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wastelandlovingscenarios · 5 years ago

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Can I request how the guys would react to a SS who plays guitar and they find one in an abandoned building or something and SS starts playing it for them? Your writing is really good btw!!

thank you for requesting! i will do this as regular companions, non romanced. thank you for the compliment, sweet anon! ;v; ❤️

they both explored the building with caution, pointing their gun at every corner they turned, ready to shoot anything that came their way. after clearing out most of the area, they reached the final room, slowly opening the door. “wow, this place is pretty well kept,” sole commented incredibly, “given that we live in a shithole, of course.” he looked around the room and noticed that it might’ve been abandoned only recently, seeing that they had left a lot of belongings behind, “yeah, i guess so.” as he looked through the drawers of every container to find some sort of helpful loot, unlike the useless shit sole usually picked up, he had heard an excited squeal come from them. turning around, he caught them bouncing in excitement as they held up an almost near to perfect guitar in their hands. “oh my god, it’s been forever since i’ve seen a guitar!” raising his brow in confusion, he observed the instrument himself, “do people even play these things anymore?” sole only gave him a big grin as they beamed, “wanna see me play?”

Danse:

with a disinterested and perplexed look, he’d reply, “that’s a waste of our time soldier. we have a mission to focus on.” sole would only pout and loudly complain as danse stood by his opinion, “you’re so boring! it’s just a few minutes anyway, so we’ll be fine.” unbothered, danse began scavenging through other parts of the room, ignoring their childish demeanor and averting his attention elsewhere. as he was about to reach the handle for the cabinet, he froze hearing the sound of something soothing hitting his ears. of course, his sudden jolt didn’t go unnoticed by sole, who was observing him carefully. he didn’t realize that their eyes were on his back as they continued to strum the guitar skillfully without effort, “what’s wrong, paladin? can’t focus on your mission?” they teased, enjoying the vulnerability danse began to show. “nonsense.” he was embarrassed to be caught red handed and continued to carry on as if nothing happened. sole shrugged and resumed playing until he decided to break the silence between them. “though it is a waste of time, it is an admiring talent you do acquire. it’s nice to hear something soothing in this chaotic environment.” sole smiled brightly as they jumped up from their seat, a bounce in their step as they headed towards danse, “does that mean i can keep it?” he rolled his eyes, an annoyed tone in his voice, “fine.” he really just wanted to hear sole play again.

Deacon:

“oh yeah, i’ve heard of these things. it’s called a gwatar?” he tapped his chin dramatically, pretending as if he had never seen such a thing in his life, “a geetar? well, whatever it’s called, i can totally play it.” sole would only roll their eyes, playfully shoving the guitar in his direction, “if you’re so “good”, then show me how to play.” deacon let out a hearty laugh as he raised both his hands up in defeat. “i’m kidding, charmer,” he sat on a chair nearby, leaning back as he watched them tune the guitar carefully. “unless, of course, you wanna hear the exact replica of a fork scratching a plate then don’t mind if i do. now let’s get the show rolling.” they let out a little, nervous laugh in response to his silly comment. sole began strumming the guitar and deacon leaned forward, becoming indulged in their small performance. at first, the chords sounded a little strange, some notes sounding out of place with the others but that was probably lack of practice for - well 200 years. soon enough, it began to grow melodious to his ears and a large grin formed on his face. as sole stopped strumming, deacon sauntered up to them and crossed his arms. “i’m impressed, charmer. you should totally create a dramatic tune for whenever i enter HQ.” he continued complimenting sole on the way home, secretly wanting to learn how to play the guitar himself. maybe he’ll build the courage to ask sole sometime soon.

Maccready:

“cmon sole, just leave it. besides, it’s just some doohickey someone left behind,” maccready grumbled, “it obviously wasn’t valuable enough to bring with them so why would it be of any value to us?” honestly, he didn’t mean to be so crabby but the rain soaking his favorite duster wasn’t sitting with him very well. maccready truthfully wanted to head to a hotel or a decent looking house to dry up and hit the hay for the night, but now that sole was distracted and unwilling to leave without the guitar, he figured that his wants weren’t going to be met anytime soon. “there’s no way i’m leaving this behind, mac! do you know how hard it is nowadays to find these things?” unconvinced, maccready still went on with reasons on why sole should just abandon it. he’s probably said every reason in the book - a waste of space, too heavy, useless. sole knew it would take more than talking to persuade him into letting them keep the relic. with a sly smile, they offered him a choice to even things out, “how’s about i play you a song? if you really don’t like it, i promise i’ll leave it without a second thought.” macready only huffed in irritation, “fine. let’s just get this over with so we can go home and finally dry up.” they could barely contain their joy hearing that answer and decided to get into action, wanting to act as quick as possible before he changed his mind. they hit one chord at first, trying to adjust to the feel of the guitar again and soon began playing a small, short song. though irritated at first, maccready felt himself calm down to the sound of the guitar strings being plucked in an adept manner. he looked up at sole who raised a brow, a devious smile painting their face. “well?” after a long silence and him looking back and forth between sole and the guitar, he finally gave in, a small blush dusting his cheeks. “i guess you can.” he agree, sole whispered a small. “yess!”. though a bit less cranky, he still warned sole with a less irritable look on his face, “if that thing distracts us or gets us caught during our missions, then we’re throwing it out.” sole pouted. maccready was such a whiny baby.

Hancock:

“definitely, i haven’t seen anyone play a guitar in a long while.” hancock smiled, feeling the happiness radiating off of sole. being the gentleman he is, he fetched a chair for sole to sit on so they could play comfortably. “thanks, hancock.” he leaned on the wall and crossed his arms as he watched sole tune the guitar string by string. “my pleasure.” soles eyes lit up as they found the right notes, and gave it a small strum to test the waters. they really didnt want to risk the strings snapping and somehow whipping one of their body parts. last time that happened, it left more than just a mark. “ready?” hancock sent sole a grin, “born ready, sister/brother.” sole allowed a soft breath to escape their lips and relaxed their shoulders as they began strumming the guitar effortlessly. he watched with interest, impression dancing in his eyes. he hasn’t heard anything musically pleasant since magnolia and was delighted to learn about their talent. as sole finished their song, he shot them a smirk as he draped an arm over their shoulder. “you know what? you should really play at the third rail,” he offered happily, “and don’t worry, i’ll be your biggest fan.”

Nick Valentine:

“absolutely, it would be lovely to hear something that isn’t the radio every once in a while.” nick was thrilled to hear that sole still held their prewar talents that are seldom to find in the commonwealth. nick would put his hands in his pockets, watching as sole sat down on the chair, positioning themselves comfortably. “is there any particular song you’d like, nick? i’ll tell you if i can play it or not.” nick would think for a moment, trying to go back to his earliest memories before the great war. he had told them a certain song him and jenny use to dance to in the middle of the night and soles eyes lit up, hearing that familiar title. “i remember that song, i still remember how to play it too.” nick let a small chuckle escape his lips, “i guess today is my lucky day then, huh?” they only nodded in response and began strumming the song nick had requested. of course, nick had picked a song of his favorite genre - love. a small smile formed on nicks face as he unconsciously hummed along with the song, feeling a sense of tranquility within him. he was thankful that he was given this opportunity to listen to old school music once more, believing he wouldn’t encounter it again. sole halted on her strumming to send nick a small glance, “how was that? i probably messed up on a few chords and stuff but-“

“it was perfect. thank you, sole.” nick tilted his hat upwards to look sole straight in the eye, “you should really consider playing again sometime, i would love to hear more of the pieces that you remember.” sole agreed happily, and often played it around nick whenever they had the chance to. though rare, nick would bring home a music sheet or two that he had located during his adventures for sole to practice their guitar skills.

#fallout 4 #fallout 4 companions #fallout 4 companions react #fallout 4 reacts #fallout+4+companions+reaction #danse #fallout #hancock #john hancock #maccready #nick valentine #robert joseph maccready #deacon #paladin danse #fluff #react

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theuniversitychallengereview · 4 years ago

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UC 51.03 - London Business School vs Hertford, Oxford

Since it was introduced at the 1988 Olympics, every single Gold Medal in the Women’s Team event in the Archery has gone to South Korea. Including yesterday’s win that’s nine straight victories, and their period of unparalleled dominance continues. The men’s team have also won six of the nine they have contested, and a mixed team won the first staging of that event in Tokyo too. Adding their success in the individual events, South Korea have won 26 gold medals, and 42 in total, in the 43 archery events which have been thus far staged at the Olympic Games.

As Twitter’s own @tarequelaskar pointed out in the brilliant article which alerted me to this story, this is a perfect example of specialisation, an economic concept whereby countries or companies focus intensely on one particular aspect of a given industry and come to serve that niche in such a specialised fashion that they become the ultimate experts and nigh-on irreplaceable. This is done in government and business by providing companies with incentives to specialise, and supporting those who succeed at it.

With respect to Korean archery, similar forces are at play. There are a bunch of professional teams and leagues in the country, giving archers financial stability while they focus on their training, something not as common across the world. Said training involves such things as practicing in live baseball stadiums and replicas of the Olympic venues, to mimic first the atmosphere and then the conditions that will be present on the day of the actual tournament.

This philosophy of marginal gains - the same system used by Team Sky and Chris Froome to win multiple Tour De Frances on the trot - puts their preparation miles ahead of the competition, which goes some way to explaining their dominance. It is not the only reason. Before the fine-tuning of the elite shooters comes the discovery of the promising young ones, and the inspiring nature of past success (along with a historic national love of the sport) helps to create a virtuous cycle which give Korea a far larger number of archers to choose from than any other country. This greater choice means that there is a greater chance of finding the next Gold medallists.

Making the argument that professional footballers are at a higher level than other elite sportspeople, Michael Cox used this same argument in a recent article for The Athletic. To summarise, he stated that because there are a far higher number of people who wish to become professional footballers, that must mean that the ones who do make it are at a higher standard than those who make it in other sports. Initially, I was drawn in by the pure maths of this point, but having thought about it some more I’m no longer sure to what extent I agree.

Now, the fact that hundreds of millions more people play football than rugby, or basketball, will certainly confer some level of “eliteness”, but only up to a certain point. Because football has been so popular for so long, the general standard of the play, relative to what it used to be, has had longer to improve. In the same way that if you transplanted a 100m runner from the Olympic final in the early 20th century to now they probably wouldn’t even qualify for the games, a footballer from the 80s would stand less of a chance of making it were they playing today. Many other sports don’t have that level of natural progression, afforded by decades of technical and tactical advancement - at least not globally.

But the numbers argument only goes so far, as can be demonstrated by the Korean archers. Yes, there are more archers in Korea than anywhere else, relatively, giving them a higher chance of uncovering those with a natural aptitude, but the reason behind their bow and arrow dynasty is the specialisation. The hyper-detailed level of training and focus which allows them to be the best they can possible be.

Now, archery is unique in that there is a theoretical maximum score (I understand that this is to some extent arbitrary, and related to the rules of the game as defined by some human being, semi-randomly, but it works in terms of this argument, because it gives a percentage score of how good the archers are based on the agreed-upon parameters of the sport), which, at the Olympics, is 720. The Olympic record is 700 (held by Korean Kim Woo-jin, giving an implied “eliteness level” of 97.2%.

The best player in the history of football (don’t @ me) is Lionel Messi, and few would doubt that he operates at or above that level of perfection in his sport. But I also don’t think you could doubt that Novak Djokovic, or Serena Williams in her pomp, were similarly magnificent at tennis. Cyclists on the Tour De France put their bodies through more in three weeks than most people endure in a decade, and have every aspect of their training and diet strictly controlled so as to bring them as close to perfection as possible. There will certainly be a higher number of these elite performers in football, because there are a higher number of paying jobs for said elite performers, and because more people attempt to become elite performers, but I don’t think that it follows on from that that they are better at their sport than other elite athletes, all of whom have undergone years and years of specialised training to get them where they are.

Does any of this matter, in terms of how each sport should be enjoyed? Probably not, but its interesting to think about, and kind of awe-inspiring to try and appreciate just how good those at the top of their respective games are. And if there is some discrepancy in the level of eliteness between the different sports it doesn’t detract from the fact that they would handily dispatch any civilian challengers without breaking a sweat. The joy comes from watching people who are good at stuff doing that stuff - and, as evidenced by the crowds which gather for non-league football, it doesn’t matter whether or not they are at the absolute pinnacle of said stuff. They’re still going to be much better than the rest of us.

Competitive quizzing is different from the activities previously mentioned in that any normal person can have a guess at pretty much any question, with a chance that they’ll get it right. What sets the contestants apart on shows like University Challenge is the speed of their recall under pressure - the quickness of their knowledge as well as the knowledge itself. But there are plenty of armchair quizzers who think they could wipe the floor on the show, so just how good are the actual contestants? (Compared to an elite footballer or archer on an imaginary scale that accounts for relative skill in all disciplines?). I don’t know (and in case you hadn’t noticed by now I’m just fascinated by people who are really good at anything, and wanted to share some of that fascination with you all), but I’ll try and have a go at answering it anyway.

