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[winedarkthoughts]

house of addams (7)

— 🌖 pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

— 🕷️ genre: mystery, angst + fluff + smut

— 🗝️ word count: 7.3k

— 🍄 summary: you’re invited for a night at the Addams house.

— ☕ content warnings: mentions of (mutual) stalking and taking photos without consent, smoking, weapons + firearms

— 🕸️ a/n: ok listen, i am a sucker for tropes.

previous chapter ← series m.list → next chapter

chpt. 7: the dinner party

october 30, 2004

The gates of the Addams house greet you with open iron rails, swinging open, just like before, without any kind of assistance. It only makes you hesitate for a moment, because you figure you're in for more of a shock once you get inside.

The Addams house looms tall and intimidating from atop the hill. The sun has nearly completed its descent past the treetops into the darkening wilderness, and the windows of the house are aglow with warm light. It makes it look more like a place fit for habitation.

The image of all of them cozied up at the dinner table, ready to share a meal together like a little family, pops into your mind. But it is very quickly shooed away, because it hurts a little to think of happy families.

A few old lamposts illuminate your way up the path. When you get a little closer, you can see shadows moving through the dirty glass windows.

Even in the darkness, you can see the overgrown weeds and crumbling stone that makes up the exterior of the house, and it makes you even more curious to see what it looks like inside.

Standing on the front landing, you check your watch. Five fifty-five p.m. The invitation said six sharp, so you figure it won't hurt to arrive a few minutes early.

The iron knocker is in the image of a black cat's head, with a mouse dangling by its tail as the handle. You grasp the mouse and rap it against the door three times.

A few moments pass before the old wood is creaking open.

You're half expecting the door to open by itself like the gate, but no. Jungkook stands there, dressed in a dark pinstripe suit with his hair in slick curls. The warm lamplight crawls across his face, but his strange paleness still startles you a little.

"Good evening," he greets you, opening the door wider to beckon you inside.

You're glad you're dressed adequately. The formal dress code was a little intimidating. You opted for slacks, a white button-up, tie, leather vest (even with a silver pocket watch chain for extra flare), and an oversized suit jacket. All with the leather coat you purchased at the bookshop thrown overtop to combat the cold.

Wearing a dress isn't ideal in any situation other than for looks, especially when you're carrying items that are meant to remain concealed, so you opted for a more practical outfit.

You're expecting the inside of the house to be just as decrepit as the outside, but this isn't the case. The long, elegant hallway is lined with framed oil paintings and sconces holding lit candles, flickering in the slight draft, an air that feels a little ghostly.

You follow Jungkook into a large foyer with polished floors and a tall domed ceiling overhead. A grand staircase that branches in two directions leads up to the balconied second floor.

You can't help stopping for a moment to admire the grandeur of the place. Every curve, every corner, is embellished with carved wood or shining brass accents. It isn't even dusty, let alone decrepit.

"Come," Jungkook says softly. "He's waiting for you in the lounge."

He leads you through more labyrinthine hallways, all aglow with candlelight, gesturing you through an oak door.

The room inside is dimly lit with soft lamps, a fully-stocked bar tucked into one corner, the remaining walls lined with full bookshelves. There's plenty of seating options, from plush-looking armchairs to curving sofas.

"I'll see where he's gone off to. Wait here, please," Jungkook blurts out, sounding nervous, and closes the door without waiting for a reply.

You take the opportunity to look around a bit.

Lush ferns decorate almost every potential empty space, probably thanks to Yoongi. There's a table in the center of the circle of seating options, crowded with appetizers. Oysters on the half shell, perfectly pink shrimp and cocktail sauce, chunks of fresh salmon with lemon wedges, all resting on giant slabs of ice.

You walk over to the ledge of the bar, examining all the fancy bottles and crystal decanters. Some of them have little tags hanging from their glass necks, labelling them. Blackberry vodka, silver rum, 0.3% cyanide, hemlock syrup.

It's just as you're ducking your head under to examine the hidden shelves behind the bar counter when a light voice interjects,

"Nosy little thing, aren't you?"

You turn to find the head of the house himself standing there in the doorway, though you didn't hear it open or him enter.

You've never seen him this close before. And what a vision he is. Dressed in all black, skin showing through the deep cut V in his shirt, hair slicked back, and a grin that's just as slick to match.

"Yes," you quip back, unapologetic. "I've made a career out of it."

His smile only widens, as if to say I'm well aware.

"Drink?"

"Please," you reply.

His smile, which is much brighter and lighthearted than you anticipated, remains as he crosses the room and stands behind the bar.

"Any preference?" he asks.

"Whatever you recommend," you answer, plopping down on the velvet green Chesterfield sofa, digging in your bag for your notes. At this point, it's less of a bag and more of a giant mess of papers and folders and photographs held together by a few pieces of straining fabric.

Hoseok plucks a perfect sphere of ice out of a silver dish, dropping it into a martini shaker. He grabs the decanter of blackberry vodka, and a few other bottles and mixers.

"Very thorough, aren't you?" he asks as he pours shots and drizzles into the shaker.

"That's right," you respond, spreading out the near-endless stream of documents according to the map in your head.

You can hear the clack of the shaker, the sound of its contents being poured. A moment later, a martini glass filled with near pitch-dark liquid, garnished with a blackberry, is placed by your side.

"Thank you," you say, grabbing the glass and taking a sip. There's the hint of flavored vodka, a berry tartness, and some other taste that you can't quite name.

Hoseok sinks down in the chair across from you with a matching glass in his hand, crossing one slim leg over the other.

"So," he begins, and you don't have to look at him to feel his eyes scanning you up and down. "You're the one she settled on to sort out this mess."

You pause your obsessive shuffling.

"She?"

In the middle of taking a sip from his drink, he looks at you like he's a little confused.

"The mayor? She is the one who hired you, isn't she?" he asks.

"Yes," you admit. "What of it?"

A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I admire your suspicion, ______," Hoseok says, and hearing your name from his mouth is strangely thrilling. "But you must trust me when I say that me and my family have done nothing to cause the deaths and disappearances, at least to our knowledge."

"Then you better start telling me what you know," you reply sharply, fixing him with a strict gaze, and he doesn't break it.

"That is why you invited me here, isn't it?" you ask. "To tell me what you know?"

Hoseok considers it for a moment.

"Of sorts, yes," he replies, cryptidly.

You suppress the slight annoyance that wants to creep into your expression, focusing back on your documents. Spreading out a map littered with red circles and connecting lines, you point to one of the marked indicators.

"This is the Addams House, correct?" you ask, instinctively using your interrogation voice without realizing it.

It makes Hoseok chuckle internally.

"Correct," he replies cooly.

"And these," you point to several of the red circles. "Are the last known locations of the five missing persons. Remarkably close, hmm?"

"Come now, ______," Hoseok says in a playfully chiding voice. "Location may be suggestive, but it isn't incriminating."

"I never said it was," you bite back. "I'm merely suggesting that this house, as well as the surrounding area, displays some very strange qualities. And I can't leave any stone unturned."

Hoseok nods, almost appreciatively.

“I’d expect nothing less,” he says, smiling that same radiant smile.

“You’ve done your job well, haven’t you?” he inquires, setting his glass down and rising from his seat, beginning to circle around the couch.

“I should hope so,” you reply a little hesitantly.

He passes by the bar and picks up the discarded martini shaker, fiddling with it, the ice inside clanking.

“How far-reaching are your investigative powers, I wonder?” he says.

He’s at your right-hand side, and suddenly he tosses the shaker halfway across the room in a perfect arc. It lands in the small sink at the bar counter with a loud clang.

Your head whips toward the sound, focus ripped away from the sea of papers.

When you look back at him, he’s adjusting his jacket lapels, sauntering back over to his seat.

“Far enough to get the job done, I suppose," you reply, trying to uphold a neutral yet strict tone of voice.

"Hmm," Hoseok says, raising a brow. "Far enough to constitute stalking?"

The back of your neck prickles.

"What makes you say that?" you ask, though both of you know well enough that you're playing dumb.

"Ever heard the expression "walls have ears?" Well, trees have eyes, and they've told me all about you."

He's back in his seat, but you still feel like he's circling around you. Not many people make you nervous, let alone intimidate you, but Hoseok is apparently one of the exceptions.

