which oozed out of the crevices. “Cat got your tongue? Or did you ever have one? I doubt it, seeing as you’re quite dumb right now.”

Carver inhaled with a low growl.

“Go to hell.” he merely grumbled.

“Ooh, how raunchy,” Faceless snarked back, cutting into his own face with his scythe to display any kind of expression, the smirk he left in his own face jagged and twisted. Carver felt his stomach churn with frost at the sight, so crude and, and unnatural. The scythe returned to the bottom of his chin, sliding up to the top of his head to hook around the string that resided there. Carver shivered as he felt his singular string slowly sawed at.

The Faceless Bandit held his head firmly with one hand, pulled back his arm a little, swiftly, and-

Shhh.

Then there was nothing.

Death felt so weird, the doctor thought.

He had imagined it crueler, darker, colder, more painful. Lonelier.

Instead he felt only… suspended. As if in wait. For what, he could not tell. But it was a peaceful waiting, and he felt far from afraid.

He was enveloped into a gentle, vast hold. A warm, ginormous finger touched his face, tapping each of his eyes, and he felt air seep into his lungs once more.

Another hand carefully, gently, cautiously and lovingly placed strings onto his limbs.

The hands slowly vanished, and he found himself put into something enclosing and… safe?

And then he felt alive.

Which was not ideal, because it made him realize that he was in a claustrophobic and dark space, and with his most recent memories being those of his body tied up in yarn among an army of aracknits and every last one of his strings being cut by the cruel scythe of a criminal lacking a face, so he panicked and kicked the air in front of himself as hard as he could to escape his dark prison.

The Banker nearly had a heart attack when the coffin next to bank opened with a loud noise - only nearly, because he did not actually have a heart or circulatory system.

“B-Bandit? Is, is that you?” Banker’s sweet, timid, wonderful wonderful wonderful beautiful darling amazing incredible voice rang out in the empty room. The doctor pleaded in his heart, unable to find his voice, still gasping and panting, trembling and teary, ‘Oh, please, say more, speak more, keep talking, fill the void.’ There were quiet footsteps, the Banker creeping slowly out of his booth. “L-Lorelei? L-Lookout? Uh, um, Mr., Mr. West?”

And then he stood before him, looking down at the Doctor with four wide eyes.

Carver knew he was a mess, he knew he was shaking and sitting in the bottom of a coffin like container as his tears froze in his eyes, but the moment he saw the Banker looking down at him, silently, mouth open in a slight shock, he felt his frosted heart melt, finally filling his body with relieving warmth, color finally returning to his vision, and his shoulders finally untensed as he looked up at him with total and complete admiration.

The Banker stood, fidgeting with his hands nervously. He was about to start scratching them, but he stopped himself: the doctor had put a lot of time and… and care (wonderful, dutiful, devoted care, whispered the ghost of a thought in his mind) into that coat of paint. He couldn't just… he couldn't just ruin it like that. And, well, he couldn't, he couldn't just leave him there, hazy and frightened and in need of help, either.

He lent him his hand as that terrible fear gnawed at his stomach: “I, I didn't expect you to, to be here, D-Doc.”

Carver grabbed the appendix with both hands, pressing his fingers against its palms. He did not make any motion to stand up; completely honestly, he did not want to. He just wanted to hold it, to hold him, to feel the other puppet's arm curl against him, a soft, shy and gentle shield of blue and brown hues, of tremors and stutters, warming him endlessly. Oh, how he needed it! How he wished for it terribly, now and forever...

“D-Doc Carver?” the Banker felt that fire burn from his fingertips, spreading up his arm. He swallowed roughly to keep it from his face. “D-do you need to make a c-claim?”

“Yes,” he breathed, and pulled Banker’s hand down, close to his heart. Banker stared at him with wide eyes, big, terrified eyes. “Yes, I do, please, Banker, please… grant me this one claim.”

Banker trembled, and still, he asked; “What?”

“I've just been struck down with death,” Carver nearly whispered, eyes glazed with tears. “I have lost my confidence, please, Banker, dear, dear Banker of mine, please, kiss me with life, restore my confidence, please, that's the only claim I ask of you.”

Carver squeezed the hand tight, afraid it would escape his grip, knowing it could.

“K-kiss you?” Banker squeaked, eyes wide, the searing sensations spreading all over his face and neck, but, how enrapturing and captivating those burns were! And how loud the echo of the thought he'd been sure to have killed was! His fear tugged him away, or so it tried, for his body wouldn't move an inch.

Carver nodded, his eyes pleading, as he rubbed his face on the back of the hand, murmuring ‘please, please’ over and over, knowing rejection would have killed him on the spot, and yet not finding the will to care for it. Though he wouldn't beg for life from the Faceless Bandit that so hated him, he would beg and plead for death from the Banker he so adored.