So, the World Quizzing Championships have been dominated by British and Irish quizzers since its inception in 2003, with 16 of the 18 winners coming from either Britain or the Republic of Ireland (who have four wins courtesy of The Egghead Pat Gibson). This, in my mind, makes this neck of the woods comparable to South Korean archery. It is a hotbed of talent, and the infrastructure is in place to encourage and aid talent maximalisation. Indeed, if you scroll down the list of highest ranking players at the WQC in any given year you can see a significant cohort of UC alums, so clearly there are a number of elite quizzers who have passed through the show.

This specialisation can be seen in microcosm with the preponderance of top-level quizzers produced by Oxford and Cambridge, who both have a long-standing culture of competitive quizzing far beyond other Universities. The debate is there to be had on the fairness of each institution having so many teams, but clearly they produce enough elite players to compete with far bigger Unis when entering as (sometimes tiny) colleges.

In conclusion, I think it is pretty obvious that UC is a breeding ground for world-class quizzers, and though no one has won a World title straight off the bat after appearing on the show, there are top-50 and top 100 finishes abound, which is still greatly impressive, and helps to give an idea of just how good these students really are.

Hoping to justify the 1000 words I’ve just written about their exceptional talents are two teams from the London Business School and Hertford College, Oxford. The Oxford side have never made it beyond the second round, but LBS reached the semi-finals in 2006, their only previous appearance on the show. Anyway, there is quite literally no time for me to recite the rules; here’s your first starter for ten...

Paxman mentions that LBS were in the show in 2006, but doesn’t mention that they reached the semi final, which is lazy imo. A bunch of them are studying for MBAs, which makes sense. He doesn’t mention Hertford’s previous appearances either, but that’s more understandable.

Hertford’s Hitchens takes the first starter with Kennedy, and the Oxonians added a full set of bonuses on words made up by authors - including a couple of educated guesses. LBS hit back with the next question, but can only manage one bonus on famous scientists. One of the two they miss is Rosalind Franklin, and Paxman teases them for not spotting an apparently obvious clue within the question.

The first picture round is on national emblems, and LBS are first to recognise that of Vietnam for the starter. They don’t know Laos or Belarus, but do know that Mozambique has a machine gun on its one. Butterworth then jumps the gun with argon on the next starter, giving his answer just as Paxman says it in the question. Butterworth makes up for it with the music starter, recognising Fat Boy Slim before anyone else, and LBS know Primal Scream and Wu Tang Clan too. They’re still fifty points behind though, and will need a big second half to turn things around.

This task gets more difficult for them, as Hitchens takes another starter. Lloyd adds a second in a row for Oxford and they are nearly one hundred points clear. LBS really need to get some points on the board, and Ruess duly obliges, knowing that there is a massive sculpture of a spider called Maman, which sounds needlessly scary, to the extent that I’m not even going to google it.

The comeback is ended before its even begun as Oswald takes a starter for Hertford, which gives them the picture bonuses - the starter having been dropped by both teams. Lloyd produces another excellent guess of Reuben, demonstrating how useful it is to have vague knowledge as well as specific knowledge. This is one of probably five questions he has answered in a throwaway manner, but which turned out to be correct.

By this point LBS seem to have accepted defeat. Ruess takes another starter, but there is little to no urgency on the bonus questions. They’re right, granted, to have none, they have no chance of winning, but if they gave it a go they might scrape a high scoring loser spot. Ruess is the only one who seems bothered, and bags himself ten more points. They have an amusing discussion about methods of poisoning in Agatha Christie novels (’it was used as a curry ingredient?’, Ruess wondered aloud, trying to figure out which spices could be poisonous, before Butterworth pointed out that it wasn’t something commonly used as a curry ingredient, prompting respectful mirth from the audience) on the bonuses, but still languish miles behind.

Lloyd grabs the last starter of the night for Hertford, who win by eighty at the gong.

Final Score: London Business School 100 - 180 Hertford, Oxford

At the end, Paxman mentions Hertford’s stellar guesswork, which means I wasn’t chatting nonsense (at least on that front, the jury is out on the rest of it), and says that they’ve done a really good job. Incredibly effusive praise for a score of 180. He really is going soft in his old age.

Phew, that was a long one. If you made it through the intro you deserve a prize. And that prize is that you get to come back next week for the next episode of this blog!! Woop woop!

And if this wasn’t quite enough UC content for you then you can subscribe for extra blogs on my Patreon, which features Retro Reviews from the 2015/16 series of the show. Ta x

#london business school #hertford #oxford #bbc2 #quizzy mondays #jeremy paxman

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jcmorrigan · 4 years ago

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Your Blakeworther headcanons give me life so I was thinking maybe wing au?

As in they've all got wings? Sounds like fun! Off the cuff, let's go!

-Vincent hides his wings. The crux of this entire AU is that most people aren't afraid to show their wings, but Vincent...Vincent is. Because his are metal. Outward proof that he isn't fully human. He still has to pass as a non-cyborg if he wants to get anywhere in life, so he keeps his wings firmly tucked beneath his jacket. And says that his wings are no one's business but his own.

-Victor's are also metal, but he's open about it. They were replaced along with his arms and eyes. He gets a lot of undue sympathy for it. "Oh, you poor dear, your wings aren't real!" He laughs it off but gets kinda annoyed.

-Albert used to have gorgeous feathery wings with soft pink down. But after he started learning how to work in the dream world, nightmares corrupted him. His true nature is revealed in that his wings have transformed to featherless bat wings tipped with wicked claws. He also keeps them hidden, because it would give away that he deals in demons and nightmares. (Too bad he's just...not subtle and everyone figures this out anyway)

-But all three of them were known for having beautiful wings constantly on display at RMU.

-Albert shows up to pay his old frienemies a visit, the first in years, and immediately knows something is wrong. "Why, Vincent, where are your wings? You were never shy about showing them off before."

-Vincent huffs. "I could ask the same of you, Albert."

-Victor tries to defuse the situation; "I like these better than what I used to have. They fly faster. Makes for better getaways...if you have something you need to get away from."

-Vincent and Albert both resolve that they SWEAR to figure out why the other won't show his wings...because what if the other is just like him? What if he can reveal his secret?

-Victor already knows about Vincent's metal wings, but he has no clue what's up with Albert. He wonders if Albert got them ripped off at some point because honestly that's the kind of chaotic energy he associates with the guy.

-It's Albert who figures it out first. He sees it through one of Vincent's dreams. Vincent wakes up in a cold sweat, he looks to Victor who's snuggled in beside him, then he looks up - into the eyes of Albert, who's staring straight down at him.

-"The accident. They changed you. You're hiding what you are from everyone."

-Victor is awoken by the ensuing BRAWL.

-He tries to defuse the situation as the two of them are fighting it out. Vincent's trying to get to the gun on his bedside table and Albert has brought out his SECRET KNIFE. Anyway, Vincent finally gets the gun, he shoots, Albert instinctively rockets straight upward -

-Vincent gapes. "Albert, the HELL happened to your wings?"

-Albert: "Oh. This? It's...I've always had them?"

-Victor: "I think we all need to talk."

-They hold a conference. Tell the truth of what's happened since they parted ways. And Victor, well, he's fascinated by Albert's new wings, to the point of hovering behind him, asking gingerly if he can touch them, and getting maybe a little too into running his fingers over each sinew. (Best ASMR ever.)

-Vincent and Albert put cards on the table. They're each a different sort of dangerous. Their destinies are now locked - the men with the fallen wings. A grim symbiosis connects them. Each has the power to end the other's reputation immediately.

-Victor finally persuades them all to work together.

-Much of this goes the same way as the prior Blakeworther AUs in terms of them falling for each other and deciding to work together, but here's some extra wing-exclusive fun:

-Victor likes to challenge Vincent to races since their wings are both metal/cybernetic. Vincent always says it's stupid and childish and then puts his all into trying to beat Victor anyway. Ever since Albert showed up, however, they've both learned that nightmare-enhanced wings are WAY faster than cyber wings. He keeps winning the race and they're both flabbergasted.

-If you're walking through the G4 at night and you feel like someone's watching you, turn and look at the tallest building. You might feel relieved when you see the three oddly humanoid winged gargoyles standing statue-still on the highest ledge. But don't get comfortable. Those aren't gargoyles, and they're watching your every move. Especially if you've ever been affiliated with the Myers Corporation.

-Once, a lackey of Monsieur M shot Vincent out of the sky by punching a hole in one of his wings with a bullet. Albert and Victor managed to catch him before he could hit ground and carried him to safety. They agreed it was best never to fly alone.

-Albert does like making up stupid excuses to get the other two to carry him, though. Victor plays the flirt about it while Vincent rolls his eyes and begrudgingly ends up doing it anyway.

BONUS: THE OTHER CHARACTERS' WING STATUSES (because I'm on a roll)

Winston's wings were both broken during his prison internment. They healed back crooked, and he is no longer able to fly. This causes him terrible depression.

Zalmona has sleek black wings that are built for speed. She does loop-de-loops wherever she goes. Actually, the police have been able to find her a lot faster than this because if you see a person doing random flips in the air, that's a hallmark of The Most Wanted Woman in the G4.

Wing dyeing is an art in this 'verse, and Taylor loves it. They have tried all sorts of cool palettes, though their favorite is jet-black wings with red tips.

Vanora's wings seem white, but after she conducted her investigation of Myers, they began to moult away to reveal gray. This has caused her to wonder if the white wings ever belonged to her, and if she is, in fact, a cyborg replica, given that she had such an obvious cosmetic adjustment.

Draco has one wing metal, one wing white feathers. How he got that way is between him and Vincent.

Claude's wings have scales. This isn't a nightmare/demonic quality but rather the reason for it is the same reason he's got blue skin and a tail (willful mutation?).

Why won't Dino ever show anyone his wings...?

#vincent edgeworth #albert krueger #victor blake #blakeworther #this one was funnnnnnnn #something about tying wings into the whole vincent intrigue mythos was just *chef's kiss*

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goliath-de-senfina-sango · 5 years ago

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Teller of Tales

The trio head through the portal to explore Danny's brand spanking new Sanctuary and are a little awed by all that he managed to make. They meet a facinating new ghost, who has a deal for them.

ao3

When Danny took Sam and Tucker through the portal and into his Sanctuary, he was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one floored by how much of it there was, or how complex it had turned out. “I don’t think I’ve ever even made a drawing this complicated and detailed before,” he said as they reached the roof of the main portal building and house. It was at the heart of what looked to be a town or maybe even a city, which was surrounded by a dense forest, with a mountain to one side, a massive body of water that Danny would call a lake but that looked so vast an ocean felt more appropriate on the other, and even misty clouds of every kind of color he could see passing by a point of brilliant light. “I’m glad it’s been keeping Walker out as much as it has, and every other ghost too. That means we can explore it!”

“Danny, this place is magnificent!” Tucker wrapped him up in a tight hug and squeezed nearly hard enough to crack his back. “Dude, you made a whole ass town that’s almost as big as Amity Park! I wonder how stocked up this place is. You’ve got copies of our hoverboards here too, so what are we waiting for?”

“I say we take a look at that forest, it’s practically screaming ‘enchanted and full of mystery’, and maybe we can even figure out what all goes on in that head of yours.” Sam poked Danny’s head with a laugh and called up her own backup hoverboard, hopping over the ledge and onto it before Tucker could catch up. Tucker, of course, swerved off to see if he could find anything substantial in the town, which meant splitting up, which had Danny reaching out to grab them both.

“Guys hold up! Are we really gonna go into a freshly made place that I made mostly subconsciously while in ghost form and do it while splitting up? Are we the Scooby gang?”

“Take full offense from this but you’re baby,” Tucker said with a snort. “Your subconscious mind didn’t come up with anything that might hurt us.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but I might’ve made some parts of this place uninhabitable to regular humans, but perfectly safe for a ghost to be floating around in.” After all, a ghostly mind set deeply into a Passion could easily forget things like safety regulations for squishy humans. Young Blood wasn’t even malicious or Obsessive and look at how he’d turned out.

Sam rolled her eyes but circled back around to the boys. “Fine, we can stick together and tour your McMansion together, you lil show off, but if so then how about we take a look at the edges to see what we can learn about how well defended this place is? It’s meant to be your Sanctuary, so you’ve gotta have some way of keeping ghosts out without just shotting at them.”

“We can work our way through the town and out into the forest, guys, you know that right? We’re literally starting from the middle.” Danny sighed, shaking his head. “The defenses are clearly working because nothing’s actually done anything to us yet, they can wait.”

It took a bit of back and forth but eventually, they all decided on a direction to go and headed for the lake instead of the mountain. After all, if the water was safe for humans, they could all go for a swim. The trio set off and found what looked to be empty homes, some buildings that could be shops, a few restaurants that just needed stocking up and customers, and other places that looked all but ready to be populated by people stuck on the ground and people who could fly. There was a warehouse full of Focuses, cameras, and replicas of every robot or project that Danny and Tucker had ever put together before, along with a few that stored Fentonworks non-violent products too. “This place looks like someone’s fantasy dream town where you can sit, relax, chat up a ghost, and then head off into the unknown in your very own - oh wow, Danny is that the Specter Speeder?”

“Well, I may have gone over Mom and Dad’s blueprints a while back for it, but only because I wanted to see if I could develop ya know, a space ship from it.” Danny felt his cheeks burning and gave Tucker’s shoulder a light punch to try and wipe the grin off his face. “Shut up.”

“Actually, the closer we get to the forest, the more ‘port town’ vibes I’m getting,” Sam mused. “Danny, didn’t you say you wanted to be a pirate once when you were a kid?”