"You should know that I am very protective over my family," he says, the tone of his voice dipping a little deeper. "Naturally, I keep an eye on them."

With that, he reaches into his inside jacket and pulls out several files. Flipping open to specific pages, he throws them down on the coffee table between the two of you with a papery slap!

Staring up at you are several photos, and it takes you a second to recognize them as ones from your own camera.

Jimin, walking to class, his hand frozen in time while brushing through his hair. Taehyung, hands in his coat pockets, meandering through town on his way to the police station. Jin, leaning against the garden wall, cradling a coffee cup in his hands.

It takes you another few seconds to realize that the file is from the pile of folders you brought with you. He must've slipped it from you when he tossed the shaker into the sink, a diversion to make you turn your head.

A crooked grin, slick voice, and sticky fingers apparently.

"I admire the dedication even more than the suspicion," Hoseok says, reaching into his jacket again, but this time he pulls out a silver cigarette case.

He holds it towards you with a questioning tilt of his head, offering you one, but you shake your head. He takes one out, puts it to his lips and lights it with the flick of a lighter.

It doesn't smell like tobacco though, more like cloves and pennyroyal buds.

"Technically," you begin. "Stalking includes inducing fear in the victim; intimidation, threats, and the like."

The subtext is clear: good luck taking me to court for this.

A smile breaks out on his face.

"No harm done," he says. "They were quite flattered, actually."

You don't really know what to do with that statement. It must show on your face, because Hoseok smirks with an exhale of fragrant smoke.

"Don't worry about it, detective," he says, sounding amused. "We're all sinners here. What's a little felony charge here and there?"

You watch the ghosts of smoke twist from the end of the cigarette between his slim fingers. Something about the way the smoke moves is unusual, like it doesn't quite obey the laws of physics that normal smoke would.

"In fact," he says, reaching into his other jacket pocket. "I must admit that I'm a little guilty myself."

He takes out another folder, opens it, and lets it fall on the table. It's a mass of photos, and they're all of you. Sitting in the cafe through the window, walking through town, collecting samples at in the woods.

Now you know where that I'm being watched feeling was coming from. If you were normal, you might've been creeped out by it. But this isn't the first time you've been trailed and you doubt it will be the last.

"I'm curious, though," he starts. "What exactly made them worthy of stalking in the first place?"

You look down at the spread of appetizers like you're contemplating reaching for one. You're not going to mention how you've been trying to distract yourself from what you saw at the lake, or the fact that you find all the inhabitants of the Addams House to be a little too compelling.

"I knew that all of them were cagey if not outright lying about living here, and given this place's reputation, I found it necessary to dig deeper," you answer in a leveled voice.

"And you figured that this place might be connected to the disturbances?" Hoseok replies, though it doesn't sound like a question.

You set him with a firm gaze.

"I never ignore patterns."

He stares right back.

"Words? Yes. Actions? Sometimes. But never patterns."

He's really staring at you, like he's trying to find the answer to some unspoken question in his head. The look in his eyes is somewhere between inquisitive and impressed, maybe even—

"I think you have darker thoughts than you realize, detective," he says. The smoke tendrils from his last drag hang, mesmerizing, between the two of you.

"If you truly want to know what's strange about this place, I can show you."

He's leaning forward slightly in his chair, and but before you even have time to think about what that means, the loud clang of a bell is sounding through the air.

"Ah," Hoseok says, taking one last puff from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the crystal ashtray on the coffee table. "That's Jin calling us to dinner."

He rises to a stand and straightens his jacket lapels.

"Once you're done with your cocktail, we'll head into the dining room."

You haphazardly gather your notes, down the rest of your drink, and follow him out of the room.

He leads you through the ornate hallways, quickly darkening with the setting of the sun. The sound of clinking dishes and pleasant chatter grows steadily louder.

When you emerge into what you presume is the kitchen, you're almost struck speechless.

It's a humongous, grand, high-ceilinged room, and nearly everything is in shades of green and gold. The dark marble floors are flecked with gold veins, the dark wood cupboards and drawers are fixed with gold handles, even the smell in the air has a rich, golden warmth to it.

The countertops are a deep jade quartz, and the floor to ceiling stained glass windows are in patterns of emerald and amber. More plants decorate the space, though these are taller and more lush.

The huge stove is crowded with copper pots and pans, all sizzling and bubbling and hissing with their savory aroma.

There's someone standing over the stove, wearing a crisp white button-up and black apron, a small saucepan in one hand, swirling sauce on a plate in fancy shapes. There's a whole line of plates before him, making him look like a master chef plating up a dish for a hoard of diners.

"Oh, hello _______," the man says cheerfully when he notices you, and you realize that it's Jin (though you guessed as much from his ridiculously broad shoulders).

The next second he's squirting something into a different pan, sending up a surge of sweet-smelling flames, though he doesn't even turn his head from you.

"Hello," you manage to greet him, captivated by how he expertly juggles everything. There's sauteing vegetables, sizzling meats, a bubbling broth, not to mention something that you can't see in the oven.

The sound of shattering glass sounds from the next room.

Hoseok suppresses an eye roll.

"Please excuse me, detective," he says, sounding like a slightly annoyed parent. "If you wouldn't mind lingering in the kitchen while I sort this out. Jin so likes the company."

Jin flicks a spurt of hot oil over one shoulder, missing Hoseok by an inch, but he only bursts into laughter while sliding out of the room.

Jin doesn't seem to mind as you curiously look around the gigantic room, he just continues his work in comfortable silence.

That's a common theme with Jin. He's charismatic and perfectly capable of carrying a conversation, but he appears to enjoy your company despite how quiet and reserved you are. He merely glances your way every few moments, like he's reassuring himself that you're still there.

You like how he doesn't push you for conversation. It seems like he enjoys observing you just as much as you enjoy observing your surroundings (though you do enjoy observing him when he's not looking).

"Very impressive," you can't help but say as you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

"Thank you," he replies happily, and then adds playfully, "Feel free to mention that at the table."

Your eyes scan over the variety of coffee contraptions, no doubt because of Jin the cafe owner. Then you reach the refrigerator, black with gold handles, but instead of plastic magnets there are little antique picture frames with photos of all if the house's inhabitants. Because of course even the fridge has to align with the aesthetic.

"Looking for something?" Jin quips, clearly amused.

It's then that you wonder what exactly you'd find inside the fridge. Jin knows you've been watching him. Does he know what you suspect he is?

"What would I possibly be looking for?" you reply nonchalantly.

Jin lets out a chuckle that would dissolve even the thickest tension.

"If you're looking for blood bags and raw meat, you won't find them here."

He says it so jokingly, that you start to think maybe you were wrong about him. Maybe is he just some normal man with normal tendencies, the only reason for his nocturnal lifestyle attributed to him owning a 24 hour coffee shop.

Maybe you don't have to imagine him standing among a rack of blood bags at the local hospital, stealing them for his own benefit while leaving others without the vital resource.

Because if that's the case, then you have no reason to suspect he has anything to do with the deaths and disappearances. Maybe you could even—

"I don't keep them in that fridge," he says.

Your amused expression drops.

The timer on the oven beeps.

"Almost ready. If you wouldn't mind moving into the dining room and taking your seat," Jin says, focusing back on plating each dish.

You take the hint, leaving him in his element.

Another grand room, but with much higher ceilings, almost like a dark cathedral. There are the same stained glass windows and marble floors, and a massive crystal chandelier lit by tapering candles hangs overhead, though you have no idea how anyone could get so high up in order to light them.

Though the thing that demands the most attention is the long table in the center of the room. More dripping candles, some more like piles of wax with a lit wick, and bouquets of dried flowers serve as centerpieces. A black lace tablecloth, glinting silverware, dishes with images of crows and insects.

You don't even notice the people standing around the table until a small projectile is hurtling past you. Head whipping around, you see Jimin standing there with a slingshot held up to his face, and that face painted with a smirk.

From the way he's looking at you, it's not outrageous to assume that he was aiming at you. That is, until you hear a crash from behind you.

"Hey! Don't hit my azaleas!"

You immediately recognize the voice as Yoongi's, but your eyes are locked on Jimin. This is the first time you've seen him without a mask.