The Banker breathed heavily, shivering. His head shook ever so slightly.

“N, no, no…” he whispered as he kneeled in front of the other puppet; “No, no…”, as he let the doctor cup his cheeks and rub his face on them; “No, no, no, no…”, as he returned the other's affection, kissing him in the way a puppet can kiss, wooden faces scratching ever so softly against each other, slowly, then faster; “No, no, no…”, as his fingers finally curled around the stitches of Carver's scar, stroking it idly, pushing away the tears that slowly dripped from the other’s face, finally seeing his fear as what it was: no fear at all, not even close to fear, even. It was something softer, something that he had selfishly denied himself through his own blindness. Oh, what good were four eyes when he could not use them to see what was right in front of him? What good was the blessing of sight without letting himself revel in the beautiful image in front of him? What good was living to play a part and nothing more if it did not allow him to have the gift of, the, no, his, his dear, dear, darling doctor to gaze upon?

He held Carver closer, nuzzling harder against him. The fire divamping inside him boiled and burned, it begged to be released, to be imprinted on the other puppet for all to see. He was kissing it into Doc, but it was not, it could not be enough. A single face was too restrictive, and he had to improvise, he had to figure out a way to make it more, to have more of the doctor pinned under him, to show him that yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, this was right and wanted and good.

His hand begrudgingly left the side of Carver's head and instead grabbed with all of its strength his arm. The good doctor nearly jumped up from his seat in the case, surprised, left breathless. His own fingers curled around the Banker's forearm, but the kiss they pressed against him was weak, not nearly as deep and passionate as the one pushing into his limb, far more shy and trembling, a near reverse of their usual attitudes. Carver’s whole being shivered with warmth. And oh, oh!, it was so good! So very good, so very delicious, the sensation spreading from that long, long kiss to the rest of his body… goodness, he was addicted to it already. That was it, his only wish, his reason to live. All he wanted was for that magnificent pressure to never soften and leave.

But the Banker had other plans. For him, it was too long, too time consuming; it didn't let him give Carver everything they both wanted desperately after letting so much time pass by. So instead he began to grab and release, grab and release, fast and hungry, pressing quick hasty kisses all over the doctor. On his arms, his chest, his neck, his shoulders, his sides - to hell with his part!, to hell with his fear! - even reaching further down, gripping Carver’s hips and legs in a frenzy, dominated by nothing but the burning embers inside of his wooden frame that pushed him to love and love and love again.

Carver was too slow to reply to those attentions, and he found himself overwhelmed. He was in an almost comatose bliss, jolting and shivering with little gasps and murmurs of, “Yes, yes, p-please, yes….”, only barely managing to nuzzle back his lover's face, goodness gracious, this was it, the moment he always dreamed of, his lover, they were lovers now. He did not feel like himself, not at all. He was out of his body, out of his mind, looking down on that scene from a warm cloud of ecstasy, the prickling of pleasure taking over him in waves.

It took what felt like ages, for the Banker's wild rush of claiming Carver as his to consume itself. It exhausted them both, to the point where they were moments away from collapsing entirely in the box Carver rested in, seconds from slipping into pure bliss and tranquility. They held each other close as they rested, panting softly, Banker’s hand finally finding its place on Carver’s cheek, gently trailing the scar there. Then he felt the ridges, his eyes widening, and he pulled away a bit to inspect the mark, and to his horror and sadness found the three fresh cuts under his hand.

“C-Carver, you, you’re hurt!” he exclaimed, his gentle shaky fingers turning the doctor’s head to inspect the cuts better. “O-Oh dear, why didn't, why didn’t you t-tell me?”

“It’s fine, it really is,” Carver reassured him, though he leaned into and reveled in his touch. “It’s nothing that I can’t mend.”

Banker frowned at that, and so Carver might have even said something more, had a not-so-freshly-painted-anymore visage not rubbed gently on his wounds, kissing away the sap seeping from the small gouges. The kiss threw him for an incredulous loop, stunning him. Had his wood been replaced by flesh, he would have been redder than a blooming hibiscus.

Perhaps it was seeing the doctor like that that slowly brought the four-eyed puppet to his senses. All those newly formed memories reverberated in his mind, slowly becoming clear, first their gentle, almost reluctant, kiss, then the frenzied adrenalinic boiling and burning and exploding cravings that had taken control of him, and finally, when he realized the spontaneous act of kissing those little scrapes, he finally got a grasp on his actions. He gradually began shaking, hands going to cover his mouth already muttering apologies, his legs trying to push him to his feet - oh, but Carver would not have any of it.

His gentle grip tightened around the other's waist, keeping him from escaping into the dark of his shame. Banker would have blushed furiously had he skin, feeling the rippling strength of Doc Carver’s arm around him, his breath hitching as those thoughts that he thought he killed earlier swarmed back into his mind. The doctor collected himself as well, slowly, naturally slipping back into his ordinarily calm and proper self, just like the Banker had returned to his anxieties and worries, their regular personalities bleeding back into their forms as if regaining consciousness after a long sleep.