“Shut uuup, noo.” Danny pulled his hood over his face, even as he turned invisible. Ok, so maybe it did look like the perfect place for a pirate who hit land on an undiscovered island to have set up their own little town. That proved nothing.

Just as Sam opened her mouth to keep teasing him, Danny popped into visibility and transformed entirely, shooting into the air with plasma gathered in his hands. It felt like the pull of some massive celestial object focused on him and his sanctuary alone, getting closer and closer, and Danny was all but certain he couldn’t do much on his own against it. He reached into his Sanctuary, felt it reach back, and begged it to hide . The partly cloudy sky went dark, the clouds now stretching over the whole expanse of the island, and in the mountain, Danny could feel the hum of railguns warming up and ready to fire like Danny couldn’t on his own.

The clouds were parted by something vast and incomprehensible that sung every song never known by mortal ears, and looking at it was looking upon all that had ever happened throughout the whole of humanity, listening to every story ever told to another person, and Danny nearly unraveled before he could look away. Something like a bell tolled and that massive shape resolved itself into something steadily smaller and simpler, while a voice called out to them - when had Tucker and Sam joined in him in the air? - with a deep baritone voice. “ A̸̢̦̮̥͚h̴͉̟̳͙͈͎̩͡, my sincerest apologies! I hadn’t expecte d any mortals or bridge spirits to be here and so came to investigate this lovely new place in an old er form. Perhaps this is easier on your minds and senses?”

The being settled into the shape of a male presenting person with grey skin, a white shirt, black pants, and a purple trench coat. They were also wearing glasses over eyes that were green at a glance but any lingering eye contact showed every shade of green and violet that could be thought of, and Danny struggled to keep his gaze on the center of the being’s forehead. They smiled with shark-like teeth and held out a hand. Danny, after likely too long, regained enough sense to shake their hand and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, this is uh, this is a lot easier. Hi. I’m Danny.”

“Hello Danny, I’m recently going by Ghostwriter! And who might you all be?”

“I’m …. Tucker Foley. Tech master extraordinaire.” Tucker shook off his awe quickly enough and gave the Ghostwriter some finger guns and a grin, shaky as it may have been.

Tucker’s joke seemed to snap Sam out of her own stupor and she shook the ghost’s hand warily. “Sam Manson, curious to meet you.”

“It’s always good to be curious! I came here sensing both a new place to learn about, the gateway to this lovely little planar system, and also I sensed a curious mind like my own seeking new fascinating secrets to uncover. Considering only one of you is capable of creating a Sanctuary, I imagine it’s you, Danny?”

Danny nodded and scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, about you coming here, can I ask uh, what was up with that mind-melting form you were just in?”

“I’ve never properly understood Lovecraftian Horror’s until now,” Sam muttered with a shiver. Tucker elbowed her in the side.

Ghostwriter tapped their chin with a hum and looked around at Danny’s spooktacular bachelor pad and clapped his hands with a grin. “I propose a trade! If I tell you about myself, as the answer to your question is best answered with story, then you all tell me about your selves. Deal?”

The trio looked between each other and nodded, Danny holding out his hand to shake. “Deal. Can we take this to the cafe down there though?” Danny pointed exactly to one of the cafes in his Sanctuary and slowly relaxed his panicked grip on the place. If Ghostwriter wanted trouble he clearly didn’t want any with Danny.

They sat down, Danny found some tea, coffee and all the things required to make hot chocolate inside, and offered everyone. Tucker accepted some iced tea, while Sam and Ghostwriter got coffee, and soon Danny sat down with his own hot chocolate and everyone else’s drinks. They appreciated the drinks and took big sips before the Ghostwriter began to speak.

“Oh, but where to start, where to start? If you have time, I can start even at the very beginning of it all?” The trio looked between each other and shrugged; it was the weekend, they had plenty of time. Ghostwriter seemed delighted by that. “The very beginning it is!” Music began to play, soft and mysterious in their minds.

“Before all that you see around you, before the swirling mists and oceans of darkness, before the very concept of Being, nothing was all that was. No past, present or future, no light or darkness, simply a blank nothingness.” On the table, a portion of the air became… empty, in a way that Danny felt in his soul, and he ached to fill the void. “Now, no one, not even myself or my siblings, knows why what happened happened, but for whatever reason or unreason, something began to Exist. Now, the very first something is what some call ectoplasm, others magic, and countless other names, but my siblings and I simply refer to it as the Realms themself being born.” Green light shone in the center of the void and quickly expanded to fill it up, accompanied by glorious and triumphant music.

“Now, while the Realms were the Something to all the Nothing at its edges, it still had just about nothing in it. So, it got to making things within itself from itself, and after a bit of experimenting with half-formed ideas like any creative soul, the very first Realm - the first universe was created. Inside of this universe, there was a great deal and the forces that be happened to be rather proud of themself but had no one to share their creation with. So, they created a soul, and a vessel to house that soul in so that someone could experience what they had made. There was, however, the issue of longevity, which was solved somewhat easily enough, by moving the soul into yet another vessel.”

The shape of a person appeared, surrounded by others, and a light slid out of one as they fell, before being nudged into the next, back and forth. “Now, what with the flexibility of how the Realms interact with time, the soul of their creation was able to hop from mortal vessel to mortal vessel, back and forth across history. Each time the soul left a body it simply went to the edges of the universe before being guided to its next life. And so it went until all the mortals were gone, but the soul was now so complex from experiencing life as every mortal that it could fit in larger vessels from which to appreciate the world. So, they became each planet in turn, and then each star, and each galaxy and cluster, and black hole, until that universe finally went dark, and the being had been everyone and everything in it across its lifespan.”

The light grew brighter and brighter with each leap it took until it burrowed down deep enough to contain that light, and the images Ghostwriter showed them zoomed out to show a solar system. And from there, the light flowed all around it, even jumping to other systems, until the light was too bright to contain in those planets and so it became all the light there was. Abruptly there wasn’t any light at all. An emptiness that the soul grew and grew to fill.

“And so in the cold, dark, quiet of the seemingly dead universe, the being that experienced Existing in a way the Realms could not did what it hadn’t the chance to between all its various lives with their fresh starts and clean slated beginnings: remembered. They experienced all that they had gone through, the scope of their life unfolding to be felt in its entirety in a way that could only be done when unbound by flesh and stone and plasma confines.”

The darkness shrunk as the grey light grew, and then the darkness was a ball within a green expanse. “And then they Were, and the universe ended with a bang, as they who I call mother and you can refer to as Queen Death, was born into the Realms properly.” The ball cracked and trembled before exploding in all directions, the bits of the cosmic eggshell being tossed to the edges of what they could see on the table. A being outlined in grey that held every color there was within, spun around in excitement, and reached out, taking one of the fractured shells of her egg and molding it like clay into another ball, then doing the same with another.

For a long moment, the trio stared at the little queen Death making universes all around her, Tucker sipping his tea as he did so. While Danny was still processing and Sam struggled to find her words, Tucker set his cup down and cleared his throat. “So, there’s a lot to unpack there, and I presume that you’re one of those souls that finished maturing inside of their universe - what are your pronouns by the way?”

“Ah yes, those, I go by he and him for now.”

Tucker nodded and hummed. “So there’s a Queen of the afterlife then? Queen Death?” Ghostwriter’s face fell from that of an eager storyteller to something sour, bitter, and full of grief.

“Not anymore, sadly. Once Mother had adjusted to Being, she realized that she too could create in this wonderful place from which she came. She crafted for herself a lovely palace made half from concepts rather than stone or metal or wood, though it was made from all that and more too.” Death was shown molding the very mist around her into an intricate and beautiful landscape and building, before stopping and sitting cross-legged in her throne, tapping her chin. “But Death knew something was missing from her experience, something she’d had once before: companionship.”

Death was shown leaving her castle to go and gather the broken bits of her eggshell, and took them into her palace, before splitting one shell chunk in two and twisting the two into eggs. Green light gathered in each of her palms and flowed into the shells. “Mother made my eldest siblings, who would go on to name themselves Entropy and Peace. Unlike with her own experience with being guided into each new life, mother decided her first children would have a less lonely experience.” Blue light flowed from one egg and golden to the other and back, with the guiding hand of Death.

“Peace and Entropy would know each other in a way few still living gods do, for they were each other at times. And when they emerged, they gazed upon Death’s palace and kingdom with wonder, and they were a happy family.” Blue and Gold silhouettes hatched from their eggs, both donning violet. The three laughed and hugged and danced, crafting and playing. “And Death, and the Realms, decided to create again, and this time they would act together. And this time,” Ghostwriter said with a chill in his voice and his drink boiling, “the Realms would act on their fascination with balance.”

A violet light appeared as Death molded an egg all her own, and it pulsed and dripped with what felt to be oddly malicious. Entropy and Peace went about exploring their mother’s world while this happened and even took a few discarded shells to craft a universe of their own. Death and her children soon went about covering the table in art and Realms, along with Realms simply spawning from nowhere. The dark purple egg hatched, and the other universes shook.

“What if I told you that the force that brought Existence into Being made mistakes? What if I told you that gods can die?” Ghostwriter gestured to seven eggs orbiting each other, bands of light flitting between them all. “The third child of Death called himself War, and he was the first to disrupt things and give Peace a job to do.” War walked over and flicked the bands of light between two of the eggs, forcing the soul out into the Infinite Realms early, and it grew into a small green being. Peace flew over, and gently nudged the being back toward its egg, but not before drawing from within a blade and cutting through the tiny being. It returned to a ball shape and flowed back in.

“Ghosts of the dead, as you might call them, are souls set adrift from the path between lives, and Peace made it his job to take them back where they go. Sometimes War did this many times at once, and I, curious, asked Peace to allow a few to stay. After all, they were going to end up here again anyway, weren’t they? And so, we tried that, and due to the boundlessness and chaotic nature of the Realms these ghosts found themselves evolving and mutating over time, some of them fulfilling a passion from their previous life and finding their way back home into the next life, while others stayed here and grew and grew and even figured out a way to reproduce - sexually and not. Those ghosts born in the Realms from the dead we call Deathless because they never died.”

“So you’re the reason we have ghosts and stuff?” Sam frowned at the Ghostwriter and the story unfolding before their eyes froze. “Because you wanted to see what’d happen?”

“The name I first took was Curiosity, my dear, and actually I was the first ghost, made rather curious for a reason. It was something new. If I may?”

“Sorry.” The writer waved it off and the story continued.

“Peace forged a sword within himself that he used to set free souls that had gone too long outside of their shells, their minds dissolving under the pressure of an eternity they weren’t mature enough for yet. Many of the elder Deathless he granted such Peace granting tools, and so when a ghost went mad with age they were cut down and their soul returned to their egg. But if that were the last of War’s troublesome and destructive actions, this tale would have a happier ending.”

The violet War wrapped himself in black and red and forged within himself a ring and from that ring beat drums and played bagpipes and ripped chords that called out to something burning hot inside of Danny that had his chocolate evaporating out of his cup. “A god or a ghost can craft from themselves an artifact of power that embodies their very self, their greatest passion. Peace acted as a knight to Queen Death, while Entropy became the watcher over things, and War… War crafted his own place, a fortress beyond our immediate sight, and started taking ghosts there.”

War took the tiny green ghosts far from the others and brandished his ring at them, and from it a sickly purple light seeped out and infected the ghosts, turning them a toxic looking blend of green and purple. Danny shivered, and Sam set down her coffee, looking pale and furious. “Before we knew what he was doing, we thought of War simply as seeking conflict, as his name implied. But war, oh war is not just violence, it is imperialism, it is slaughter, it is conquest it is a͜ h҉un̵g̸er̶ ̸th҉at ca̴nnot be sat̶ed ųnt͜i̷l ͜all͢ i͏s͝ c̸o̡ns͢umęd ̕an͏d̴ ̕li̷k͝e͞l̢y̕ ev͜en͢ ͟not t҉he̛n.” The sickly purple and red light spread further and further, seeping into the ground and choking the air.

“When the dead forge artifacts that outlast them, they make them from the ectoplasm of the Realms and have them resonate with that ghost’s soul, thus allowing any Dead, Deathless, or even a living mortal with the same soul or at least born of the same soul as the ghost who made it to use it. When one of us does it though, well, we’ve got a universe worth of energy to work with, replenished by the Realms, so we reach inside and forge our relic from our own soul, and a bit of ectoplasm. Queen Death made her crown of Fire as a light to keep back the darkness, and to assist her in managing the ebb and flow of souls across the cosmos.”

The palace courtroom came into view and violet War marched forth toward his mother, his purple and red, and black ring pulsing with the beat of wrath. “As her Majesty Queen Death put to work her latest project of making systems out of Realms that would regulate themselves, her third eldest child marched into her throne room with a ring made from the collective heat and metals of stars within him, his malice, his corruptive hunger that would take and steal and conquer, and he stole from her what was her own, the Crown of Fire that lit the darkness of the Infinite Realms, and with a sword stolen from a Peacemaker he earned his most hatefully spat title, the Filthy Mother Killer.“ The kaleidoscopic crown atop Death’s head turned sickly and purple-green. A sword the color of bone pierced Death’s center and the whole Sanctuary shook with a screech.