Uncovered by a hat, his silver hair falls across his forehead, and his eyes, unobscured by sunglasses, shine a strange blue-gray.

Something about his face is dangerous, it makes you want to see how close you can get before that danger becomes a real threat.

"You missed," you say, even though the smirk on his face is not one that belongs to someone who's missed their shot.

He just smiles on, and his teeth are sharp. Unnaturally sharp, as if every tooth beyond the front two have been filed down to fine points.

"If I wanted to hit you, I would've hit you," Jimin replies.

Hoseok approaches the two of you, ready to unleash another lethal roll of his eyes. He holds out his hand, and Jimin gives up the slingshot with a little huff.

"We have a no weapons at the table policy," Hoseok explains as Jimin pushes past him. You move to follow, but Hoseok stops you too.

"I'm afraid we also have a no recording devices at the table policy," he says with a knowing look.

You stare at him in slight disbelief, but he appears to be serious.

You want them to trust you, if only for the sake of the investigation. If they know something, you can't seem like a threat.

So you start to empty your pockets.

There's the microcassette recorder in your coat pocket, the digital recorder in your pants pocket, the flash drive recorder in your other pants pocket, the pen recorder in your inner jacket pocket.

You make a show of straightening your clothes before trying to slide past him, but he blocks you again with a raise of an eyebrow.

How the fuck...? Ugh, fine. You suppose you can actually be trustworthy instead of just pretending to be.

You take out the spare digital recorder in your left jacket pocket, the mini microphone in your shirt pocket, the flashlight with the secret button clipped to your belt. And the fake lapel pin. And the video camera in your bag. And the smaller backup camera in the hidden pocket inside your bag.

When you look up, you see that everyone in the room has stopped to watch you, all with expressions of slight shock.

Remembering one last thing, you hold up a finger, fishing out the micro nine pistol from the holster at the back of your waistband, setting it down at the top of the pile of contraband. As well as the extra magazine.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and you think that maybe you shouldn’t have revealed the fact that you usually bring your gun to unfamiliar situations. But then you hear Jimin chuckle.

“Well,” he says from across the room with nothing but amusement in his tone. “It’s definitely a party now.”

Now that everyone is properly de-weaponed and de-deviced, everyone moves to take a seat, with Hoseok at one head of the table and Yoongi at the other in a tall peacock chair.

Your place is between Jimin and Taehyung, with Jungkook and Namjoon sitting across the table.

You should’ve guessed that Namjoon would be here, live here. As a P.I., you’re kicking yourself that you didn’t guess as much earlier.

Jin is still in the kitchen, dishes clanking. And what you perceive as awkward silence hangs in the air. To them, it simply feels like impatience being soothed.

You wait, wait for one of them to acknowledge the situation. Why have you been invited here?

“Did you enjoy the appetizers, _____?” Jimin asks.

You sneak a glance at him. He’s dressed in a silk shirt that billows around his form, his pale hair now pushed back from his forehead, transforming his face from relatively innocent to dangerously attractive. He watches you eagerly, waiting for your reply. He caught all of the seafood himself, after all.

You just nod in response, but Jimin flashes you a pleased smile all the same.

“We weren’t allowed to have any, of course,” Taehyung remarks, giving Hoseok a pointed look.

“Guests eat first, Taehyung, you know that,” he replies swiftly, but from the little grin on both their faces, it’s clear they’re only teasing.

You wonder how often they have guests in a place like this.

Another silence falls, you sneaking glances at everyone around the table. Except when you dare glance at Hoseok, he’s already looking. He must sense your discomfort, because then he’s saying, “My apologies, detective. We haven’t had proper introductions yet.”

He starts with the person to his left.

“This is Taehyung, our resident coroner. He runs the morgue downstairs.”

This is the first time you’ve made eye contact with Taehyung since you arrived in the house, and he doesn’t seem like the same man you met in the morgue. This man is at ease in his own home, a man who isn’t bound by professional constraints. He’s looking at you now less like a private investigator and more like a stranger that he doesn’t want to remain a stranger.

You’re not sure which you prefer.

“This is Jimin, he’s currently studying chemistry and marine biology at the university.”

Jimin meets your gaze when you glance at him, cocking his head back slightly and flashing a hint of those sharp teeth again.

“Yoongi, our genius little green thumb. He’s the one who keeps the place nice and lush,” Hoseok gushes, and Yoongi gives a little wave and straight-lipped smile, blushing only slightly.

“Namjoon, our favorite bookworm. And brilliant scholar! About to publish his third book.” Namjoon nods his head towards you with a small smile.

“And this is Jungkook, the youngest problem in the bunch,” Hoseok says, gesturing towards the young man in the pinstripe suit. Jungkook acknowledges you still somewhat nervously.

“Forgotten someone?” A voice calls.

Jin saunters into the room, having abandoned his apron for a lace jacket with sewn-on fabric flowers. He takes the empty seat to Hoseok’s right, straightening his hair. But it doesn’t like he’s been slaving in the kitchen this whole time at all. Not one stain on his clothes, not one dew drop of sweat.

“Could never forget you, darling,” Hoseok replies. “And this is Jin, our lovely chef who keeps us all so well fed.”

Jin gives a tiny little bow in your direction, along with one of his charming smiles.

There’s another pause, as if they’re waiting for you to say something. All you can think of is that they already know you, there’s no need for you to introduce yourself. So you say the first adjacent thing to come to your head:

“Glad to have met all of you.”

And you barely notice it, already looking down at your empty plate, but they simultaneously stifle the flutter in their gut.

“Alright,” Jin announces, clapping his hands together. “Let’s eat!”

Everyone but you, in near perfect synchronicity, grabs the silver cloche set before each of their table settings, and places it over their plate. Jimin gestures for you to do the same, so you obey.

When you remove it again, after everyone else does the same, the former empty plate is suddenly full. A thick and creamy soup, speckled with spices, steaming in a bread bowl crusted with garlic and herbs.

And of course no one bats an eye at the casual error in the law of physics, too busy passing around a bowl of greens to garnish and a bottle of red wine to fill their glasses. You don’t object when Taehyung holds the bottle over your own glass with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

And by God, is it delicious. The cream base of the soup melts perfectly with hints of herbs and the peppery bite of truffle shavings. And of course, the best part is being able to break off a bit of flavored bread and dip it into the pot of gold before you.

“This is delicious,” you can’t help but blurt out, saying it like an aggressively objective fact.

“Thank you,” Jin replies, smiling wide like a child that was just complimented on their most recent art project. Except you can’t display a bowl of soup on the fridge, but you would if you could.

“Yoongi helped me forage the mushrooms,” Jin adds.

Mushrooms? Now that you think of it, the soup does have a distinct earthy taste.

“Do you forage often?” you ask, looking at Yoongi.

“Not as often as I’d like,” he replies.

“Why is that?” you ask, and a small smile tugs at Yoongi’s mouth. There’s a shared chuckle from around the table.

“What?” you blurt out, almost certain that they are making fun of you or know something that you don’t, probably both.

“You’re doing your interrogator voice,” Jimin says, but it doesn’t sound malicious, more like…endeared?

A look around the table, and everyone’s face matches the tone of his voice. He says it as if the two of you have known each other for years, as if you’re friends. It puts a strange, almost sickly feeling in your stomach. You set down your spoon.

Soon the air is filled with pleasant dinner-time chatter. They keep trying to bring you into the conversation, like you’re somehow one of them. But you’re here to get a job done.

It becomes exceedingly more difficult to concentrate solely on the case when the main course comes out. Again, due only to the covering and uncovering of your plates with the silver cloches, the remains of your soup disappearing.

A choice cut steak, generously seasoned, drizzled with a red wine sauce, a heap of garlic and herb mashed potatoes, and more mushrooms grilled to tenderness. You’re not normally fond of mushrooms, but these are surprisingly flavorful in a way you wouldn’t expect from a vegetable, let alone a fungus.

“They’re Pepperwood caps,” Jin says, as if reading your thoughts. “Yoongi grows them on the grounds.”

In all your research, you’ve never heard of Pepperwood caps.

“Hoseok isn’t eating them,” you say pointedly. “Neither is Jungkook,” you continue. There are no Pepperwood caps on either of their plates. Instead, a small pile of white capped mushrooms with brown spots.

“To my knowledge, those are Deadly Dapperlings, yes?”