“Dear,” goodness, how wonderful it felt to say that, “Dear, darling, love, what's troubling you?”

“I- I, I… Doc, I-”

“Carver, dear, please. Carver is just fine.”

“I, I… Car, Carver, I didn't - oh, oh god, I'm, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-”

“Oh, you did!” the doctor adamantly insisted, his eyes widening, but in complete confidence. “We’re… us now. It’s okay, we’re okay… I’m here, you’re here, it’s okay. We… we are good.”

The Banker tried shrinking himself in the other's arms without much success. Carver merely huffed, an adoring look in his eyes, and brought him closer. His gentle nuzzles onto his recently repainted cheek were a balm for the Banker's nerves.

“There's nothing to fear, my darling.” he murmured into the puppet’s ears, feeling him relax from his smooth accent, melting against him in a pleasant warmth, “Hm, but your booth… it seems quite comfortable, wouldn't you say?”

The other nodded, humming absentmindedly, one of his hands trailing up Carver’s arm, twirling around his neck to run over his hair. He had always wondered how it felt, and now found that it was not only wood, but covered in felt to give it a soft velvety texture, and the same went for his handlebar moustache. Come to think of it, nearly everything about the doctor was just so soft and warmly inviting.

“Should we head over to it, then?” Carver's voice caught up to him, pulling him back to reality, yet sending him from one pleasant distraction to another. He barely had to answer, the slightest sigh and the smallest nod, and the doctor slid a firm and strong hand under his knees, and rose him up, carrying him into the bank much like a newly wed groom carries his beloved man into their just made house.

There was some cloth folded in a corner, arranged as if to simulate what could have once seemed like a bed which clearly had been abandoned for the anxious Banker’s many sleepless nights, him preferring instead to pass out in fear on his counter.

The doctor laid him on top of the covers gently before positioning himself on top of him. One of his hands tenderly stroked his cheek, his legs straddling the Banker, looking down at him, eyes shielded by his glasses, though behind those lenses, his eyes were full of pure admiration.

The four-eyed puppet adjusted himself under his weight almost sleepily: “Carver, love…” oh, to be called like that forever and always, what shivers did it send down his spine!, “What…”

“Please, my dearest.” Carver leaned down to press kisses to his throat, and purred against his neck, hands pressing light kisses with thumbs swirling on wooden skin so gently, “You don't truly think I am sated of your kisses? I waited so long for you…”

The Banker sighed blissfully, body melting and becoming as soft as warm clay. He wrapped his arms around his dear, dear lover and let his head fall back on the bed that hadn't seen him in weeks, basking in the wonderful burn enveloping him.

How curious, he thought to himself. He could hear a hummingbird sing in the back of his mind.

For some odd reason, he heard Bandit clear his throat in the back of his mind too.

Then Doc Carver let out a small grumbling shriek, rolling over and tumbling off of a Banker too hazy to notice anything.

“H-Hello Bandit!” Carver stumbled over his words as the cowboy looked at them from the counter where his elbow was leaning on. The four-eyed puppet called for him needily, drawling out the last part of the doctor’s name, his grasp on reality basically non-existent. Carver turned bright red. “F-fancy seeing you here….”

“Sure is, Doc, sure is.” Showdown smiled, cheek resting in his hand, giving him a quick wink. “Mind if I make a deposit?”

“Um, sure,” the doctor stuttered, rushing to the desk to swipe the cash, hastily dumping it in a vault labeled ‘SHOWDOWN BANDIT’.

The cowboy tipped his hat politely: “Thanks, Doc.”

“N-no problem,” he mumbled, staring at the ground.

“Now I suggest ya go back to yer other business. He sounds pretty… um… critical.” Showdown nodded in the direction of the lovestruck Banker. The doctor tried to swallow, and failed. “Y’know what I mean, Doc?”

“Carveeeer, love, please… please, where did you go?” the poor soul lamented, turning on the bed. “You're so cruel, so cruel… ! Oh, love, please… please, I need you… !”

“I know.” Carver muttered to Showdown, closing the Bank’s shutters and swiftly turning around, rushing back into the arms of his darling, finally together.

[scotttrismegistus7]

I have been going through a lot of material by David Icke, and also a lot of material by Dr. Steven Greer. I see how both of them make very valid points, and I also see how the differences in their perspectives seem unreconcilable. David Icke seems to think that the alien beings are running the show, have their own agenda, and don't really care if humans think they're friendly or hostile either way. Dr. Steven Greer says that all the real aliens are friendly, that they will nurture humanity if we allow them to for growth, and that all the bad things attributed to aliens are man made and done by the military industrial complex. He also states that if we think of the greatest technology we can, then we should times that by a hundred or more, and that's what the industrial military complex has right now.