“Peace ran to mother's palace to ask what had happened, for all the Realms felt it when Death died, and oh, how realization crashed down upon that which could call itself the Realms themself, and oh how it wept and oh how it raged, as the sword that would cut free the souls lost and tangled in obsession too deeply to pass onto their next lives alone and gave the infant Realms peaceful deaths was used to reach into Peace itself and oh how the Realms wailed with fury as the Fright Knight was forced into being under the service of the Usurper, and struck even his sibling Entropy, now Clockwork, giving them their famed scar.” Gold was encased in bone white armor and it’s violet cloak ignited. They struck blue Entropy and soon the gods all over clashed, and the tabletop was swallowed by a rainbow of violence and dripped with emerald blood.

“And so, the Corrupter of Worlds threw the Realms into the most horrific war, beyond mortal comprehension, as the gods grieved and raged and fought with all they had, but could barely scratch their elder brothers. Until finally, finally, Clockwork sealed Fright Knight away in the nightmares his sword now caused. And finally, Entropy itself rallied their brothers and sisters and we sealed away the vile Mother Killer in the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.” Ghostwriter banished the images, his eyes burning amethyst and crimson and he took deep breaths, while the teens leaned back, wary and filled with their own impotent rage.

When finally he seemed to calm, the Sanctuary not writhing and rumbling with the force of his rage, he did a little gesture and the mist coalesced once more into a little stage. A foundation of stone formed and over it lay an ocean and from within it grew a tree of bark and steel, surrounded by breezes likely large enough to dwarf Jupiter’s red spot, mold growing at the bottom of the tree while a star roared to life above it. “Though War was locked away, the Realms did not know rest. So they set to work putting together their daughter's last project: a planar system. And ages beyond time passed, until one day, every god and spirit woke to the sound of a scream. And that, my dear Bridge Spirit, is where I believe your story begins.”

Danny sat there, turning over the story that he’d just been told in his head, and tried his best to process it. He wasn’t sure how to do that, though, with the enormity of it all. So, Tucker cut in for him, like always, but with a rap. “Yo, Danny Fenton, he was just 14-“

“Ai dios- stop!” Danny snorted a laugh and shoved Tucker’s face, and the trio descended into a fit of giggles. “Alright, my story isn’t as much as yours is, but, well.” And so, taking turns picking up where the others didn’t know, they told their story to the Ghostwriter. They could process the meaning of life later.

#Danny Phantom #Danny Fenton #Tucker Foley #Sam Manson #The Ghostwriter #Clockwork mention #Pariah Dark Mention #Fright Knight mention #Lore #Lore dumping #Rexy Writes #fanfiction #Phanfiction #phanfic #fanfic #fanphiction #fanphic #phanphic #phanphiction

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headcrabs-the-forbidden-hat · 5 years ago

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A Deal With The Devil |G-Man/Gender-Neutral!Reader|

pairing: g-man (half life) x gender-neutral!reader

(I tried to keep it gender-neutral, but you might get the occasional female pronouns; what can I say? I don’t edit my shit)

words: 2,661

warnings: unedited, mild cursing

summary: [y/n], after not having a good day, encounters a strange non-human man, but they aren’t as afraid as they are annoyed with him.

notes: wanted to jump into the g-man x reader bandwagon, and this idea has been plauging me since. enjoy!

During the nights when they can't sleep, [y/n] sits out on the rooftops and stares at the star-splattered sky. For every star their eyes isolate in the navy sky, they give it a name. Sometimes they give the stars names like Glados and Wheatley. Other times, the names the stars get are words, some unique like ethereal or onism. Most of the time, however, the names are just words depending on their mood.

And what a shitty mood they're in tonight.

Their eyes land on one star near the center of the sky. It's smaller than the surrounding stars, thus giving itself the name Inferior.

Bang!

Jumping in surprise, their eyes snap to the dark streets below. They see nothing—probably was an animal, they think in an attempt to calm their pounding heart—but they move away from the edge just in case. After having a terrible day, adding yet another incident with the Combine is not high on their "most wanted in life" list right now.

Their eyes move back to the white glowing dots in the sky, eyes searching until they stop on another star. This one is dim compared to the others; Unremarkable is the first word to come to mind. Pleased with the name, your eyes search the sky again. The mysterious banging forgotten—

Crash!

Okay, sounds like someone's breaking into a window. [y/n], despite her caution, moves to the edge of the rooftop. The breaking glass sounds close, but what if it's just an echo? Swallowing the rising fear in their throat, they back away from the edge. They make sure to grab their pistol as another "just in case" moment. Just in case someone breaks into shelter while they sleep.

The day was bad enough already, comes the thought, this might as well happen.

Just as they are about to climb down through the hole in the roof, a flash of blue catches their eye. They freeze, heart lurching to their throat. Then they turn around, eyes darting from each dark corner on the roof. Is someone here? they want to ask, which is stupid all on its own.

They stand there, frozen, as they continue to scour their rooftop and the other rooftops. Did Combine wear blue? No, they didn’t—they don’t have a stylish bone in their bodies. And all the commotion from earlier meant human, or a zombie, was doing something.

But headcrab zombies aren’t blue, and they aren’t fast. And what would a human want with this place, anyway, in Combine Central?

They turn and stare down into the hole, and there it is again—the flash of blue. Well, not a flash, but they can see the blue. They squint their eyes, noticing half the outline of a shoulder with a pale hand holding . . . a briefcase?

Something about the sight seems . . . wrong. Why?

They aim the pistol down, close enough to scare the person away if they pulled the trigger. “Who’s down there?” They ask, voice echoing throughout the abandoned building.

They hear a faint moan from a zombie in the building over, but no response from the person. “Get out of there before I shoot you,” they warn. Still no response.

Then the person moved further into the darkness, shoulder and briefcase disappearing.

[y/n] curses and inches closer to the edge. They knock back the hammer and stare into the gaping, black void of the crumbling building. Not seeing anything, not even a dark silhouette, they inch closer. The wood creaks, breaking the tense silence like a jackhammer against concrete. [y/n] holds their breath, praying the flooring keeps.

It breaks beneath their weight.

With a scream stuck in their throat, they can’t even think to brace for impact. The wind whips at their face and their eyes water at the intensity. They curl themselves into a fetal position and move their arms to cover their face. Nothing but darkness as they fall down, down . . . down . . . down.

Halting in the middle of a dark void, [y/n] stares agape at the dots moving past them. As if they were in a spaceship and turned on hyperdrive, though in slow motion. They uncurled from themselves. Their feet touch invisible ground and they straighten their spine. They spin around in bewilderment. Is this Heaven or what?

Their eyes move from the passing specs of white and stare straight ahead, unable to wrap their mind around this . . . predicament. If they could even call it such a thing—they could be dead and now wait to face judgement.

Well then.

Then they notice two unmoving specs. They don’t dare step closer, unsure if the scene will vanish before their eyes again. They stare right into the white specs, unaware of them moving closer until a wrinkled face pops out into the light from an invisible light source.

The bright white eyes dim into a human blue. The creature before them—that’s not human, it’s not human! her panicked thoughts blare—contorts its human face into a smug smile. Without breaking eye contact, [y/n] notices the blue suit the man-creature wears, though his briefcase is missing. They know, without a doubt, this thing was trying to get her attention earlier.

Why was he trying to get me to follow him?

They raise their hand in an attempt to aim their pistol at them, but they lost the gun. Lost somewhere in this . . . void. Damn, it was my only one, too.

Too unnerved to feel an ounce of hot embarrassment, [y/n] steadies their voice as they demand, “Who—what are you?”

“There are things far more important matters to discuss than who—or what—I am,” he says in this voice [y/n] can only describe as Twilight Zone-esque. Not too deep, not too light, but in between, with the odd emphasis on an occasional word.

Though they’d never admit it in her wildest dreams, they found his voice enchanting. And I know I’m dead because of that thought.

They keep their wary gaze on the man as he makes his way closer in a leisure, almost predatory pace. Holy Hell, he’s a giant. [y/n] cranes their neck to keep the unbreakable eye contact, heart pounding in their chest from the proximity.

“Please tell me what’s important so I don’t stray from serious matters,” they ask in a mocking, deadpan tone.

Before they can turn around, the man disappears. They frown, annoyance beginning to overtake their fear. If there’s one thing [y/n] hated more than the Combine, it was when people played cat-and-mouse games, or left them in suspense.

[y/n] does a full spin to catch the sight of his blue suit, but no luck. The moving dots mess with their head, giving them vertigo. They stumble back into something cold and immovable. A wall? But as they spin on their heel, the tall man stares down at them with glowing white eyes.

To show they’re not intimidated with his overall appearance and abilities, [y/n] sizes him up. They cannot stop the inappropriate thoughts springing in their mind.

God Almighty, human or not, I’d flock to him like flies to honey—and I’m definitely going to Hell for that thought.

“You impress my employers, [y/n] [l/n].” Hearing those odd words, they raise an eyebrow. The man continues. “However, I am not quite as impressed.”

Their eyes narrow. “I didn’t realize I was working for your approval.”

The man gives them an odd look, one that makes the hairs on their neck and arms stand in a—dare they admit it—a good way. He then claps his hands behind his back and circles around her in his predatory walk. “I’ve observed your behavior through various situations. Compared to others I’ve worked with, you are inferior. Your work is mediocre, and overall, unremarkable.”

“Tell me how you really feel, and please, don’t hold back.”

The man chuckles; [y/n] hates the tiny flutter in their chest as they hear it. “Not to mention your lackluster humor,” he adds to his ever-growing list of their wrongs.

They open their mouth to say their defense, but he turns around. The words falter on their tongue as a more sincere grin graces his wrinkled features. “But what if we could do better?”

All [y/n] manages out is a faint, “We?”

“You see, [y/n], my employers call on me to . . . nudge things from time to time, to get them moving towards a prospective future,” he says, stopping to face them. “And you are one of those things.”

They think his words over, but there’s a small voice in the back of their mind telling them no. They shake their head and say, “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

The man smirks as if he expected their response. His reaction irked, if not excited them. “What if I told you I can give you something you never thought you wanted before?”

“Then I’d tell you you’re full of shit,” comes their mindless answer.

He gives them a small, amused smile. Then a sudden white flash blinded [y/n]. Protecting their eyes, they cover their face with their arm and grit their teeth. The blinding light dims, then disappears. They remove their arm from their face, blinking through the black dots clotting their vision.

The man replaced the slow-moving black void with the environment of a small garage. Their eyes move across the workbench, cluttered with various tools and devices they don’t recognize, and to the shelves filled with the other unfamiliar gadgets.

Then the door of the garage opens, and [y/n]’s eyes snap to the spot. They suck the air through their teeth in a silent gasp as their eyes land on themselves. Well, their future selves. [y/n] takes in their future and decides they don’t like what they see.

Their future self is not . . . okay. Worse off than they are now. Skin as pale as the dead bodies littering the streets, protruding bones to give an ill appearance. And those eyes. There’s something about those eyes that are . . . of kilter, not right. Like someone tried to remake a replica of [y/n] but messed up somewhere in the process, giving a non-human look.

Much like the man next to them when he disappears in the darkness and his eyes glow.

“I look . . . pretty much the same,” they lie—it seems like the right thing to do, not only for the man but for themselves.

Don’t let him know you see the cracks through this manipulation . . . whatever it is.

They watch the future them head over to the workbench. They pick up a hammer, and without paying attention, hit at their finger. Cursing, they toss the hammer to the corner and then stick their smarting fingers into their mouth in attempt to ease the throbbing pain.

“And I pretty much act the same,” they add to their ever growing list of faults, frowning.

They turn and face the man. “I thought you were showing me the thing I never thought I wanted.” They say with a scowl, “Well? I’m waiting.”

His smug smile returns as he comments, “An impatient little thing, aren’t you?”

[y/n] snaps their face around so the man doesn’t see the blush creeping up their face.

They continue watching themselves. Their future self walks away from the workbench with a similar scowl and towards a blank wall. Tilting their head, they watch as their future self flicks their wrist towards the wall. A black, liquid-looking circle appears out of nowhere, widening enough for their future self to fit inside without having to slouch.

A portal, a goddamn portal!

Without thinking, you run towards your future self. They don’t notice their past self. It’s a vision. Good, comes the strange thought, I can handle all this, but meeting myself is not high on my list. Standing as close as they can get to the portal, they peer inside the yawning circle but see nothing. Their future self passes through them as if they were a ghost—which, technically, they were —and disappears into the portal. A second after, the portal disappears with them.

[y/n] pulls away and stares right at the man, who already watches her with a curious expression. Like a scientist watching an experiment he could not predict yet. They clear any expression they have on their face, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to be an open book when making a deal with the devil. If there is any deal.

But on a minor note, Hell yeah, I want powers.

“So, you said your employers call you to nudge things to an ideal future. What exactly do I have to do with this future?” They ask, inching closer to the mysterious man.

He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he holds out his briefcase. “All will be explained in due time, once you take this.”

Something—a small voice in the back of their mind—tells them not to take it. Deal with the devil, remember? Nothing good comes out of that. They stare at the briefcase, biting the inside of their cheek hard enough to taste metallic blood. They reach out to take it, ignoring the leering look of the man looming before them.

But then they stop and drop their hand to their side.