They all look at each other.

“You don’t miss anything, do you detective?” Hoseok says with a little grin.

Your research on fungi has made you a novice at recognizing the lethal ones.

“Jungkook and I find that the poisonous ones have a particularly robust flavor,” Hoseok continues.

You watch him as he says it, waiting for him to elaborate, but he never does. So you return your attention to your perfectly cooked steak.

“I imagine you’re curious about what precisely the fuck we all are,” Jin interjects the silence, and your fork stops halfway to your mouth.

“Really all that needs to be said is that whatever you’ve already deduced is probably true.” He has his hands clasped together, his shirtsleeve riding up to expose the crescent-shaped bite mark on the inside of his wrist. He smiles when he notices you staring.

“Don’t worry,” he says, sounding amused. “I can be trusted around exposed neck flesh.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“So there’ll be no biting over the course of the evening?” you quip, only half joking.

Jin maintains his level gaze.

“Only if you want it desperately,” he replies.

You mold your face into a hard mask of indifference before you say something stupid.

“I must admit,” Taehyung begins. “I'm a little older than I look."

You stare at him like you’re trying to read a book. It’s true, he doesn’t look a day over thirty.

Jimin clears his throat.

"I'm not exactly...from here," he says, and when you look at him you swear you see something shift underneath his shirt.

The man in the peacock chair shifts.

"I'm a little more tuned into nature than most people," Yoongi adds. It’s only then that you notice that the dried flowers in their vases are leaning towards him like he’s the sun.

Jungkook is fidgeting in his chair, avoiding your gaze. But you can gather as much from the pallor of his skin and the deep-set dark circles under his eyes, both of which become clearer and easier to see the more times you look at him.

He has a ghostly air about him, like a whisper in the wind.

You look at Namjoon, and he smiles with a shrug.

"I just run a bookshop," he says.

A shared laugh sounds around the table. Namjoon rolls his eyes.

"Okay, maybe I've made a few blood pacts, but I'm a folklorist for Christ's sake!"

You genuinely can’t tell if he’s joking, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. Though, judging by what you’ve seen tonight, he’s probably telling nothing but the truth.

Finally, you turn to Hoseok.

“I’m…not all there,” he says, and you wait patiently for more.

He scratches the back of his head, looking like he’s trying to find the right words.

“You can see me sitting here, but it’s only half of me. You can touch me and hear my voice, but it’s not actually me. I need to be…contained.”

Now you’re staring at him in confusion.

“You ever read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?” Namjoon asks.

Before you can answer, another loud clang of the bell is sounding. Everyone else merely looks at the clock, but you flinch violently at the skull-rattling volume of the noise.

Jin wipes the corner of his mouth with his cloth napkin and pushes his chair back. Everyone else does the same, covering their now empty plates with the silver cloches.

Hoseok rises to a stand.

“Would you like to join us for coffee and cocktails in the library? Dessert should be ready shortly,” Hoseok says, though it doesn’t sound much like question when he heads down the hallway without waiting for an answer. And apparently it didn’t sound like a question to anyone else either, because Jimin and Taehyung are soon pulling you up from your chair and leading you out of the room, with Jimin even wrapping one arm around yours as Taehyung presses himself to your side.

The library is a dark room, no less grand than the rest of the house, with the same candlelit chandelier and sconces. Floor to ceiling bookshelves wrap themselves around the entirety of the room, complete with a wooden ladder on a sliding rail. There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace, and plenty of leather chairs and couches gathered around it.

Jimin lets you go when the door is shut securely behind you.

“Who wants a drink?” Jin asks, heading over to the bar cart in the corner, but you’re more drawn to the tea set on the low table by the fireplace. It’s all black and gold, with little images of ravens on the cups and saucers.

You pour yourself a cup with cream and sugar, taking a languid sip and relishing in its perfect richness.

Jin distributes the drinks as he prepares them without having to ask anyone what they want. A glass of white wine for Taehyung, something sparkling and slightly radioactive looking for Jimin, that same blackberry concoction for Hoseok, hot toddies for Namjoon and Jungkook, and a glass of some citrusy cordial for Yoongi. When you get a closer look at his glass you notice that Jin even took the time to carve a little jack-o-lantern face into half a tangerine as a garnish.

Jin makes himself the dirtiest martini you've ever seen, with only half the glass with liquid in it, the top half being a copious pile of olives.

“So, detective,” Hoseok says, leaning against one of the bookshelves. “How can we be of service?”

Your eyebrows raise.

“You want to help?” you ask, still incredulous. Because to be honest, you’re not quite sure what the purpose of this evening is supposed to be. To intimidate you? Confuse you? Judging by the fact that you stalked them because they fell under your radar of suspicion. You figured that if they were going to offer to help they could’ve done it with an email.

“Of course,” Taehyung says from his seat on one of the couches. “The last thing I want is more bodies on my autopsy table due to deaths that could’ve been avoided.”

“And something is harming the wildlife,” Yoongi adds.

You set down your cup and saucer, digging in your bag to start spreading papers all around you.

“What’s the deal with the mayor?” you ask.

“She's...unpopular with the general population," Namjoon offers. "A little too different."

"She won the election, didn't she?" you counter.

"By the skin of her teeth," Jimin replies. "Minority vote kicked in at the last second. And a lot of people aren't happy about it."

"Different, huh?" you say. The implication is clear.

"Or at least, her ancestors were, and I think her daughter is too. Tends to run in the family, stuff like that," Taehyung adds.

"She looks out for those like us," Yoongi says. "When she can, that is. It's gotten a little harder these days."

"Why is that?" you ask.

Yoongi shrugs.

"That's just how it goes. Some times are harder than others."

"Is that why the mayor wanted everything off the record? Why there's hardly been any media coverage?" you ask.

"That's what I'm guessing," Yoongi replies.

"She's paying me out of pocket," you inform them.

"That doesn't surprise me much," Namjoon adds. "She's always been too generous for her own good. I imagine she cares more about this strange case than most of her colleagues."

"So she knows about all of your…proclivities? That’s why she sent me your way?” you ask.

“I’d be surprised if she didn’t,” Yoongi replies. “Normal people tend to think we’re weirdos, but those who are like us know when they’re looking in a mirror.”

"What about the paper?" you ask.

Their expressions cloud with confusion.

“Uh, what about it?”

Ah, have you finally breached the topic of something they want to hide?

“Several people have claimed to have negative experiences with the press, but the main publishers have barely commented on any of the cases.”

“Oh, you mean the Periscope Press,” Taehyung supplies.

Hmm, maybe they don’t have anything to hide after all. But that doesn’t mean you trust them yet.

“It’s an underground newspaper, independently published, geared towards folks like us. Though it’s mostly full of garbage these days, we don’t have a subscription,” Taehyung explains.

“We can get you copies of the last few editions, though,” Jungkook adds, startling you a little since you haven’t heard him speak much tonight. He suddenly looks down at his shoes like he just realized the fact too.

“If you want,” he says, this time in nearly a whisper.

“That would be great, thank you,” you reply graciously, though he continues to avoid your gaze.

“So, detective,” Hoseok begins, and with the drink his voice is a touch more gravelly. “What’s your next move?”

They’re all looking at you now, curious and waiting.

You look down at your notes and fight the urge to clench your fist, because to honest, you’re not sure.

“I’m sure our little sleuth has a plan,” Jimin quips from his place sprawled out across one of the couches.

“I’d like to get access to Bradley’s reports and records, and wear down Mrs. Bradley if at all possible,” you begin, forming a list in your head. “I’d like to continue fieldwork around the woods and the lake, maybe see if anyone at the university can do some tests on those unusual mushrooms. I’ll be continuing my rounds around town to see if any civilians have anything to offer. Hopefully I can get some more information on the ones still missing.”

“And the lake?” Jimin asks.

You don’t want to talk about the lake. Thinking about it puts a sinking feeling in your gut, the stench of hot poisoned salt water filling your nose.

You don’t want to talk about what you saw. In your line of work, simply seeing isn’t enough. All that matters is hard evidence. So that’s what you’re gonna get.

Downing the dregs of your coffee cup, you start to gather up your notes.

“You’re leaving?” Jimin says, sounding wounded. “Before dessert?”