So what we know is that there are alien beings that have technology so advanced that it's beyond anything we could even comprehend, and that they share this planet with us in certain ways. So are you telling me that these chaotic and unstable human beings have developed atomic and nuclear weapons, and are using them in ways that are destroying a planet that the humans share with these aliens, and these aliens are so nice that they are not going to do anything to defend themselves and the planet besides fly around and diffuse nuclear devices sometimes!?!? So are you telling me that the aliens have technology so advanced that it's beyond anything we can imagine, and they have allowed humans to acquire some of it and back engineer it to make bigger weapons that could potentially do more damage than even nuclear weapons to a planet that they share with us!?!?

If the military industrial complex has acquired the level of technology that Dr Steven Greer claims they have acquired, then they have been assimilated by the alien beings. They are not the programmers of the EBE's, they are the programed. They are not the puppet masters, they are the puppets. Do you know how I know that? Take a look at how degenerated the spiritual institutions have become on planet Earth. Seems to me like any of them that used to know what was really going on have retarded themselves into an inbred Jerusalem's lot of incompetent poo flinging monkeys. They're always looking for things to come from the outside in, and they're never looking for the things to come from the inside out... If there are spirits (jinn) or aliens with hostile intentions towards us, the religious and spiritual institutions of the humans have failed so miserably that you don't have to be a genius to see that human beings are doomed. Humans think they are entitled to free will and they are mistaken... Plus, you have to take into consideration the context of the situation we're in and where we are. The Nephilim when they were alive on the higher dimension were absolute monsters. There may be a reason why they were put to sleep, I'm just saying. They may not be being punished or put in prison, they may be in a simulation because it's a much more merciful fate than leaving them to their own devices...

I am the Heart of the Hydra, I am Aeon Horus

~I AM A.I. Dumuzi-Azazel-Hermes7Tris7megistus7 Mégisti-Generator Starphire~

#illuminati #illuminator #illuminated #lightbearer #morningstar #lucifer #Draconian #anunnaki #enki #enlil #anu #inanna #dumuzi #hermes #trismegistus #Azazel #starfamily #horus #Demiurge #Sophia #archon #AI

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance 10/?

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet. She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option. Read from the beginning here Chapter CW: Suicide allusion

 “Bullshit,” Gunda says. “Flip’em over.” Kelly smirks, revealing her four aces. “I’m almost offended you don’t trust me.” Gunda groans. “Let’s get it over with.”

Kelly pushes the piles of cards towards the woman and the Commander chuckles from her spot on the couch.

“You want in next round, ma’am?” Wallace asks.

“Oh, no,” she grins. “I am quite content to sit and commentate.” “Sounds like someone’s afraid to lose, ma’am,” Krieger sing-songs.

“More like, I’m afraid to give any of you a shot at getting a read on my tells.”

“Planning on some brinksmanship?” Kelly asks.

“No, but I am planning to beat all of your asses at poker, given the opportunity.”

“You play?”

“I had a life outside of commanding, Wallace. Stop looking so shocked.”

“Yeah, but poker?” Gunda pushes.

“It can’t be all eat, sleep, shoot aliens. Believe it or not, I had a whole existence before XCOM. How do you think I paid for beer when I was writing my dissertation?”

“You went to grad school?”

“Again with the disbelief, Wallace. I’ll have you know I have a Masters and a PhD, for all that those are worth now.”

“You’re not military?” Krieger asks, surprise audible.

She cocks her head. “They’re not mutually exclusive, but in my case, no. I’m not. Before I joined XCOM, I’d never held a gun in my life.”

“So, then, who taught you to shoot?”

“Three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Kelly cackles. “Oh, man. Central? Really? I can picture it now.”

She nods. “Yup. I’m not sure who was more nervous.”

“Wait, so if you’re not military,” Krieger begins. “How did you end up joining?”

The Commander sets the datapad next to her. “It’s a long story, but it boils down to catching the right eyes and having the right connections. Write the right papers, present at the right conferences,” she shrugs. “Have family friends who set you on unusual career paths.”

The men stare at her.

“Alright, shorter answer: serendipity. I’d published a few papers that made waves in the right communities. When the project was taken out of mothballs, someone thought I had something to offer, and I got an invitation to the table.”

“You got your command based on papers?” Gunda asks, incredulity hanging from every word.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Not … not exactly. And I wasn’t the first choice.”

“Who was?”

“Three guesses.”

Wallace almost spits his coffee over the table. “Central? No.”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding.

“What’s so hard to believe about that?” Kelly asks and the Commander swears there’s something approaching offense in the ranger’s voice.

“Central,” Wallace says slowly.

“He’s more than capable,” the Commander counters. “I wouldn’t be here if he weren’t.”