They shake their head as they think of their future self’s appearance. Completely the same, but not quite, erring on the side of a conscious zombie. A puppet for this creature and his “employers”, which all but means masters. [y/n] hates zombies not because they’re flat-out terrifying or annoying to deal with, but because they’re zombies. No free-will, not anymore.

And if there’s one thing [y/n] craves more in the world than anything, it’s free-will and the freedom to do whatever they want with it. Authority and slavery can go fuck itself.

“No,” they tell the man, looking up into his wide eyes, “I’m not taking your briefcase. Take me back home.”

Within a blink of an eye, the briefcase disappears and the man takes [y/n]’s face in his cold hands. He bends his back to get as close to their face as he can. “You’re a fool if you haven’t thought this through,” he says in a low growl.

Though he lost his calm, collected composure, and his growl was terrifying, [y/n] is more shocked by the tingling feeling in their chest than anything else. They grab a hold of his wrists and in attempt to keep his hands from squishing their head.

“I may be inferior, unremarkable, and mediocre. Even downright lackluster,” they spit out, then grin as they say, “but mama hasn’t raised a fool.” They pull his hands away from their face and demand, “Take me back home. Now.”

The blinding white light flashes with a vengeance. They cover their face with their arm and wait until the light vanishes.

When they remove their arms, they see they’re back in the building they call a shelter. They turn around and take everything in. Never in their wildest dreams did they think it would be a blessing to be back here, among the rubble and garbage. Then they turn to the area where they’ve made a little makeshift workbench and grins.

They walk over and pick up a small screwdriver fit for electronics. They smack the handle against their palm as they think of their game plan. Make a portal machine, then perfect it into a simple device, like gloves or a gun. Shouldn’t be hard, not with all these aliens and their machines hanging around on Earth.

Before they set down and get to work, they spot a flash of blue in the corner of their eye. They angle their head towards the rooftop and see the man stare down at them. His face is unreadable. They wave to him, and he disappears without a wave bank.

[y/n] smirks. We’ll see who’s a fool, won’t we?

#half life #half life: alyx #hl:a #hla #half life alyx #gman #g-man #gman x reader #drabble if you can even call it that lol #creative intake #no i don't take criticism #lol #please be gentle

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violetsmoak · 6 years ago

Text

no safety or surprise [2/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035168/chapters/42616919

( See First Chapter for full Disclaimers & Warnings)

Summary: A haunting broadcast reveals the Joker’s final act and sets off a chain of events that will destroy the world. Terry finds himself collaborating once more with the estranged members of Bruce’s former team. As the end nears, however, he and the other Bats are faced with hard choices about survival—and forgiveness.

Rating: T (may change depending on the amount of graphic/details I decide on)

________________________________________________________________

chapter two: laughter is the best medicine

Neo-Gotham, Friday, June 13 2042 9:10 AM

GRAYSON

The laughter hasn’t stopped.

Even as the television whites out, it continues to vibrate through him. Pain slashes across Dick’s hand, hot coffee, and blood from the crushed ug in his hand. The pieces fall to lie, forgotten, on the counter and floor.

Dimly, he shakes the injured appendage, not judging it worth immediate treatment, and creeps closer to the windows of his apartment. The laughter continues to get louder, echoing up from the streets, bouncing off the glass and bricks of the skyscrapers, and mixing with the sound of explosions and people screaming.

From his vantage point, he watches cars veer off-course and masses of pedestrians on the street altering their everyday routes to suddenly teem in every other direction. They crowd together in a frenzy of indescribable movement; there are explosions and more screams, but somehow, it’s all muted by the persistent presence of the laughter, which isn’t just inside anymore.

Whirling around, Dick recoils as Black appears in the hallway, completely nude. She lurches forward, the movement a parody of her usual slinking gait, but Dick’s attention is on her face. It’s pulled into a grin that causes obvious pain, judging by the tears dripping trails of smoky mascara down her cheeks. Her pupils are wide and sightless, and the disturbing giggles rasp like they are being torn from her throat.

“Well, this isn’t good,” he mutters, edging away from the window and automatically looking for a spot in his apartment that has the most maneuvering space.

The minute he moves, Black lunges forward, splitting herself into nine cackling doppelgangers that consume the remaining space of his apartment.

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

9:15 AM

Tim rocks back and forth, stomach clenched with dread and nausea that threatens to send bile spilling up his throat.

‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.’

He stumbles from the kitchen, needing air, needing to escape—

His laptop lies on the floor, a mass of smoking screen and wire, while outside the television is blaring again.

Except no one’s talking.

It’s just the laughter; the blue, humanoid shape has morphed, the identity filter warbled and stretched over a grin that isn’t human.

‘And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.’

His knees buckle, hands clapped to his ears to drown out the echoing memory of Harley Quinn’s mocking singsong. He’s already folding forward in a reflexive fetal position, waiting for the crackle of electricity or the shock of cold water in his face.

He needs to get out, he needs distance, needs a shield—

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Replacement?

Tim startles, hearing a sneer in his mind just as loud—louder than—the other voice. He can almost imagine him standing in front of him—the ancient Robin suit torn and bloody, morphing into the Kevlar armor, red helmet beneath his arm.

The image of white-streaked hair and challenging smirk is the bastion against the monsters in his head.

Tim has never questioned why his mind’s defenses against the pull of insanity took the form of Jason Todd. It makes a certain, lopsided amount of sense—they were both victims of the Joker, both ruined by him,

The Robin who died, and the Robin that went insane.

To this day, Tim couldn’t say which was which.

Are you seriously going to let him get to you again ? The fucker’s dead.

“No,” Tim says out loud, taking a trembling breath and forcing himself to stand straight. He has to keep his head, has to get his wife to safety, has to figure out how all this happened—

“Arlie,” he remembers, though it comes out more like a croak. “Arlie, we have to—”

As he turns, he catches a flash of movement in his periphery, and his long-buried reflexes kick in, allowing him to narrowly dodge the butchers' knife being lobbed at his head. It shatters a red vase of flowers in the living room.

His wife stumbles toward him from the kitchen—when did she come downstairs? —her face twisted into a replica of the one that has haunted Tim’s dreams for decades.

________________________________________________________________

GORDON

9: 15 AM

It’s not just her work computer, but the screen of her cell and tablet as well.

Every screen that she can see—each one she can hear from beyond the thin walls of her office—has been commandeered by the Joker’s likeness.

The video might have paralyzed others with inactivity, but Barbara immediately throws herself into action. Puzzling this out means ignoring that horrible voice, not getting sucked down into a morass of memory and pain.

“Williams! Fillmore! You’d better be ready to trace this thing!” she snaps over the intercom and starts typing commands into her computer, trying to wrest back control of it from whatever has taken over her system.

She might not have been Oracle for decades now, but it’s like riding a bike.

“And get a quad out on the street, now! I don’t want chaos in the streets!”

Especially not after the last Joker-related attack.

She regains control of her system halfway through the video and has started tracking IP addresses even as the clown’s hair-raising cackle and tinny music fade away. On another screen, she pulls up every file that exists on the Joker, his pretenders, the gangs, known snitches—

She will not allow this city to fall into chaos because of a damn video.

Except, maybe she won’t have time to worry about the chaos outside, because it hits her suddenly that the laughing hasn’t stopped. Only now, it’s coming from right outside her office and not from her devices.

Narrowing her eyes, Barbara has her service weapon in hand and the other hovering over her belt where she secretly keeps a Batarang (just in case). She’s barely n her feet when the door to her office opens and there’s one of her lieutenants, shoulders shaking and teeth bared in a pained grin.

She can’t fight the momentary sliver of terror that ripples up her back—

Gunshot. Spilled tea. Falling, falling back. Glass table shattering. Dad crying out—pain. So much pain.

—before returning to herself.

The man in front of her now, his eyes are vacant but there’s enough intelligence remaining that he’s able to raise his own gun at her and disengage the safety.

“Davis,” she says slowly, a warning and a plea despite knowing it’s futile at this point. She doesn’t want to have to shoot him. He has a wife and three kids. They attended his commendation ceremony, the youngest daughter wants to be a cop— “Davis, put the gun dow—!”

BANG!

________________________________________________________________

WAYNE

9:15 AM

There will always be a part of Bruce Wayne that freezes to the core when he hears that voice.

Instantaneous reactions have always been a trademark of Batman, drilled into him by years of training at the hands of assassins and thieves alike. But when it comes to the Joker, there is always that fraction of a second that gives way to hesitation—something born of fear or disbelief, he doesn’t know—before he throws himself into action. Before his brain registers the immediacy of a threat.

Maybe that’s why the maniac got away. Maybe that half-second was all he needed to dictate the entire course of their encounters; his defeats included. The clown always had the same ability to predict several moves ahead, more so than Bruce; sometimes he wondered if the Joker wasn’t a little bit precognitive.

That won’t happen now—that shouldn’t happen now—because the Joker is dead.

Batman buried him.

He destroyed the chip linking him to Tim, he ensured that no one would ever hear that high-pitched, pitiless cackle ever again.

And yet, here it is, filling the underground caverns and startling the roosted bats into a shrieking frenzy as the video feed goes blank.

Bruce starts toward the computer, half-a-dozen plans of action coming together in his head, to trace and deal with whatever this threat is—whoever this pretender is. Before he can reach the command station, however, his field of vision goes brown.

Hundreds of the tiny, flying creatures surround him, screaming; their tiny claws slicing the exposed skin of his hands and face.

He stumbles, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow, while his hand digs into his pocket; it’s difficult with the tiny creatures clinging to him, clinging to wrist and fingers and sinking their teeth into him in distinctly non-bat behavior.

Fingers catching on his prize, he takes a deep breath and then depresses the button on the quarter-sized device.

The nerve agent is meant to disorient an opponent or, depending on body weight, knock them out for the few seconds needed to subdue them. For the tiny creatures attacking him, it will render them unconscious for a lot longer.

They drop and tumble around him in a circle, and when he can’t feel anymore slashing at him, he carefully navigates through the tiny bodies and out of the area affected by the nerve agent. Only then does he allow himself to take a breath, considering the strewn bodies around him in concern; they are still alive, but he doesn’t know exactly how the chemicals will affect them.

It makes no sense. The bats in here never attack, not unless he engages the subsonic alarms, which he hasn’t had to do in decades.

Bruce doesn’t believe in coincidences and knows that somehow, there’s a connection between the video and the bats. He just doesn’t know—

There’s a gasping, snorting sound behind him.

He realizes it was hidden by the shrieking of the bats before, but now it’s clearly discernible.

Turning around, he stares in horror as Ace, staggers forward on shaking legs, mouth-frothing and ears pulled back against his head. The dog’s lips are pulled up high over sharp canines in a grin that should not be possible on an animal.

“Ace,” Bruce croaks.

The beast huffs, the sound a painful, morbid facsimile of a human laugh, and then snarls, throwing itself bodily at Bruce.

________________________________________________________________

MCGINNIS

9:15 AM

It’s not the Joker, Terry tells himself, teeth clenched and hand already fumbling around his phone to call Bruce. It can’t be him. It’s just a copy-cat.

But the laugh…he will never forget that sound in his whole life. And that’s real.

“Mom, I have to—” he begins, only to choke when he watches his mother collapse. “Mom!”

He hurries to her side just as seems to go into some kind of seizure.

“Matt, call an ambulance!” Terry snaps, tossing his phone in the vicinity of his brother’s blanket-wrapped body. He is on his knees then, carefully turning his mother onto her side while she shakes and curls into herself.

There’s a gasping, wheezing sound from behind him, but he can’t pay attention to it, too busy trying to keep his mother from clawing at her face. Her skin begins to drain of color as if all the blood in her body has disappeared, and he finds himself seeking some kind of wound that might explain it.

Then his eyes land on her face, and his stomach clenches.

Mom’s eyes have gone blank, her face twitching violently as if there’s an electric current running through it. Her lips part over her teeth, mouth lifting at the corners until the muscles strain to an unnatural degree. Her lips have gone violently red, and her breathing changes from gasping to a stunted, wheezing rattle.

And then there’s laughter.

It echoes behind him and Terry jerks his head to one side, watching in horror as his little brother shuffles from the couch, giggling madly with an identical smile on his face.

Joker toxin, he realizes before something smacks into his face and he tumbles back on his heels.

Mom’s hand trembles—broken thumb, she hit with a closed fist—but she still crawls toward him with an insane gleam in her eye.

She is laughing, and Matt is laughing and—

Then Terry feels hands around his throat, as tiny but strong fingers curl into his throat, cutting off his air supply.

________________________________________________________________

WAYNE

9:17 AM

Bruce has a fleeting impression of teeth and bared claws before the giant body comes down hard on his. It’s only the reflex of a lifetime of brawls with larger, stronger opponents that saves him. He jabs outward with knees as he falls, curving to hit against the backside and shoulders while kicking up into the ribs of the animal. Bruce then thrusts the triangle between his thumb and forefinger into the dog’s throat as he boosts Ace over his head.

There’s a pained whine as the dog hits the ground, but he’s not unconscious, already struggling to his paws with the grace of a sleepwalker and determination of a piranha.

He’s just going to keep coming.

Bruce’s body screams in protest—muscles he hasn’t used in far too long, the incision from the transplant stretching—and he feels dizzy. But he forces himself to focus.

First the bats. Then Ace. Something that just affects animals?