“I’m afraid there’s some things I wanted to get done tonight,” you say, ready to retreat back into your hole and dive back into the distraction of your work, where there aren’t several pairs of sultry dark eyes watching your every move.

“I suppose it is getting late,” Hoseok says. Though he doesn’t mention that many of them either don’t need to sleep or simply prefer to be active into the darkest hours of the morning.

“Let us send you home with some goodies, hm?” Hoseok nods to his housemates.

Jin cuts you slice of blue velvet cake, packing it up in a little bento box container.

You object at first, saying you don’t want to take a container as nice as this one, but Jin just retorts with a wink, saying that you’ll just have to come back sometime to return it.

Yoongi takes some cuttings from one of the dining room table centerpieces, adding some clippings from plants around the house as fillers, and wraps the bouquet in brown paper tied neatly with a bow. He hands it to you with a shy expression.

Namjoon gifts you a small stack of books, bound together by a leather strap, with The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde at the top of the pile. He gives you a smile when you notice.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Jungkook says when they lead you through the dark halls to the front door, which you didn’t expect.

He carries your gifts as the two of you travers first the cobblestone path and then the small hill down to where you parked your car.

“Sorry we’re so strange. And vague. I imagine it’s frustrating,” he says suddenly.

The walk up to this point has been completely silent, so the sound of his voice startles you just a bit.

“Yes, you’re all very weird,” you say, and Jungkook’s face sinks.

“If any of you ever change I’ll be very disappointed,” you finish, and that puts a full smile on his face, full enough that you can see the bunny-like jut of his front teeth.

A few moments of silence, the wind singing a low song.

“You’re very cynical, you know,” he says.

That makes you look at him, but his face is that same neutral expression, dark eyes wide like a young doe’s. He says it like a simple observation, not with the judgmental you’re used to hearing.

“Am I?” you reply, unable to choke back the little sarcastic bite to your tone.

He nods.

“You think no one could ever believe you just for the sake of believing you. You think you need to prove yourself.”

You stare at him, long and hard enough to miss the fact that the two of you have reached your car.

He opens the door for you, and you’re glad that you’re heading to the safety of your home because all these kind gestures are starting to make you feel weird.

After you start the engine, Jungkook leans down to look at you through the open window.

“Try not to worry about the case so much,” he says softly. “Trust your instincts, you’ll figure it out.”

There’s a moment of silence where you stare at him some more, wondering how a man who’s been so quiet and shy for the duration of the evening can shock you dumb with just a handful of words.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” you manage after a while. “And thank the others for a lovely meal.”

He nods and smiles, backing up to let you drive off down the hill.

Back at home, you make a fresh pot of coffee and tuck into that slice of cake while you draft an email to the mayor detailing your most recent findings.

Then you look through all the books you have on mushrooms, even go to the internet, but you find absolutely nothing on Pepperwood caps. To the rest of the world, they don’t exist.