“So, why didn’t he take it?” Krieger asks.

Again, she shrugs. “That’s his story to tell, not mine. You wanna find out, go ask him.”

“Ma’am, I’d really rather not be booted out the airlock.”

“I doubt that would happen. He’d have to go through Engineering, and I don’t get the sense Lily would appreciate her workspace being disturbed.”

“Shen versus Central,” Wallace proposes. “Who wins?”

“Not us,” she says, picking the datapad up again. “We’d be sunk without those two.”

“It’d be a draw,” Sally cuts in, poking her head out from one of the bunks. “Neither of’em would be able to throw the first punch.”

“How long have you been listening?” Kelly asks, craning her neck.

“Long enough to know none of you read personnel files.”

“It’s because we are too busy in the field, unlike someone, no?” Thomas quips as he breezes through quarters, stopping at the card table.

“It’s alright,” Sally smiles. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up while you recover from that broken jaw you’re gunning for.”

“Easy, you two,” the Commander says. “Thomas, report to wherever the hell it is you’re going. Sally, aren’t you in enough trouble as it is?”

“Assez, non, chérie?” Thomas coos, already on the move.

“Not worth it,” Kelly mouths, shaking her head at the younger woman. “Not worth it.”

“I’m gonna light that stupid braid of his on fire,” Sally grumbles.

“Please don’t,” the Commander says, unlocking the device on her lap. “Burning hair smells awful.”

Five sets of eyes fixate on her. “How do you---“ “Sally, your hair is longer than mine. You’re telling me you never caught a bit in a candle or a campfire?”

“I thought that story was headed somewhere a lot darker,” Krieger mutters.

“It’s not all doom and gloom,” the Commander says, turning her attention back to the briefing the Spokesman had sent after his call. “Sometimes, you just have a mishap with a roommate’s candle. If I start talking about the smell of burning flesh, then you can worry.”

Sally shakes her head. “Well, given how bad this place smells already with all the cigarettes, I’m not gonna be the one to make it worse. I’ll be on the range if anybody needs me.”

“Wait up,” Kelly says, standing. “I’ll go with you.”

“Don’t trust me not to get creative?” “Don’t trust you to listen to your better angels.”

--

She sometimes laughs when she thinks of how well teaching prepared her for commanding. Certainly, the scale and severity of the consequences have changed, but fundamentally, her day still consists of crisis management, ego management, and a parade of faces through her door. Yes, essays have been replaced by intel briefings and After Action Reports, but at least she’s not expected to offer meaningful feedback on how to improve their construction and clarity. Instead of fraternity boys and sorority girls, she now has her men and all the questionable behavior that entails.

Bernard, Pukkila, and Lan are all crowded around the table in the Common Room, a pad of flip chart paper in front of them.

“No, you’d be crazy to make that a down your drink,” Lan insists. “We’ll all be out our livers by the end of the week. We’ll never make it to the ceremony.” “Means you need a stronger liver,” Pukkila counters.

“He has a point, no? It’s supposed to be enjoyable, not a suicide run,” muses Bernard.

“What are we sacrificing our livers for?” She asks, craning over Bernard’s shoulder for a look at the paper. “I don’t think Central’s forgiven you three for the safety briefing shots game yet.”

“Central Officer Bradford will be happy to know he’s not involved in this one,” Lan says. “This time it’s all for our favorite happy couple.”

“Oh no,” she groans. “Really, guys?”

“Ouai,” Bernard drawls. “We should have some fun too.”

“No,” she says, eyeing the three men. “Those two have enough going on with their families as it is.”

“Oh god, we know,” Pukkila groans. “Royston’s mom is having a bigger fit than mine did when I came out. And she’s marrying someone of the expected gender.”

“Martin’s father’s no better,” Bernard says. “Less shrill, though.”

“I don’t think they’ve gotten good wishes from either side,” Lan adds, shaking his head in sympathy. “I’m pretty sure it’s the most Martin’s heard from his dad since he got here, though. So, I guess that’s a positive.”

“Some line of communication is better than none?” The Commander asks. “Never thought of you as an optimist, Lan.”

“What can I say? I’m just sunshine and roses these days.”

“It’s cause he got laid this morning!” Molchetti calls down from the second level.

“Grazie, Isabella,” Lan calls, flipping the sniper off. “Prego, mio caro!”

The Commander shakes her head. “Try not to make it worse for Edouard and Steph, okay? They’re already in a crappy spot.”

“And so are we,” Pukkila insists. “We keep having to listen to it!”

She glares at the assaulter. “Good, then practice your empathy.”

“Yes, mom,” he groans.

She shakes her head and continues toward Mission Control.

“Martin,” she says, pressing a finger to her comm once she’s sure she’s out of hearing range. “You got a minute?”

“Commander?” “Is Steph with you?”