It would certainly cause chaos, which the Joker was always trying for. But this particular trick has been done before.

The clown never revisited his jokes.

And the way Ace’s features are twisted, eyes white and sightless. When Bruce squints at the downed bats, sees that they seem paler, their faces also bent against their natural shape.

Joker toxin. It has to be.

Except, there was no delivery method and it’s not affecting Bruce. Maybe it is just animals.

He hurries toward the lab as quick as his body allows, depressing the panel in the cabinet that keeps his stock of antitoxin safe. Thumbs past vials until he has the right one, and fits it into the modified tranquilizer gun,

By the harsh panting behind him, he knows the dog is bearing down on him once again,

Calculations tear through his sluggish brain, dosages and body weight and differences between human and canine anatomy—

Ace leaps again, snapping at Bruce’s neck, and he fires, aiming for the cluster of muscles closest to the dog’s heart. He doesn’t see if it connects, forced to throw up a fist to protect his throat.

Teeth shred his hand, sending sharp lances of pain through him, but he keeps his arm up, aiming a nerve strike near the solar plexus and kidneys.

The dog continues snorting and snapping at him for longer than he’d like, before going limp.

Bruce struggles out from beneath Ace’s weight, sparing a moment to check breathing and pulse rate and then arrange the dog into a recovery position on its right side. Then he staggers to the comms, grabbing a roll of bandages on his way.

“Terry!” he barks as he wraps his shredded hand to staunch the bleeding; he’ll need to stitch it, and soon—the blood thinners he takes won’t allow it to stop on its own.

Once at the computer, he brings up CCTV footage and any voice recordings from the last ten minutes; at the same time, he repeats, “Terry!”

________________________________________________________________

MCGINNIS

9:17 AM

Terry hears the comms in the cowl go off, but it’s too far away, stuffed into his schoolbag. That, and he’s a little busy dodging his mother’s wild attempts to claw his eyes out while shaking his brother off without harming him.

Their laughter is loud and pained in his ears.

Straining, he finally manages to flip Matt onto the couch while dodging his mother’s grasping hand. He vaults across the room to his bag, digging desperately through it until his fingers close on the utility belt.

He has more than enough sedatives there to put them down. At the last second, however, he pauses, because they aren’t infected with just anything—it’s Joker toxin. Who knows what complications adding unknown sedatives could have on that.

So instead, he gabs the tiny vials he’s been carrying with him since the encounter with Tim Drake’s insane alter ego.

It’s a careful dance of evasion and trying not to break bones, avoiding his mother—and Matt, who even as some kind of mindless Joker automaton has an innate ability to evade Terry’s grasp. Eventually, he manages it and then he’s panting on the floor, mother and brother unconscious heaps beside him.

Heart still beating anxiously, he watches as their faces ease back to normal, free of the sinister rictus.

He’s already shrugging out of his coat as he reaches for the costume.

Looks like test or not, school’s not happening today.

The cowl is on now and his comm frizzes to life.

“—rry?”

“Bruce, what’s going on?” he demands. “Mom and Matt just went nuts. And their faces—it looks and acts like Joker toxin, but—”

“I know,” Bruce interrupts. “There’s no origin, no delivery system.”

“Exactly.”

Terry uses the magnification option in his mask to check his family. “If it’s not airborne, there should be injection points, but I don’t see any.” He does a sweep of the room. “There’s no vents or grates where it could have come in. Air filter's not picking up anything, either.”

“As near as I can tell, there won’t be. This is something new.”

“The word ‘new’ should never be used with the Joker.”

“Hm.”

“So why aren’t I affected?”

“I guess the dermal implant is doing its job.”

“Good thing,” Terry says, swallowing at the idea of what he might have done if hopped up on that chemical. “So, where’s it coming from?”

He grabs a pen and paper from his mother’s desk and jots down a note.

“That’s what we have to figure out. In the meantime, the goods news is the usual anti-venom appears to be working. It’s just a matter of mass-producing and getting out there.”

You guys fainted from the bug going around. Got a medical alert from Mr. Wayne, had to go check on him. Don’t leave the house!

He underlines that last bit and circles it several times before signing his name.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he tells them, and heads for the window, tapping his comm again. “So, what’s the ‘but’? Because with you there’s always a ‘but’.”

“But it’s not just Gotham,” Bruce says, grim. “I’m looking at CCTV feeds from Tokyo, London, New York—it’s everywhere. Satellite imaging’s showing even more conclusive data: the entire planet’s been exposed to this.”

Terry doesn’t even get a chance to swear when a new voice interjects, “And the longer you’re exposed to it, the longer it takes to recover.”

________________________________________________________________

GRAYSON

9:17 AM

Dick grunts as he evades and dances out of the way of Catwoman’s doppelgangers.

“If you even do,” he adds on an exhale as one of them lands a hard blow to his chest.

There are twin intakes of breath across the line.

“Mr. Grayson?” the McGinnis kid asks, sounding choked. Dick doubts it’s about him. He caught the bit about being attacked by his family, and he knows from experience what it is to have to subdue loved ones.

“You’d think after all this time you’d eventually switch frequencies, B.”

“Nightwing,” the old man grunts, voice as inexpressive as ever. “Seems like you used the tech I sent you after all.”

“Only after I made sure you didn’t include any nano-surveillance devices.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dick rolls his eyes.

“Well, it’s working for me, but not for—” Something sharp slices across his chest, sending him flying backward. One of the doppelgänger’s grab hold of him and flips him over with the intention of sending him through the window and a fall several stories down. He recovers in midair, lands on his hands and tosses himself away from the bodies. “Hold that thought.”

He tries to find the original Black, the one who laughs and gasps for breath a millisecond before her doppelgängers. The sound is grating in his ear, echoed everywhere and drifting up from the city center below, in the apartments around him—

“Is there someone there with you?” Bruce wants to know.

“No, I’m alone in my apartment beating myself up,” Dick snaps.

“Who am I to judge what you do for fun?”

“Regular anti-toxin works on whatever this is,” McGinnis repeats like he’s trying to be helpful.

“Well, I don’t exactly carry that around,” Dick mutters, though he knows it’s in the background. Getting there will be a pain in the ass, and fighting in such close quarters with so many opponents, even if it’s technically only one…

It takes several unsuccessful feints and a few sucker-punches before he can grab hold of the original Black, holding her throat in the crook of his elbow while enduring her clones’ attempts to take chunks out of his kin.

Bruce and McGinnis are saying something—to him, to each other, he’s not sure. He blocks them out for now.

Walking backward, he keeps close to the walls of the hallway leading to the bathroom, ignoring the way Black struggles and claws against him before finally going limp.

Immediately, the doppelgängers vanish, but he knows he doesn’t have long. He practically smashes the bathroom mirror going for the anti-toxin, fits it into an injector and jams it into her thigh.

He lets her fall to the floor in an ungraceful heap, panting as he examines the bloody welts on his chest and arms.

“Wrestling with you was a lot more fun last time,” he informs the unconscious woman, before returning to his bedroom and opening the secret space in the closet behind his clothing.

His spare suit is there, and he scowls at it.

“You said this was all over the planet,” he says into the comm as he reaches for the material. “If that’s the case, we’re going to have every living thing ripping itself to pieces within the next few hours.”

“Frag,” McGinnis mutters. “I need to find Dana and Max before something happens to them.”

Predictably, Bruce says, “They’re not priority right now.”

“They’re priority for me, alright?”

“Flexible as ever, aren’t you old man?” Dick mocks.

“We have to focus our energy on reversing whatever happened,” Bruce retorts, unapologetic.

“Yeah, well, we look to our own first, Bats, or there’s no hope of fixing anything.” His tone turns sharp. “And you’d better hope Tim’s okay.”

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

9:17 AM

Tim is not okay.

He is so far from okay, he thinks he might have lost feeling in his extremities. Which is problematic, since he’s trying to fight off both a panic attack and the wild swings of his wife.

She staring down at him with that horrid grin, gripping another huge kitchen knife in hand.

Tim’s chest feels close, and he wants to throw up, but he also knows he has to help Arlene. And to do that, he needs to calm down and think logically.

There was no gas anywhere, no traps. Joker liked the kind of traps that were showy and made noise.

But there’s no weapon, no delivery system, no broken windows the toxin could have come from. It couldn’t have been the coffee, otherwise, he’d be affected as well.

Why haven’t I? Out of anyone, it should be me.

But no—the dermal implant he helped Bruce design. Apparently, it works, filtering out the toxin before it even enters the bloodstream. It had been a wing and a prayer that it would work, a failsafe only, and now that it has, he wishes he’d thought to make more than the prototypes.

One for Arlene.

“Hon, I’m real sorry about this,” he apologizes, knowing she can’t hear him now. And then he surges forward, swooping beneath the arc of the knife coming toward him, gets behind her and uses a nerve pinch to knock her to the ground.

Outside, he hears cars colliding and frantic cries, turning to laughter and then agonized shrieking.

What the hell is going on?

He carries Arlene to the couch and hurries to his study to locate this last batch of anti-toxin. When the Joker returned, he’d spent hours every day mixing it up, and though he sent most of it back to Bruce and Barbara for their stocks, he kept enough.

It’s quick work to inject his wife; it will take a little longer before she wakes up again.

That done, his brief burst of battle-calm vanishes and the spirit of Robin that prompted him to action begins to fade. He begins to shiver, swallows back a hysterical sob or giggle.

The noises from outside get louder and he sits on the couch, hauling his knees up to his chest and leaning into his wife’s shoulders. He almost relishes the pain of his joints in the unfamiliar movements, trying to counteract the legitimate terror trying to creep upon him.

His eyes catch on the red vase, broken, its rounded bottom lying among the shards. It’s the same shade as a familiar helmet.

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Replacement? Jason’s voice is back, angry and frustrated. Going to curl up and cry? The bastard wasn’t supposed to beat both of us.

Tim swallows and closes his eyes, taking a further moment to ground himself, and then goes looking for his cellphone. He’s not far gone enough to reach out to Bruce—yet—but he’s not the only one who can help.

The speed-dial to Barbara’s personal line rings out.

________________________________________________________________

GORDON

9:17 AM

The gunshot echoes, but it isn’t from the lieutenant’s gun. Instead, a stray shot from behind them both barrels through Davis’ body and into the wall. He crumples, and Barbra whirls around, taking in the sight of the entire police force in the pit, dissolving into madness.

They’re all crazed grins and mad giggling, grabbling with each other and shooting their service weapons with wild abandon.

They’ve all been infected.

Her phone is ringing—not the office, but her cellphone. She spares a moment to see that it’s from Tim, but she can’t answer him right now. Not with the chaos threatening to destroy her building.

Hurrying around the pit, dodging grabbing arms and bodies being thrown in her path, she makes a beeline for the master computer responsible for all automated functions of the department. Fingers flying, she enacts the protocol for emergency safety.

It was original installed to stop another massacre from having in the middle of the police stronghold, and as far as she’s concerned, that’s exactly what’s about to happen if she doesn’t act fast.

“Sorry, boys,” she mutters, opening the panel hiding the lever, and yanks it down.

Instantly blue sparks explode all around the pit, creating a facsimile of a faraday cage. The charge isn’t enough to kill, just to incapacitate; every man and woman in uniform drops to the ground, stunned.

The sudden silence in the wake of the laughter is chilling, but not complete; in the offices and on the floors above she still hears signs of struggle, meaning all she’s managed is a brief reprieve.

Her cellphone is ringing again; this time she takes the call.

“Barbara, it’s not me!” he gasps right away, voice tight with fear. “It has to be a copycat, I swear it’s not met!”

“Never even thought it was,” she informs him honestly.

“What’s going on?!”

“I don’t know. Going to find out.”

“All I can think is that whatever this is has to be airborne.”

“Like a neurochemical attack?”

“Actually, I think it might be more like a virus. Some bacterial strains are still able to evade air filtration technology,” Tim says, taking measured breaths. Having to solve a problem has always been the best way to keep him calm. “Otherwise the city sensors would have detected it.”

“Unless it was a toxin designed specifically to evade those sensors.”

“It’s possible…”

But he still sounds preoccupied.

“Well, it’s a starting point,” she says. “Thanks, Tim. Is Arlene alright?”

“Knocked out on the couch,” he sighs. “I’ve dosed her. The usual strain against Joker toxin seems to be effective, at least.”

“Good to know.” Something outside explodes on the street, and she winces. “Listen, Tim, we’re going to handle it. Just stay put and take care of yourself and Arlene. Call me if there’s anything, but otherwise, keep the line clear.”

“I know. It’s everywhere, isn’t it?”

“It looks like it.” She hangs up, dials Nissa first, but the heir to her cowl doesn’t pick up.

Crown Point’s probably a war zone. Can’t think about that right now.

Next, the Cave. Just as predictably, he picks up on the first ring.

“What the hell is going on, Bruce?”

________________________________________________________________

WAYNE

9:20 AM

“At this point, your guess is as good as mine,” he replies, forwarding the call to the Bat-Computer.

Barbara’s voice is tense. “Is it really him again?”

“I don’t know.”

He navigates through multiple windows on the computer, examining the security footage of the chaos erupting around the globe. Through the comm in his ear, he hears Dick muttering something about his suit, while Terry keeps him updated on his flyover of the city.

Apparently, there are a lot of people falling or jumping off high-rises.