You fall asleep with The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde lying open in your hand.

~~~

a/n: thanks for your patience! :)

[inoreuct]

i mean- if youre willing to write the angstier version 🥺🥺

https://www.tumblr.com/inoreuct/738704605780885504/thinking-about-zoro-being-the-crews-main

more than willing 🤭 enjoy!!

everything kind of hurts when nami comes to.

she honestly can’t tell if she’s opened her eyes or not; it’s all pitch black, and her eyelids feel gummy. the lashes of her left eye are crusted together with what’s probably the same thing making her forehead stiff, so that’s most likely blood. lovely.

the back of her skull bumps against something hard and cold with damp as she cranes her neck around, trying to get her bearings, and she can bend her wrists just enough to confirm that those are chains wrapped around them above her head. it's still too dark to see but she can smell salty air, mildew and rust, hear the vague murmur of the ocean; her body feels sore and stiff all over but she can't have been hanging here long. her shoulders haven't started hurting the way she knows they can.

something moves within the shadows ahead, and nami deliberately keeps her breathing even as footsteps get closer to her. the person reaches the wall to her left and pries something away— a plank, she realises, as moonlight starts spilling through the barred window and the face of her visitor is thrown into sharp relief.

the man is pale, slim to the point of being gaunt with a greasy, grimy quality about him; she presses her teeth together as he slinks forward and clasps his hands behind his back and cocks his head.

“cat-burglar nami,” he begins, beady eyes blinking. "tell us your plans."

her eyebrows go up in a flash, lips pinching in bemusement. getting right to business, are we? "we don't have any," she laughs, and chokes when a fist sinks into her gut.

she admits that she hadn’t expected that as she sputters, coughing as her lungs burn. people usually work up to it; a little bit more forceful questioning and a couple of threats against, say, anything and everything she’s ever loved, and then she’d figure they’d start punching. this man, or whoever he represents— they’re desperate.

and he just proves her right, god, men are so predictable. "what do you mean, you don't have any?" he spits, jagged nails digging in as he grabs her chin forcefully.

nami chuckles again, weak huffs that make her chest heave. her shoulders are starting to ache. “we see someone that needs help and we help them. we don't plan anything."

another swing, straight to her solar plexus. "where's your crew?"

"you don’t… interrogate people often, do you?” she wheezes, and holds her breath as his fist draws back again. the pain bites and then blooms across her cheek, blood-hot and thrumming like an infection, and she works her tongue between tooth and soft flesh, the pocket around her lower gums as she bares a grin and turns her head.

"where is your crew."

this time, when nami's laugh flutters from her mouth, blood goes with it. "here." she takes great pleasure at the fear that singes the edges of the man's face before he tries to blank it again. it’s not very effective. "they're here."

"impossible," he sneers. "we're on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere."

it’s false fucking bravado and it fills her with a sick sense of glee as she smirks at him through sweat-sticky lashes. "impossible's what we're best at, if you haven't noticed." she has no doubt that her nakama have already tracked her down. it’s a matter of time before luffy takes the roof off this place or sanji kicks the door down with a flaming leg.

the third possibility, well— this guy better hope it’s not zoro that comes for her.

she watches as the man digs into his pocket, his breathing harsh. “fine.” the brass knuckles he slips over his fingers gleam in the low light, a pretty polished bronze, and nami’s mouth goes dry. “you don’t wanna tell me? fine.”

all she knows for a while after that is pain. hell, she’d never even been beaten this badly under arlong’s thumb, and aside from the occasional swat to the wrist her mother hadn’t hit her either. this, though— it’s slam after slam of metal into her gut with a hand pinning her shoulder to the wall. her entire body shuts down for a moment when the hard edges jab into her liver, and she chokes back a scream when she feels her ribs snap seconds after she hears them break.

the air feels too thick when he finally pulls back, damp with her own breath, her body hot all over and shivery with pain. this isn’t an interrogation— this is someone taking out their frustrations, and it’s confusing because she doesn’t even know one, who this guy is and two, what they did to warrant such a violent retribution because, and she reiterates, she has no idea who the fuck this guy is. if it turns out that he’s just a nobody who got too ballsy she is going to be relieved but so, so mad.

her entire body’s starting to feel like one big bruise. the joints of her arms burn as she tries to lift herself up, to take some weight off her shoulders, but a cold chill settles in the pit of her stomach when she sees the glint of metal. something else, as if the knuckles weren’t enough— silver this time, sharp and liquid, and she is gonna throw luffy in the godsdamned ocean for taking his own sweet fucking time because where the hell are they.

her new personal annoyance breathes a huff of a laugh as he slowly drags the knife down the front of her blouse (and thank god she’d decided to wear one today), grazing over the shiny buttons until there's a soft snck and the dull sound of the very last one clattering to the floor. "still not talking?”

…okay, that's it. time to get out of here. "fuck you," she says loudly, turning her face towards the window so her voice carries even as she keeps her eyes on the leering bastard in front of her. hello? she wants to yell, the voice in her head steeped in annoyance and fringed in just the tiniest bit of anxiety. i needed backup in here ten minutes ago? ring ring? anyone there?

she can see the looks on her crewmates’ faces. luffy would have that big sheepish grin on, one hand pressed to the top of his hat on his head as she reams him out for their tardiness before he blames it on zoro, the swordsman looking off to the side with a hand on his hilts, in a stubborn sulk.

the knife digs into her cheekbone, grimy fingers squishing her face, and nami grins as she chokes out the first name that comes to mind, under her breath and half-mouthed. "zoro."

he's here, she's sure. her crew is already here and he’ll hear her, he always does. she can feel it in her bones, in the blood that's dripping from her chin, because zoro's never let any of them down. he’s one of the first people who had understood the weight of guilt and unwanted responsibility crushed onto her shoulders, even through her betrayal, and he’d fought for her freedom without hesitation. he won't let anything happen to her. luffy wouldn't, sanji wouldn't, usopp wouldn't— they're gonna get her out of here and then she’s gonna see these bastards burned to the fucking ground.

nami’s a pretty thing, she knows. all short skirts and slender hands and freckled skin but she packs a punch, and she can take one too. she’s held out this long and she can do longer if need be.

she isn’t afraid to ask for help anymore, either— not since then, that faraway time when she’d pushed metal through the only physical evidence of her ties to the man who she’d nursed so much hatred for, hatred that she’d turned into strength.

the man pushes her face away and the tip of the knife nicks across her skin, a shallow slice down to the right side of her upper lip and then the knife is moving, a bright flash of silver, and her voice breaks when it stabs right into her shoulder.

it fucking burns. the tip wedges between the joint, slowly snapping cartilage as the man twists it with a cackle, and she seethes through her teeth. luffy had taught her that strength was asking for help. that admitting that you need someone to save you, if only in that moment, is the bravest thing anyone could do. zoro had taught her to wield it like a weapon, to withstand the strongest of the storms of her own creation—

and she grins, now, as the blade cuts through her flesh and blood drips into her mouth, eyes wild. “zoro!”

the knife drives deeper into her shoulder, white-hot. "cry all you want. they won't get here in time."

that pain is a reminder that she is alive.

her core tenses as she kicks off the wall and drives her boot into the man's gut, heel slamming into his spleen— it winds him enough that he doubles over gasping and nami smiles painfully wide, a wild, vindictive thing. "fuck. you."

“you’re gonna regret that, bitch,” he hisses, and he’s shaking, trembling as he drags himself upright and nami knows that by the gods, he’s only human and she’ll kick him again. she’ll kick him as many times as it takes. sanji would be so proud.

she huffs a laugh, mean and low and raw as she presses her cheek against her bicep and lets her head tip down. she’ll rest, just for a little while before she gets back to fighting and clawing like a bat out of hell. something flickers at the edges of her vision, warm orange bleeding into the peripheral even through her lowered lashes and a soft, whispering crackle that carries on the breeze, smelling of ash— fire. a resounding boom shakes the walls and the man’s head snaps to the window, to say something or maybe to yell—

nami doesn’t get the chance to find out before a blade cleaves him clean in two.

the vertical halves of his body stay frozen for a split second before they slide apart and crumple into a mess of pink and ivory, slick red on the rough-hewn floor. wado gleams wickedly in the moonlight as zoro flicks the gore off her blade, shining silver streaked with the same blood that drips from the swordsman’s face.

“witch,” he grits out, eyes blazing beneath his bandana as he pushes a seething breath through his teeth, and there’s clear worry in the way he uses the side of his hand to push her sweaty bangs off her face and tilt her head up. it reminds her of her mother checking her forehead for fever, and she almost laughs. “you good?”

nami’s eyes burn as she stares at him tiredly. “no. i’m not fucking good,” she deadpans. “get me down.”

sparks shower down above her head as zoro cuts through the chain stringing her up, and her stomach swoops when she drops before an arm catches her around the waist. she cries out as it hits her ribs directly and zoro swears, his sword clattering— and then nami's world tilts as she's leaned carefully against the wall and zoro's face swims into view.

"hands out."

"what took so long?" she snaps weakly, trying to catch her breath. her hair bunches against the wet, grimy stone, and now that there's nothing to worry about she almost gags.

"they weren't completely stupid. took a while to find you," zoro grits, voice tight, before his face softens. "now put your hands out."

it's a struggle to lift them but she manages, albeit with her arms lopsided. the iron shackles around her wrists and rusted and heavy, tight enough that the skin of her wrists is itching, and her arms ache something fierce as zoro slices through the short chain connecting them and then eases his blade through the scarce gap between metal and skin to pop them open one by one.

she hears a cannon boom again. franky, probably— the walls shake and all of a sudden she’s aware of the raw relief coursing through her system, so much that it hurts, like blood rushing back to a limb. she’s lightheaded with it. or perhaps that’s… something else, she ponders faintly, as a knee buckles underneath her and zoro hauls her up before she can fall.