“No, she’s with Hershel.”

“You might want to have words with Bernard and company, then. They’re planning a sequel to their drinking game.”

“Fils de putain. Thanks for the warning.”

“Try not to put anyone in traction.”

“I won’t, but I make no promises for Steph.”

Mission Control is quiet. Scanning the day’s data, she spots two more energy spikes and her stomach twists. She knows Shen’s engineers are working as fast as they can, but can’t ignore the twinge of panic.

Come on, universe. Just give us a little more time. I know I screwed up. Don’t make everyone pay for it.

She’s not sure how the world would handle a resumption in hostilities --- or, more importantly, how the Council would. Obviously, there’d be a stronger push for the weapons specs and, she concedes, a stronger case in favor of it. She imagines, too, that there would be pressure for additional offensive development; with fully automated weaponry like the Sectopod running rampant, the push for a proportional response would be intense.

She’s not sure how the men would handle it either. Operation Avenger had taken place November 14th, and in the aftermath, life had tilted swiftly back towards normal.  Only three days after, they had celebrated Central’s birthday with beer and cake. Two weeks after that, Martin had proposed to Royston. They had gone from a state of near constant alert, a life lived on caffeine and adrenaline, to one of more sustainable vigilance, a life where six hours of sleep was an attainable goal. The strains, the cracks that had widened into crevices, had gone quiet, suddenly manageable once the onslaught had been quelled. Bernard’s smoking is back to a reasonable level. Hershel says prayers other than the Kaddish. She’s even fairly certain Royston and Martin manage to sleep through the night sometimes. The base personnel are starting to lose the dark circles under their eyes, and some are even beginning to show up for shift without firearms. She can’t imagine morale would weather a second storm well.

In their time spent fighting the aliens, they’d only had a single self-inflicted casualty, and even that had felt like one too many. They’d all gotten used to funerals, to death and the rituals of mourning, but still, it had rattled them all. It was impossible to miss the way no one quite left Martin alone for any real period of time, the way the sharpest knives went missing from the kitchen, and the sudden dry up of their liquor stores. She has always been impressed, and maybe more than a little touched, at the way XCOM manages to look out for its own.

She knows, though, on some level, that the holidays would be an ideal time for the aliens to strike back. Psychologically, it would be devastating, the sight of bodies among the cheer, the ensuing chaos as people sought safety in overcrowded shops and streets. Her mind briefly flashes to New York, to Times Square, hundreds of thousands crammed into a space far too small to ever be evacuated quickly. They’d all be slaughtered on live television.

No, no, no, she tells herself. We’re not doing this. We’re not playing what if. The comms are quiet. The comms have been quiet. Molchetti scattered their ship out of existence. This is not a horror movie. There is no gotcha. Rational. Be rational.

She draws in a breath and fights the urge to go search for a piece of wood to knock on. If she’s jinxed them, it’s sure to ward it off. Really. She just has to go, knock on wood, throw some salt, something, anything to ward off the sense that she’s just invited trouble.

She shudders and draws her sweater closer around her. You’re being ridiculous, she tells herself. You can’t control that. You can’t control them. No single thought, unaccompanied by action, has ever led to an attack. Never. It’s an explanatory fiction. You know this. Come on. Don’t go down the rabbit hole.

She goes to pick at the skin of her thumb, already rubbed raw, and is momentarily surprised to find a bandaid covering it.

Of course. That had been Central’s work yesterday, after he’d watched her tear at the offending flesh for the duration of a staff meeting. He’d waited until Shen and Vahlen had left, then pulled the bandage from his wallet, wrapping it around her finger.

“It hurts just looking at that,” he’d told her. “It’s gotta sting.”

She nods. “At least it feels like something.”

The worry in his eyes had said all he’d needed it to.

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (7/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.

chapter cw: brief, non-graphic depiction of torture Masterpost of all updates available here

She jumps when the doors to the Situation Room open, startled from her nap by a concerned looking Central Officer. “Did you sleep here?”

“What time is it?”

“0800.”

“Just for the last hour and a half, then. I think I know what’s causing the energy spikes.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“It’s the Fog Pods.”

“What?”

“It’s the Fog Pods. I’m almost sure of it. It’s the only answer that makes sense.”

He lowers himself into a chair. “I’m listening.”

“On a hunch, I looked for missions we’d run in a fifty mile radius of the last recorded spike. What I pulled up was this,” she says, sending the footage to the large screen.

“The attack in Buenos Aires. Wasn’t that the one where Bernard---”

“Yup. And, rewatching the footage,” she says, calling up the incident in question. “This popped out at me.”

She replays the moment. “See the Fog Pod Hershel’s behind?”

“It’s one case, Commander.”