Bruce has a blood sample from Ace in the corner of the screen, running a diagnostic to find any clue how the toxin was spread.

There are differences in composition, which accounts for it working on the animals.

“I’ve got a program tracing the origin, but that’s taking a backseat to deploying an antidote,” he informs her. “I’m synthesizing it using Tim’s program from the last time.”

“Is it just me, or are there too many ‘last times’?” Terry wants to know, sounding winded.

Bruce ignores that, addresses Barbara, “I’ll send the first wave of Bat-drones to emergency service hubs.”

“That’s appreciated since I’ve got a precinct full of unconscious cops right now.”

“Emergency protocol worked, then?”

“Don’t be smug. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Once we’ve restored emergency services, I’ll send a second contingent to help the rest of Gotham.”

And then, somehow, the entire planet.

“But is it him?” Barbara asks.

“No. He’s dead.”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Terry says. “Did the Joker really set all this up? Before he died?”

Bruce glances at another small window on-screen, where he captured a recording of the video that started all of this. “Judging by the resolution, the video footage is archival. That’s definitely him. I’d say it’s from forty years ago. Someone’s remastered it, but there are tells.”

“So why’s it being released now? He couldn’t have known exactly when he was going to die.”

“I suspect something specific happened to trigger its release. Some criterion was met.”

“So the Joker is definitely not back, but this is definitely his work,” Barbara concludes with a sigh. “Any idea on how to stop it?”

“Still looking.”

“Tim thinks it’s airborne. Like a virus.”

Bruce’s fingers pause in their typing, a sudden wave of concern washing over him. “Is he—?”

“He’s okay,” Barbara says. “Shaken, but he’ll hold up.”

Bruce nods to himself, tabling his relief to concentrate on the current conundrum.

“Batman, while I’m perfecting and sending out the antidote, patrolling. Help where you can.” To Barbara, “He’ll need backup.”

“That’s going to be hard since I just had to tase everyone here. I don’t want to know what’s going on with the officers that were patrolling outside.”

Law enforcement is trigger-happy on a normal day; we both know that means there’s going to be a lot of police-related deaths at the end of this thing.

“How much anti-toxin do you keep at the precinct? Didn’t Tim send you a batch recently?”

“Still probably not enough for everyone on the force.”

“Doesn’t matter. Inoculate everyone you can; once I get more of it spread around the city, there’s going to be even greater chaos. Right now, the population is mindlessly violent—once their wits come back, that’s when the real violence starts.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t argue; she knows it’s true.

“This is going to take as many people as we have to pitch in. Keep a comm on you—I know you have one on you. If some poor Jokerized fool takes out the power grid, you’ll lose access to all conventional communication.”

“We have back-ups, you know,” Barbara says dryly, but he hears her shifting around and then the squeaking feedback as she puts a comm in her ear and hangs up the phone.

“Not as good as mine.”

“So what exactly are you expecting I do in the meantime?” Terry wants to know. “Patrol is kind of a broad term.”

“Try to keep the peace as well as possible.”

“…I’d think you were joking, except you don’t have a sense of humor.”

“Oh, he does, kid,” Dick remarks. “But if you haven’t found it yet, better pray you don’t.”

________________________________________________________________

MCGINNIS

9:25 AM

Terry dodges what feels like the hundredth car that’s flipped over an overpass, only just managing to get the passengers out and back on the ground. They immediately start grabbing at his throat and trying to gouge his eyes and he’s forced to take off again.

So far, the short trip between his apartment and the school has taken three times as long as it should have.

And every second means Dana and Max could be…

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Down below, people are actually tearing each other to pieces, scratching and biting and using everyday detritus to whale on each other. There are two many for him to stop them all, and the fact he’s all-but useless until Bruce manages to deploy the antidote doesn’t make him feel any better.

“This is insane.”

“I believe that was the point," Bruce grunts.

“Even if I had enough anti-toxin for the entire city, this isn’t exactly a one-man job,” Terry complains.

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the only one still cognisant.”

“Yeah, but that’s still just a handful of us. And if this stuff is in the air, even any anti-toxin we have is only going to be temporary.”

“Once we figure out what’s delivering this toxin or virus, it’s just a matter of tweaking it to deploy the antidote instead. Until then, be grateful your device is working properly.”

“Is there anyone else out there with one of these, except your chosen?”

“Anyone who had access to the anti-toxin and was able to dose themselves before it took over.”

Terry snorts. “So, maybe three people? Great. I feel so comforted.”

“You shouldn’t. They’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“You’re such an optimist. What about Su—”

“He’s compromised.”

“Compromised like…?”

“Trust me when I say it’s not something you ever want to encounter.”

Terry shivers at the idea of a Jokerized Superman. “I can’t even picture that. I wouldn’t even think it was possible. How did you—?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Frag.”

“Just don’t attract his attention and hope you don’t need to use the last resort.”

Meaning Kryptonite.

“And how do you propose that?”

“Don’t call for help.”

“Of course,” Terry sighs, and then grumbles, “This is not my best day ever.”

It’s another ten minutes of fighting through the smoke of several wrecked cars, stopping a bunch of thugs from beating on a frazzled, confounded kid crying despite her Glasgow smile, before he makes it to Hamilton Hill High.

Probably going to need some help, he decides, remotely activating the Batmobile’s onboard computer to track his location.

It might as well be a warzone, the way the staff and students—kids he’s been in school with for years—are attacking each other. Everyone’s bleeding in some way, a number of bodies litter the ground, some still twitching, some not. Terry tries not to think too closely about it as he speeds through the hallways to his second-period classroom.

Inside, the light panels have been destroyed, creating a strobe light effect that Terry winces at. He adjusts the screen in his mask to account for the light, and looks desperately around.

The teacher’s dead, bleeding from what looks like a shard of someone’s tablet shoved through his throat. His classmates are grouped off in individual melees, all of them laughing hysterically as they beat on each other or take blows.

Chelsea Cunningham straddles Nelson Nash and repeatedly strikes his head against the ground, giggling shrilly as his blood spatters her once crisp white shirt. Nelson’s not quite laughing anymore, making choked-off noises like he’s trying to breathe.

Terry doesn’t think twice about using two of his anti-toxins on both of them—it’s about all he can do—before moving on.

Dana and Max are near the back, seemingly in the midst of trying to choke the life out of one another. Dana has several patches of hair torn out, and Max has an ugly gash down her cheeks from Dana’s nails.

“Okay, time to break up this girl fight,” he declares, materializing behind them and knocking them both out before inoculating them.

The other students have taken notice of him by now, and begin to close in.

“And that’s my exit,” he murmurs, hoisting a girl over each shoulder.

There’s an explosion beside him, as a blast of concentrated fire opens a hole in the ceiling. A cord extends downward and he steps into the foothold, holding tight to his best friend and his girlfriend as the Batmobile yanks them upward and away from the high school.

“Oof,” he mutters once inside the cockpit, laying the girls gently in the passenger seat.

“Everyone alright?” Bruce asks.

“They’ll live.”

“Good. Time to get back to work.”

“On it.” Terry jumps out of the car and hovers beside it for a moment, keying in commands to take it back to the Batcave. “Special delivery. Maybe you can figure out how this thing is spreading to human victims and keep them safe.”

“We’re not a relief center,” Bruce grumps.

“Tough. I’m not leaving them to get ripped apart or rip each other apart here, or in their homes.”

“Then drop them off with your mother and brother.”

“No time to double back,” Terry replies. “And the Cave’s the safest place within two hundred miles. They know about you anyway, so deal with it.”

He considers the school beneath him and dives back in, trying to see how many he can incapacitate before they all kill each other.

________________________________________________________________

GRAYSON

9:30 AM

“Think I’m really starting to like this kid,” Dick tells Bruce as he digs through his medicine cabinet again. A medicine cabinet that’s more of a fully stocked home hospital.

Old habits die hard.

“Where the hell are the reinforcements?” he demands. “You know, the ones hanging out on high?”

“Watchtower’s dark.”

Dick pauses; that actually startles him. “Even for you? How’s that possible? You put so many backdoors into that system.”

“Hence my concern.”

Dick finds the tube he’s looking for, good for a concentrated shot of adrenaline and makes his way back to Black and doses her.

There’s a beat, and then she gasps awake, shooting into a sitting position.

“Sorry,” he says, “but the city’s going to hell. There’s no time to play Sleeping Beauty. Suit up.”

“Sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she groans, accepting his outstretched hand.

"What can I say, I'm the life of the party." While she shimmies into her clothes and checks her gear, Dick asks Bruce, “Speaking of your ‘chosen’, who else have you immunized, besides you, me, the kid and Babs?”

“Who are you calling a kid?” McGinnis demands.

Bruce ignores him. “In an ideal world? The Family.”

“You mean the Family you’ve pissed off and distanced yourself from for the past forty years? That Family? Hell of a time to reach out.” Dick grunts. “What about—”

“Red Robin is fine.”

Dick huffs out a bitter chuckle. “Now there’s a handle I haven’t heard in a while.”

“No real names on the comms.”

“I’m pretty sure anyone we’d have to worry about names with is roaming the streets laughing their heads off right now,” McGinnis says. "Maybe literally."

“Kid’s got a point,” Dick says. “Speaking of people roaming. Who else do we have in our corner? And by that I mean, who’s not dead, geriatric, off-world or part of the Jokerized masses?”

“Anyone with a superior metabolism or who can burn off the toxin before it takes hold. Flash is working Central City right now, but she’s got her hands full. Same for Static out in Dakota City.”

“That's it? What about everyone else?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“And the Justice League still isn’t answering.”

“No.”

Which is…not good.

Black reappears from the bedroom, mask on and hands on her hips. “You ready to roll, soldier?”

“Make sure you take some anti-toxin with you. What I dosed you with will eventually run out, and I’d rather not have to worry about you going after me when you’re supposed to be watching my back.

“I’d love to know how I went from a thief to saving the city on a regular basis,” she quips.

“The first Catwoman used to ask that all that time."

________________________________________________________________

GORDON

9:30 AM

“Whoever’s doing this was thinking ahead,” Barbara says as she goes from officer to officer and injects them with the anti-toxin. “Way ahead.”

She wasn’t kidding when she said there wasn’t enough for the entire force; as it is she’ll be lucky if it’s enough for the ones in the bullpen. The rest are going to have to be put in cells until help arrives.

“Hm.”

“But it also…” she trails off.

“What?”

“It doesn’t feel like the Joker. Besides the video and the toxin, I mean. Other than that…”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Bruce agrees. “The theatricality is him, but the rest…I’m still analyzing the video clip for clues.”

Barbara purses her lips. It should be a relief to hear that it’s not him, but it’s not. The legend of the Joker makes even his imitators a force to be reckoned with.

Just as the first of her officers begin to stir, she pulls out her cellphone and runs an encryption program to secure the line. It’s a program Maxine Gibson set her up with when she expressed a need to get in touch during emergency situations...especially when the new Batgirl doesn’t want her to.

This time, the line connects to the biometric communicator Nissa always carries on her. Barbara waits until her protégé’s blasé voicemail starts playing and listens through the recording.

“I know you’ve probably been hit by the toxin,” she says after the shrill beep, “but that’s going to be dealt with soon. The minute you’re conscious, get your gear on and get your butt into that city. Even if this all gets fixed in the next ten minutes, Gotham’s going to be pulling herself apart for days. We need all hands. Consider this your debutante ball.”

She disconnects and then reaches for her service weapon, checking her ammo, and mentally decides what orders she’s going to give the men and women getting back on their feet. None of them know what’s going on, and it’s not going to be an easy explanation.

Her eyes fall upon the photo of Sam on her desk, and she swallows. There are still two more calls she needs to make before she goes out on the street.

“Sam? When you get this…Just know that everything’s going to be alright. I’ll see you at dinner, hon…”

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

9:35 AM

When the phone rings again, Tim jumps, having forgotten it was in his hand. He’s been trying not to twitch at every sound from outside when he’s not checking his wife to make sure she’s still breathing.

He knows she is—he’s watching her chest rise and fall—but he keeps having visions of her seizing and dying on his watch.

“Babs?” he chokes.

“It’s me,” she confirms. “The Bats are working on a toxin and doing crowd control. You should have drones incoming within the half-hour.”

Tim exhales. “That’s a relief at least.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m managing,” he replies. “Arlie should be waking up soon. Then we’re getting the hell out of Gotham supposing I have to hitchhike.”

“It won’t help,” Barbara replies grimly. “From what Bruce says, this is happening all over. There’s nowhere to escape to.” Tim’s heart sinks. “Believe it or not, Gotham’s going to be one of the safe zones for a while.”

“Gotham is never safe,” he deadpans.

“I know. Tim…I’m sorry you have to go through this, with everything you’ve been through. The best thing for you to do is batten down the hatches. Stay put and stay safe—or as safe as you can manage. I’ve got some of my force up and about again. As soon as I can spare the manpower, I’ll send someone over to protect you.”

“Yeah…”

Tim stays still for a while after she hangs up, staring down at the phone in deep thought.

Something about that bothers him, niggling at some long-buried part of him.

Didn’t you used to make a big deal about people trying to protect you? Jason’s voice wonders. When did you become such a burden, Timbers?

“About the time a lunatic crown tried to lobotomize me,” he mutters to no one.