"just hang on, witch, i've got you,” she hears him murmur, squinting at him in the orange light as she’s lifted horizontal, an arm below her back and one beneath her knees.

her own arm flops uselessly, blood soaking her sleeve and collecting in the crease of her elbow. nami reaches up to find purchase and digs her manicured nails into the swordsman’s trapezium. "zoro."

a pause in movement as he looks down. "hm?"

she pulls herself up enough (or pulls him down enough, she can’t tell) to look him in the eye and says, low and dangerous, "i can't do it myself right now, so— give them hell, but don’t kill them. make an example of them. make them a warning.” the last word is spoken quiet enough that she can barely hear it herself, and zoro’s eyes are deadly serious. “death’s a privilege i don’t want them having just yet."

she can tell that the idea doesn't sit well with him; he bristles like an angry cat and his nostrils flare, but she knows he understands when he jerks a nod at her all the same as they step through the busted door and past piles of bodies, all the way out until they’re graced by the last smears of yolk-orange sun across the sky.

somewhere, luffy laughs.

nami shifts and as far as she can see, her crew is going fucking ham. she watches usopp shoot a man point-blank in the face with something that explodes in a shower of red dust and sends him twitching to the ground. another guy goes flying as jinbei quite literally throws him, and a whole row of goons get slammed into a crumbling wall as her captain swings his arm.

“cook!” zoro roars over her head, and it’s barely a second before sanji’s cutting a path towards them, kicking enemies out of the way left, right and centre before he stops right in front of nami.

his mouth parts in a silent question even as his eyes grow stormy blue with anger, face darkening when his gaze locks with zoro’s, and neither of them need to say anything. sanji just nods, solemn, before zoro carefully hands her off and makes sure she’s settled. wado sings as he pulls her out of her scabbard, and he’s relatively out of sight with a spray of coppery red.

nami swallows, suddenly very aware of her dry throat as her temple thumps down on his shoulder, and she gets the sudden ridiculous urge to apologise for her half-dried blood dirtying his suit.

“none of that,” he hushes, and fuck, she must be more out of it than she realised if she’s speaking out loud. sanji chuckles tightly. “you're alright, my dear. we've got you now."

she cranes her neck slightly to check her immediate field of vision, counting off mentally. "where’s everyone else?"

"taking care of things." an elegant hand appears and curls around her broken ribs, making sure they don't jostle as robin walks calmly into view. her beautiful face is serene. “they hurt one of ours. nobody except our crew is walking out of this place.”

nami blinks at her, limbs leaden, eyes narrowing with an irritated sigh as she cradles her injured shoulder against her body. “somebody better get my fucking clima-tact.”

she passes out.

*

the world is a soft blur when nami wakes, like she’s seeing things through dandelion fluff. or pain meds. probably pain meds. she knows she’s in chopper’s infirmary; the smell of antiseptic is painfully sterile, and she is glad of it. she vaguely remembers being carried in, sanji’s voice pitched low, someone sponging the blood from her skin as chopper’s hooves carefully prodded her torso.

the mattress dimples under her fingers and she jerks a little at the sound of slippers pattering towards her, cutting off abruptly with a yelp and a few hissed words. luffy’s hat is lopsided, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

she slips back into unconsciousness with a smile on her face.

*

the next time she comes too, she’s still in the infirmary. she doesn’t open her eyes just yet— soft breathing fills her ears, slightly raspy, a soothing rumble like the earth itself is shifting. she knows it’s zoro. it couldn’t be anyone else.

sure enough, the swordsman is asleep next to her pallet, squished into a chair that’s slightly too small with his arms crossed and his chin dipped to his chest.

nami coughs loudly, immediately regretting it as her chest and shoulder flares with pain, and then deciding that it’s worth it when zoro nearly tumbles out of his seat.

they stare at each other for a while. nami raises an eyebrow after three seconds of zoro being wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “how long was i out?”

the swordsman recovers himself with a swallow and a hand scrubbed through his hair. “not long. it’s the second morning after.”

she hums. “who were they?”

“a bunch of idiots who got lucky. we just jumped in and beat the shit outta them like usual.”

a muscle twitches in her forehead because god, they really were just idiots with balls too big for their pants. “and where are they?”

“marooned on that island, s’far as anyone’s concerned. luffy and franky turned their ship to splinters.” the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth is a feral, satisfied thing. “ain’t no way they’re going anywhere anyway, even if they still had a boat. probably can’t even get their sorry asses off the sand. we didn’t kill them—” he says before she can get a word in edgewise, and nami closes her mouth, “but they’re closer to death than life, that’s for damn sure.”

a second’s pause, before she deems the answer satisfactory. “the others?”

“resting. or on watch.”

and it sounds to her for once like there’s nobody rootling around in the kitchens. “awfully quiet, no?”

zoro huffs a laugh, knowing what she means immediately. “the cook told luff to keep it down.”

both her brows go up at that. their captain is not one usually inclined to keep it down. “surprised he listened.”

“he does what he wants.” zoro shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “and he wants you to get better, so he listened.”

maybe it really is the simplest thing in the world. luffy is simultaneously layers upon layers and one thin sheet. he is so much and yet still so simple in the way that he cares. nami takes stock for the first time, vision widening to encompass the rest of the room. it’s early morning, early enough that the top of the sky is still dyed dark, pale blue and pink streaking the rest. her body aches all over, concentrated in her shoulder and ribs, bandages looped in layers beneath the soft, loose shirt that she’s pretty sure is sanji’s. there are dark circles smudged under zoro’s eyes and his hair is loose. her clima-tact sits on the table nearby, as does—

luffy’s hat glows in the early dawn, individual strands lighting up like spun gold. it’s old and battered and worn thin. it makes nami’s heart feel warm.

“sorry."

she blinks, turning back to zoro to find him with his head bowed, hands clenched tightly in his lap. “…hey."

"i'm sorry," he says again, taking a deep breath that shifts his massive shoulders as he sits back. "we should've gotten there sooner. they shouldn't have been able to get to you at all—"

"hey." nami pushes a palm against the mattress to sit up before the pain makes her decide against it, grimacing. "don't be stupid. you got there before anything happened."

zoro's eyes are blazing when he finally looks up. "that's bullshit. the fact that they got you at all is—” he bites off his words, chest rising with a measured inhale that she suspects doesn’t help much. “and something happened, witch. a lot happened. you're bruised half to hell. they broke your ribs. your shoulder—"

"will be fine," she stresses, rolling onto her uninjured side to face him.

“your face.”

“superficial.” nami reaches up to press her fingers over the bandage on her cheek, feeling the silhouette of stitches beneath. unbothered by the way zoro’s seething. “our doctor’s one of the best. at worse, now luffy and i match.”

“you’re missing the point,” zoro grits, fists and teeth clenched so hard they both creak. “this wasn’t supposed to happen. nothing like this. not with me around.”

she knows her physical injuries aren’t all he’s talking about. knows he’d noticed the missing button on her shirt. knows that it’s guilt that’s eating him up inside, staining his undereyes the same purple as her bruises and putting that haunted look on his face.

nami sighs. zoro's a dumbass on a good day and he's got the emotional awareness of a brick wall, but of course he has to get this of all things.

she says it sarcastically in her head, but the thought makes her want to curl up and cry. the way he’s staring at her, wide-eyed and waiting for her judgement, makes something in her ache so fondly that she sniffs before she looks down.

he looks his age, for once. not a child anymore but also barely a man. too young to have so much weight on his shoulders, but aren’t they all? the words would be easy to say. it’s not your fault. don’t beat yourself up over it.

but mercy towards himself a language in which zoro is still not yet fluent, so for now she’ll defer to a more familiar tongue. "i'm fine. promise,” she mutters, looking down like she doesn’t mean it with everything she has. like she wouldn’t say anything to make him feel just a little better. “but you keep up with this attitude and i'll add to you debt."

he sputters, weak but still incredulous. "i just saved you, you witch."

"so?" she swallows her heart as she arches a brow. "you didn't do it fast enough. what's your point?"

"you're a tyrant," he breathes, rolling his eyes and huffing a loud breath as he looks away.

nami smirks. "a tyrant who budgets for your liquor with our beri, might i remind you. now go get your cook to make me a snack."

"he's not my cook!" zoro hisses, half in shock, getting up on reflex like a startled animal to yank the door open and storm out.

nami can’t help it— she laughs as tears spill hot down her cheeks, and she swipes them away so her bandage stays dry. it feels so good to be able to banter like this again. she hears her crew now, their voices rising and falling as zoro breaks the news, the cheers going up against the still morning air; it warms her through like fire on a brisk winter’s day. the gauze wound around her torso restricts her movement, but nami eases herself back down into the pillows with a sigh and let the noise of her nakama wash over her.

it soothes the ache. they always do.

(zoro returns within ten minutes with a slice of tangerine cheesecake and a mug of rich, creamy chocolate. sanji's drawn a spiky, frowning mossball on the top with milk foam, and she giggles when she looks up and zoro's making the exact same expression.)

(later, before the sun is even properly up in the sky, her crew curls around her in the tiny room she’s temporarily calling her own. they sit on every available surface and take up every available space, in the infirmary, in her heart; luffy’s cross-legged at the foot of the bed, beaming at her with a mouth full of chocolate biscuit. robin’s hands lift her hair off the nape of her neck. franky’s knitting some sort of sweater with yarn that’s coincidentally her favourite colour, and jinbei’s voice is deep and calming as he chats quietly with brook.

zoro stands, a silent sentinel by the door, arms crossed and brow lowered, and when she catches his eye his face softens.

“you gonna stand there all day?” she asks, brow arching in expectation, and she scoots over to make space for him to squeeze in next to sanji by her hip. their lack of squabbling does not escape her notice, but she’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth— she’ll enjoy her peace and save it for another day.

and there will be another day. she’s planning on sailing with this crew for a long, long time.)

(even later, after everybody else has filed out of the room, zoro remains by her hip. his face is shadowed and unreadable.