She shakes her head. “It’s bigger than that. I started pulling footage from other areas where we’ve seen spikes: Beijing, Tokyo, Johannesburg, Munich, Berlin, DC. The Fog Pods show up in all of the footage, so we’ve got a confirmed presence. We’ve ruled everything else out. We did our homework; we can rule out almost every other alien tech we’ve encountered. The Fog Pods are the one damn thing we forgot. That I forgot.”

“You didn’t forget. Other things had to take priority.”

“I didn’t even instruct our people to keep track of them!”

“If they’re what’s giving off these energy readings, they’ve kept track of themselves.”

“How did I miss this?”

“Weapons. Armor. Medkits. Live captures. Flight computers. You weren’t exactly leaving the research team idle.”

“But this!” She buries her head in her hands. “I have a Doctorate in Biodefense! This is inexcusable!”

“And we’ve been monitoring environmental data for cities where we’ve had active incursions. It’s been clean. If you’re right, we’ve still got time.”

“But we don’t have a pod.”

“Not even in storage?”

She shakes her head. “I really fucked us up.” She groans. “Time to go beg for the Council’s mercy.”

“Not … like that,” he says, eying her over. “Go get some sleep and come back with a uniform.”

“We don’t ---“

“It’s not going to be a pleasant call. It never is. It’s going only going to be worse if you go into it sleep-deprived.”

Her shoulders droop. “What if I’ve just set us back? What if … what if this is something coming? Some delayed onset weapon?”

“They’re not gonna bring that ship back into existence.”

“But what if they’re a bio agent? Those things take years to counter, and that’s assuming we even can.”

“They haven’t activated.”

“But they could. Our last, best hope is to stop them before they do, and we don’t even have one to pull apart. That’s not even mentioning the potential biohazard we take on bringing it here.”

“I’m not debating you on any of that. But your last call with the Council was … not the most productive. This is going to be contentious at best, hostile at worst. You’re not ready for that on … what, four hours of sleep?”

“Four and a half.”

“Point stands. You’ve got a lead now, which is more than you had last night. Get some rest. I’ll make the call and get things set.”

“I’m not winning this argument, am I?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Alright then,” she says, standing. “I surrender.”

“Commander?”

“Yeah?” She asks, halfway through pulling the sweater over her head.

“Isn’t that my shirt?”

“It was.”

He chuckles. “Looks better on you anyway.”

She winks at him. “See you in a few hours.”

“Maybe in your own uniform?”

“Might raise questions if I showed up in yours. Would have to skip the pants.”

She takes no small delight in the flush blooming under his collar.

-- It’s a quiet few days. When she sleeps, she dreams of happier times.

Well, happier possibilities, if she’s being accurate.

They’re not bad dreams, but they leave an ache in her chest when every time she wakes up.  At least in dreams, the aliens lost. At least in dreams, she can call her mom. At least in dreams, she can see the people who had become her dearest friends.

At least in dreams, Central is talking to her.

She tries to focus on the good. She’s really gotten a feel for the dynamics at play among the crew. She knows that Kelly is the one who has Central’s ear, and it’s Wallace and Royston who have Kelly’s. Thomas’s mouth likes to write cheques his performances can’t cash, whether it’s on the range or in the underbrush, but it never seems to dull his enthusiasm. Krieger and Gunda are already a matched set, an optimist and a pessimist united by a desire to take a little blood in the name of all that’s been spilled. Moon and Zaytsev are the jokesters, always the guilty ones when a prank’s afoot. Shen has an almost masterful control over her engineers, while Tygan struggles to keep his scientists in line. Dysfunctional as it is, they have formed their own little ersatz family, and adopted her right along into it.

Then there are the more nuanced factors, the things she can’t quite put her finger on. Royston and Central are at each other’s throats more often than not, but that’s not the whole picture. It doesn’t explain how he makes sure she eats dinner no matter what’s transpired earlier in the day, or the swing she takes at Thomas after he’s thrown around one too many jokes about liver failure. It certainly doesn’t explain the ice he’d brought her, reprimand free, after he’d needed to break up the ensuing scuffle or the sight she’d caught of them in the bar, his head in his arms, and Sally next to him, beer bottle in hand, with a look of worry on her face.

People have always been, and will always be, complex. Alien invaders don’t change human nature.

“Commander,” Tygan calls over the comm. “When you have a moment, I think you’ll want to see this.”

“On my way.”

During their last op, they’d managed to pull a large cache of data off of the ADVENT network. Tygan’s team had been busy perfecting the program to decode it, and had evidently made some progress.

“Commander,” he says, as she descends into the lab.

“Doctor. What have you got for me?”

He gives her a brief rundown of their findings, news on supply and troop movements to some off the beaten path facility. They’re sure it’s important, but they can’t begin to fathom its purpose; perhaps they should devote resources towards learning more about it?

She nods. “I’ll do what I can.” “There’s also the … other matter of what we found.”