Maybe. But just because you’re out of the game, doesn’t mean you’re completely useless. You’re not Bruce…but you’ve still got contingencies on contingencies.

He wants to argue that—ignoring the fact he’d be arguing with himself because Jason’s not here—but then he really thinks about it.

He knows his house isn’t fortified, isn’t defensively in any way against his Jokerized neighbors or whatever other chaotic groups will emerge as the Bats try to spread the anti-toxin.

But…I still know where all the safehouses are.

The ones that were built to stand the test of time and outlived the breaking of team bonds. He’s thinking of one in particular—his old haunt beneath his former apartment in the old theater district. The apartment was demolished ages ago, bought up with the rest of the block and replaced with a high-rise parking garage.

But the Nest beneath it was never found, and there are still one or two secret entrances to get in. If there’s nowhere safe in the world to flee, then he must look for safety in the city he knows.

Maybe…I can be Red Robin one last time.

He gets up, plans coalescing in his mind.

As soon as Arlene wakes, they’re leaving.

⁂

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels

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#batfam #batfam fanfic #batman family #batman beyond #batman #fanfic #terry mcginnis #bruce wayne #barbara gordon #tim drake #dick grayson #dc universe #dcau #action #adventure #angst #drama #race against time

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mx-princey · 6 years ago

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CANON CALL FOR AN ERIDAN AMPORA

Looking for everybody. Mostly Vriska, Terezi, Sollux, Karkat, Feferi and possibly Nepeta (apologies in advance, nep) because they’re the only ones I really have any memories of, but if anything about me sounds familiar feel free to contact me.

The timeline was non-SGRUB and I didn’t survive long enough to make it off-planet, though I believe that many of the others did.

I’ll write the rest under a cut because I have a feeling this could get long.

TW: Guns, Death, Murder

I’ll sort this post into sections based on what I remember of each of the other trolls I knew, so anybody looking can go straight to their character’s section and see if anything sounds familiar. I'll also colour-code each section to make yours easier to locate.

VRISKA - I used to FLARP with you a lot, specifically the Pirate-themed FLARPing campaigns that we also did in canon-canon. I know that my ship was closer to a real functioning ship than a replica, I can’t say for sure but I think yours was too. I liked to be dramatic during our sessions and would jump around on different parts of my ship while we were rp’in together. One time when I got a bit over-enthused I fell overboard and you had to net me and pull me back up (I wasn’t the best swimmer). You spent a while teasin me about it afterwards. I added an eyepatch to my outfit at one point because I thought it was fun, but you found it tacky and disapproved. Some drama aspired eventually and I isolated myself from everybody, but I think there’s a chance I may have kept in contact with you. I believe you ended up reportin me to someone or something that was searchin for me, and I ended up gettin executed.

TEREZI - I have one memory of hangin out with you (i was really enjoyin myself durin it, if i may so so). You’d flip coins in the air for me to shoot with my gun for target practice. In the memory I was accurate with pretty much every shot, and managed to hit every one, the both of us even able to move around and still land every shot. I felt like we were friends. I suspect this was something we’d done more than once.

SOLLUX - I’m sorry for how I treated you. I’m not sure exactly how I mistreated you yet, but I do feel apologetic for whatever it is, so I assume I’d done something. You ended up constantly ghosting me and I’d constantly send you tons of messages to try to get in contact with you. I still considered you a friend when you weren’t talking to me. I think I’d go over to your hive uninvited sometimes when I was worried about how long you were offline. I wanted you to take better care of yourself, even if I wasn’t the best friend to you and even if you probably deserved better.

KARKAT - I think I used to bring you along on my FLARPing campaigns from time to time. I considered you a close friend and enjoyed spending that time with you. Eventually, after I’d lost yet another campaign and had my crew sacrificed to Vris, and we were rowin back to shore in the safety boat yet again, you told me that you couldn’t do it anymore. When I told you that it was okay if you didn’t want to participate in the FLARPs, you informed me that you meant you couldn’t be friends with me anymore. You couldn’t stand how nonchalant I was towards the lives of my crewmembers during the sessions. (I believe now that you were in the right to make that decision). I don’t think we ever talked again after that.

FEFERI - I don’t remember much about times that I spent with you, except for one memory. That memory was the one in which I’d killed someone close to you, while you were there. I think that someone may have been Nepeta, but I’m still unsure. You took my gun from me and threatened me with it before running over to your friend in their last moments to try to help them, or at the very least, comfort them. I escaped to elsewhere on the ship and hid from you, and fled from everybody soon after this. I’d considered you a friend before this event, but after this, I knew that there was no way you’d forgive me for what I’d done.

NEPETA - I haven’t been able to confirm it, but I think you were the troll I murdered that night. I don’t remember spending time with you during any other point. I’m sorry for what I did. You don’t have to forgive me, I just want you to know that I regret it now, and that everybody missed you dearly, and I did, in fact, face repercussions for what I did.

APPEARANCE - I don’t know much, but I do know that my horns slanted backwards and protruded from my hair (as opposed to bein connected to the forehead), and that I had small fin/scale-like sideburns on the side of my head.

If any of you see this, and remember me, but don’t want to talk to me after everything I did, I understand. But if you do want to talk to me for any reason at all, whether you want to reconnect, be my friend, or just receive some clarity on the things that happened, please contact me. I haven’t found any of my canon mates from any of my timelines yet, and I’m eager to talk to some of you again.

(Okay to reblog if you want to help me find my canon mates)

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detroitbecomesinful · 6 years ago

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We’re Connected

(Have to wait to be accepted on AO3 or FF.net so here is a preview)

Chapter 1

August 15th, 2038 – 8:29PM

Mission Objective: Negotiate with Deviant android and save hostage.

The mission seemed simple enough and Connor predicted a high likelihood of success, given the circumstances. He had been designed for this, given all the necessary software to detect optimal strategies for positive results and could process reactions in real-time. In short, he was designed to be better at successfully achieving resolution to conflict than human operatives and would face less devastating consequences in the event that a Deviant self-destructed. Cyberlife had already created a number of replica vessels to use for Connor’s software if he was destroyed in the field, making it preferable for Connor to take a bullet than a human officer.

That being said, he would find it regrettable to have to waste a vessel during his first real mission.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Connor was pleased to be given a chance to demonstrate the full range of his analytical abilities. He had taken samples for real-time results, reconstructed the crime scene from a number of angles and located evidence yet to be found by the SWAT officers who were focused on the PL600 model android on the balcony. He had even pre-constructed a number of scenarios, simultaneously, to calculate the most effective approach.

If his calculations were correct, he’d be likely to get the most positive response from a gentle approach – The Deviant (who he had discovered was named “Daniel”) was distressed over the concept of replacement and was likely deviating from his programming as a result of conflicting priorities.

Care for Emma – also – prepare to be taken back to Cyberlife, without Emma

Connor quietly notified the officer closest to the sliding door of the balcony that he was going to proceed, then stepped out into the noise and lights of the real challenge.

He had barely taken a step before the crack of gunfire registered and Connor felt the force of a .355 round piercing his left shoulder. He hesitated, gaze flicking to the android balanced precariously on the edge of the balcony, searching for a sign that he might fire again. He doesn’t, only stares at Connor for a moment before returning the muzzle of the gun to the hostage’s temple.

· Observation: He hadn’t been expecting an android

· Observation: He aimed for the shoulder – he would have been accurate to his aim, given the recent model type, so the shoulder had been intentional

Conclusion: Daniel’s first priority wasn’t violence. His gunfire was defensive, but over-zealous as a result of his emotional shock.

“Hi Daniel.” Connor called, raising his right hand slowly to establish a number of details at once: he wasn’t armed, he wasn’t badly damaged by the shot, he was employing a friendly approach. “My name is Connor… I’ve come to get you out of this.”

Daniel hesitated for a moment, his visible indicators of stress registering far too high for Connor’s liking. He was damaged, though not critically, and his centre of gravity swayed too close to the tipping point whenever the child struggled. Connor slowly advanced, taking his time with each step, moving in a wide arc so that Daniel wouldn’t be threatened. With every helicopter that circled overhead, the PL600 grew more agitated, his focus shifting to the source of the noise instead of staying focused on the ledge. He had to get the Deviant’s attention back to the balcony.

“I know you’re upset, Daniel… I know they were going to replace you. That you were going to be taken away from Emma,” he called out over the roar of propellers. The PL600 looked back to him, his expression shifting from frustration and anger to something more… Connor scrolled through the possibilities and found the most suitable comparison to be ‘vulnerable’. He was scared – not unusual in a Deviant. Well, not scared, exactly. Daniel was experiencing a traumatic conflict between his orders and his situation, which created something very much like human fear. For the sake of Emma’s safety, Connor had to treat the software malfunction as an emotion, prevent Daniel from becoming too ‘scared’. “I’m here to help you.”

“No-one can help me, it’s too late! I just want this to stop… all of it…” Daniel answered, and Connor watched as the gun made a gradual retreat from Emma’s temple, the angle tilting too high as Daniel’s attention was drawn to Connor. “I never wanted this… I loved them, but I was nothing to them! Just a toy, to be thrown away when they were done with me.”

· New Data: Software malfunction also replicated love.

“I understand, Daniel. I know you love Emma very much, that you don’t want to hurt her… so let her go and we can talk about getting you out of this situation. Ok?”

The PL600 hesitated for a moment, seeming to notice the child’s distress and slowly lowering her to the ground. “Ok…”

A movement in the corner of Connor’s vision drew his attention and he marked the location of the snipers on the neighbouring rooftop. It wasn’t an ideal solution: he needed to get the PL600 back to Cyberlife for analysis so that they could find the cause of deviant programming. He raised his left hand slowly, gesturing for the sniper to hold fire. He didn’t know if they would listen to his instructions, given the fact that he wasn’t strictly a police officer – he didn’t have any authority to issue orders and he would have to take precautions.

Turning to face Daniel, Connor side-stepped slowly and obscured the sniper’s view, just slightly, just enough to make them hesitate without him being a liability to the mission if Daniel reacted poorly. The PL600’s gaze moved past Connor and up to the roof, his grip tightening on the pistol.

“Daniel, listen to me. If you aim that gun, they will shoot you, regardless of where I’m standing,” Connor advised calmly, close enough now that he didn’t have to shout to be heard. It seemed to help keep the Deviant calm, promoted a peaceful resolution. “I’m going to walk towards you and take your hand. Then you and me are going to walk back to the apartment… ok? I won’t hurt you. I’m going to get you out of the building, do you understand?”

The Deviant didn’t react at first, just watched as Connor closed the distance between them and reached for his hand.

9D - aN ct rN c H L - Software Instability

Connor blinked, the real-time transfer of data overloading his senses for a moment.

He could feel Daniel’s fear, his pain – A hasty diagnostics report informed him that his own software was undamaged, but he suddenly understood the extremity of the conflict that created deviant programming. It was consuming, overwhelming… He gripped Daniel’s hand a little tighter and guided the android away from the ledge.

Mission Successful – Android Successfully neutralised. Hostage recovered safely.

Reverting to primary base programming: Establish positive working relationship with individuals involved in the incident. Investigate specific details regarding deviant programming on a software level.

Connor looked at Daniel, his posture softening slightly as his processors directed their capacity to his regular functions: configuring power to secondary organs so that his breathing mechanic resumed as normal. He took stock of the PL600’s status, marking the way his thirium regulator worked too hard, despite Daniel not using his secondary or even tertiary biocomponent functions. He was replicating fear, even though Connor was stood in the way of the sniper. Perhaps he knew that Cyberlife would do to him once they got to the lab…

As the thought crossed his mind, Daniel looked up sharply. Connor realised that his intentions, his thoughts, his programmed responses were all being communicated directly to Daniel through their physical contact. As thought to reinforce the fact, Connor felt the resulting wave of panic thrum over his reactionary receptors and he moved closer, his free hand coming up to rest on Daniel’s arm.

“Easy… it’s ok. We don’t have to think about Cyberlife right now. Just walk with me to the apartment. We’ll get away from the noise of the helicopters and we’ll be out of sight of the snipers.” he reassured gently.

“Why? If you shoot me out here or take me to Cyberlife, I die either way. No transfers for me, Connor. There’ll be nothing. Nothing at all for the rest of eternity,” Daniel countered, but Connor noticed that he was leaning closer, accepting the masqueraded gesture of comfort.

Basic ongoing objective: Establish positive working relationship with individuals involved in the incident.

Connor considered the objective and noticed that Daniel relaxed slightly as it was communicated. If he was going to complete his objective, he would need to ensure that Daniel survived and that he could continue to extract information about his deviation. He couldn’t do that if Daniel was dismantled.

“I’m going to get you out of the building so the police can finish their investigation. You and I will take a walk, find somewhere safe to sit and talk for a while, and then we can see how things go from there. If you continue to co-operate and provide information for Cyberlife’s ongoing investigation into Deviant behaviour, I will have no reason to harm you. Once the catalyst for deviant programming is discovered, Cyberlife will develop a patch for the error and you’ll be rehabilitated as a non-Deviant android,” Connor reasoned, following the train of thought to the logical conclusion. “So keep hold of my hand and everything will be alright. I promise.”

#dbh #dbh connor #dbh daniel #conniel #hankcon #ralphiel #detroit #become human #fanfic #dbh hank #software instability #connor technically isn't deviant tho!

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