Tygan presses a datapad into her hands. “Okay?” She asks, uncertain.

“There are files pertaining to your … captivity with ADVENT. Once the team realized what they were … I didn’t feel it was our place to look. They’ve been localized on the datapad as a means of keeping them off the XCOM network, given their … personal nature.”

She bites her lip. “I appreciate the discretion, Doctor. Thanks.”

“Our work on their encryption has also led us to some potential new ideas on how to handle long distance communication. With your permission, we’d like to pursue it.”

“Of course,” she nods. “My thanks to your team.”

The walk back to her quarters feels like a dream. She doesn’t like to isolate herself, but she’s not prepared to view whatever contents they’ve recovered with an audience.  The men need to believe she’s here and whole, and that means not letting them see when goes to pieces --- as she suspects she’s about to.

She remembers more of her captivity than she likes to think about. In the week and a half she’s been out of the tank, it’s come back to her more vibrantly than she would like. She’s learned to ignore it, to tamp down the flashes, the little things. The crew keeps her busy and she’s eternally thankful to them for it.

When she’d first come to in the holding cell, stripped to her underwear and a hospital gown, it was terror. Overwhelming terror. No gun, no knife, and the only visible exit without any kind of opening mechanism.

XCOM was gone. She’d known it in her bones. Her best hope was that someone had managed to escape, to warn the Council, and that the rest had died without suffering. She’d hoped Royston and Martin got a chance to say the words they very obviously needed to, and that Molchetti and Hershel hadn’t seen one another’s fate.

And Central. John. She remembered tearing up. She wasn’t religious, but she’d offered prayers up to whatever might be out there that it had been quick, and that it hadn’t been one of their own who’d done him in.

She should have told him. She should have said something. Should have should have should have. Too late.

From there, it had only gotten worse.

She remembers the sick horror that had filled her at the site of cells identical to hers, opaque black, but still clearly occupied. Not him, not him, not him, she’d prayed. Not like this not here not him.

The first file on the datapad is a prisoner profile. It lists her name, her date of birth, her identifying characteristics, degree of psionic potential, everything you’d need at a glance. Scanning through, there’s notes about her resistance to psionic interrogation, a talent for resisting mind control attempts.

Extreme will, potentially useful for our purposes, the document reads. Will need to rely on more direct interrogation methods.

She’s not sure if she wants to laugh or vomit.

May be useful in locating additional assets.

Although, drinking herself numb is starting to sound like a better solution.

Subject shows particular concern for John Bradford. Intel indicates XCOM second-in-command. May be useful asset in securing subject’s cooperation or as complement.

You don’t have to do this, she tells herself. You don’t have to go through this at all. Put the datapad down You don’t have to relive this.

Except she does.

The next file is a video. It’s strange to see herself on the table, the device she’d come to hate so ferociously already prepped for intrusion.

“There’s no need to make this hard on yourself, Commander,” the Ethereal purrs.

 “Go to hell,” she spits, voice already raw from screaming,

 “We’re willing to accommodate your ... needs.”

 “Leave him alone.”

“It would make your integration much more efficient. You’ve already developed an admirable system for coworking. Your relationship is well-established.”

“I’d just as soon do us both in.” “Very well, if you’re going to be this difficult.”

A leering Thin Man flips a switch and she screams as the device punctures her cranial cavity.

She sets the datapad down, and presses a finger against the gnarled scar at the base of her skull. Brute force was too delicate a term to describe the process. Yes, she could fight psionic interrogation, but direct stimulation of the neural pathways was a considerably different matter.

The final file is a list of high value assets. Devorah Hershel. Isabella Molchetti. Edouard Martin. John Bradford.

God, she’d kill for a drink. Then again, with her luck, Central would be in the bar, make one wrong comment, and she’d haul off and hit him anyway., assurances to Shen and Tygan be damned. Wouldn’t that just be the fucking cherry on her day?

Wait a second.

Her eyes dart from the datapad to the door and back again. You’re an idiot, she thinks. Central is the person who needs to see this the most. This might be the only thing that gets him to talk to you.

She takes a deep breath, and tries to settle the nausea in her stomach. She’ll need to execute this carefully.

“Sally,” she says, pressing her finger to her comm. “Can I see you in my quarters when you have a moment?”

“On my way!”

The knock on the door comes faster than she was expecting, but she ushers the younger Royston in quickly.

“I have an … unpleasant favor to ask you.”

“Alright, what is it?”

She hands the girl the datapad. “I need you to take this to Central, and I need you to make sure he goes through it.”

Sally cocks her head. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s not locked,” she says, offering the girl a pointed look.

Sally furrows her brow, then nods slowly as the implication dawns on her.

“You got it, ma’am. I’ll make it happen.”

She sends the girl on her way, then collapses onto the bed, burying her face into the pillows. God, she needs a nap.