“they should have died for what they did to you,” he says, low and soft. not tightly, no, not when she’d already told him it wasn’t what she wanted— not a protest. just a statement.

“you already bisected the one who did it first-hand,” she hums with her thumb shoved halfway through the middle of a tangerine, oil misting into the air, pith gathered beneath her nails as she pries it apart. “isn’t that enough?”

zoro doesn’t look up as he shakes his head, hands clasped in his lap, and nami feels something in her chest soften because zoro, for every good thing he is, has never been one to address how much he cares, and this— this allowance, however indirect, for her— it means a lot. it means everything.

his head snaps up with a frown as the piece of rind she throws smacks him square between the brows, staring down at the slice of fruit she offers him next like it’s something alien.

he shoves it in his mouth anyway, and she bites back a laugh.

they don’t say much more. they don’t need to.)

[stevebattle]

S.A.M by "Bill" (1978). "S.A.M (Short for "Sentient, Autonomous Mechanism" or "Smart Ass Machine", depending on his (and my) mood on a given day, was one of my first real robot projects, started in 1978 when I was around 15. His "brain" was a single-board Z-80 computer (the big square object in the middle of his "back" in this picture), with many bits of TTL I/O, a couple of serial ports, a bunch of counter-timers, and several D/A & A/D channels. The base was taken from the book "How to Build a Computer Controlled Robot" by Todd Loofbourrow - I had built the robot in the book, and had used my KIM-1 to control it. Later, I decided that just a little platform was kind of boring, so I added the upper torso shown here. The torso (mounted on a "lazy-susan" turntable bearing) is rotated by a heavy-duty gear motor driving a chain and sprocket assembly from a bicycle. The base is powered by two of the (apparently no longer available, which is sad) all-metal rubber-tired "motorized wheel" assemblies that Herbach & Rademan used to sell, with a large rubber-tired caster in front. The head platform (mounted on a small "lazy-susan" bearing) was originally rotated by a surplus gearbox from a Mattel "Big Trak" with some rubber-tired wheels mounted on the output shafts. This arrangement was later replaced by a small gear-head motor driving a large gear mounted to the center of the turntable. The device in the head with the tubes sticking out the front is a directional light tracking device. Each tube has a CDS photocell at the bottom, and is painted flat black inside. A comparator circuit tells the computer which direction the brightest light is coming from. This device could also tilt up and down with a small gear-head motor, to track light sources vertically. Most of the circuitry was installed on small plug-boards from Radio Shack, mounted in a card rack below the CPU card. This rack could be tipped back 90 degrees to facilitate easier access for testing. In addition to motor driver circuits, there was a "Sweet Talker" speech synthesizer board so he could talk. Power came from a large "gel-cell" marine battery (for powering trolling motors on boats), which was slung near the ground in the center of the base. Two 6V lantern batteries (later replaced by a 12V motorcycle battery) provided separate power for the electronics. All motors were isolated from the electronics via relays and/or opto-isolators. After these pictures were taken, a set of metal panels was installed on the "facets" of the base, with lever switches behind them for collision sensing. A Polaroid sonar range-finder was also added later. If you check out the other photos of S.A.M., you will notice an "arm" sticking out the front. This was a prototype made from an old swing-arm desk lamp and some "fingers" from a robot hand design using brass tubing, bicycle chain, and 1/16" steel cable to allow natural bending of each finger. It was later replaced with a much heavier duty aluminum framework arm operated by two 12VDC linear actuators." – My Home Robot Projects, by Bill.

[multi-dimensional-turtles]

Chapter 4: Enter Casey Jones

Finally this stupid hothead is in my story. I could have worked on this a bit more but I've spent too much time on it already. Almost 5k words again, and here's the ao3 link

The air was still warm, despite it being fall. April started classes again and was too busy with homework to hang out, so the turtles decided to just run around the city. Their mask tails fluttered in the wind as they jumped from rooftop to rooftop.

Leo was in the front, as always, and Raph followed closely behind him. Donnie was behind him, followed by Mikey bringing up the rear. The stars were out tonight, not that they could see most of them thanks to the city lights. But a few managed to shine through the light pollution.

“Nothing beats the surface,” Mikey said, putting his hands behind his head as they slowed down to a stop.

“Fresh air,” Donnie agreed.

“Great food,” Leo added.

“Humans,” Raph growled, his scowl adding to his obvious disdain.

His three brothers groaned in unison, tired of the same old spiel. Despite coming to the surface so regularly, Raph just can’t get past his distrust of humans. 

“Dude, can’t you just chill?” Leo asked.

“Not all humans are bad,” Donnie reminded him, eyes half lidded.

“Like April!” Mikey added with a wide smile.

Raph threw his arms open. “Am I the only one that remembers humans fear us?”

Mikey’s smile became more sly, his brow creasing. “April doesn’t.”

“One human! Not everyone is like her!”

“How do you know? Bet we can make a new friend tonight!”

“Mikey-” Donnie tried to intervene before their brother blew his top. He could see where this was going.

“Seriously?! Do you want to be killed?” Raph cut him off.

Mikey folded his arms and closed his eyes. “Not gonna happen! I’m so lovable, no one would hurt me!” Raph punched his arm “OW! Leo!”

“Enough!” their oldest brother yelled. “Both of you! Cool it, Raph!”

“Me?!” Raph put his hands on his chest. “Tell shellhead that!”

“Me?! You’re the paranoid one!”

“Paranoid?! I should-” Raph took a step forward.

Leo got between the two of them and pushed them back, grabbing their shoulders. “I said stop!”

Raph turned around. “Whatever, I’m outta here.”

“Raph wait!” Donnie stepped forward as his brother ran off, but Leo blocked him with his arm.

“Let him go, he needs to cool off.”

Mikey rolled his eyes, arms crossed again. “Yeah, he’s got a short fuse.”

Leo glared at him. “You didn’t help.”

“You’re paying for tonight's pizza,” Donnie added.

“What? No fair!”

Raph was jumping rooftops again, the buildings were getting shorter so the jumps were easier. He grumbled under his breath as he ran, “Stupid Mikey, stupid Leo.”

He would have continued complaining as he ran to burn off his anger and energy, but a sharp scream caught his attention and he came to a halt. He hesitated before peaking over the edge, praying he wasn’t caught. 

In an alley, a woman was running away as a man in a hockey mask stood between her and three other men. He had a hockey stick in hand, another on his back held in a bag. The other men had their own weapons, one a crowbar, another a chain, and one just held his fists out but there was a glint coming off of his knuckles.

The one with the brass knuckles ran first, taking a swing. He was way too slow, and thankfully Hockey Mask wasn’t as he stepped out of the way, raising his stick. It came down on brass knuckle’s neck.

Chains whipped through the air at Mask, making Raph lean forward to get a better view. He knew he wanted him to win, but for some reason a part of him wanted to get down there and help, and it wasn’t just because he wanted to fight. It looked like fun.

The chains wrapped around the hockey stick, and Mask reached back to grab the second stick as the man with the crowbar charged him. He pulled it out just in time to intercept the crowbar with a loud crack that echoed through the alley.

Mask pulled on the stick that had the chain wrapped around it, making the man stumble forward. He was swiftly kicked right in the stomach before Mask spun around to the final standing man, once again blocking the crowbar. This time he used both sticks, he made sure they were faced inward as he trapped the weapon between the two sticks and tugged it down, also pulling down the attacking man.

The vigilante tossed one of his hockey sticks and punched Crowbar while he was standing back up, knocking him down.

Raph smiled as the fight finished, feeling satisfied after seeing those jerks get what was coming to them. He knew his brothers were right, not all humans are bad, but those three definitely were if they were harassing a lady.

He was going to keep moving, there was nothing here for him anyway, but he stopped and leaned over the edge of the building again when Mask raised his hockey stick again. All three of the guys were still down, and he was standing over one, ready to still do some serious damage.

Normally Raph couldn’t care less what happens to jerks like that, but for some reason he found himself jumping down and onto a fire escape, shouting, “Wait!”

Mask turned around as he reached the alley floor, ready to fight another thug. He clearly wasn’t expecting a short ninja turtle, as he took a step back to fully turn around. “What the?” he asked.

The man he was about to attack pushed himself up with a loud groan, almost making Raph roll his eyes. Mask turned back around and raised his stick again.

“Oh no you don’t,” he threatened, but right before he swung, Raph trapped the stick in one of his sai’s.

“You’re going too far,” he warned, glaring up at him.

“So you’re one of ‘em, are ya?” Mask turned to face him, slipping his stick out of the weapon.

“If you think that’s true you gotta get your eyes checked.” 

“Well I don’t know what kind of costume you’re wearing, but I don’t see any Purple Dragon on you. But that doesn’t explain why you’re helping them.”

Raph squinted his eyes and looked at the three men laid in front of him. Now that he was closer, he was able to see tattoos and embroidered dragons on them. Stupid Purple Dragon gang, they’ve been growing bigger lately and April has felt uneasy walking alone because of them.

Being down here also gave him a better look at this masked guy. His hockey mask was clearly custom made, whether he made it himself or ordered it. It wasn’t the normal oval, instead it was shaped like a skull. Sharpie made out the lines for the teeth on the bottom and asymmetrical nose holes in a skull.

His clothes were a bit ruffed up, patches covering holes in his sweats, a shoulder brace with a pad on it went over a green jacket vest on his left shoulder. His hair was black and all over the place, like he fell right out of an 80’s rock concert.

“I’m helping them cause I don’t like to watch murder,” Raph retorted.

“Then look away!” Hockey Mask swung at him. Raph ducked down and ran forward, twirling his sai’s in his hands.

He went to strike with the pummel of his weapon, but Mask jumped out of the way, dodging by centimeters. He walked to the side, posed for the next attack. Raph saw where he was going, to his other stick.

So he ran to intercept him and the makeshift weapon, this time Mask swung low at him. Raph frontflipped over it, landing perfectly between his attacker and the stick.

“I ain’t as dumb as these other guys,” Raph warned.

“You’re a better fighter too, kid. But don’t get cocky, why don’t you run on home and work on your Halloween costume some more.”

“Says the man wearing the ugliest hockey mask I’ve ever seen.” Raph ran forward, stopping only to block the hockey stick.

Mask twisted his way around Raph, pulling his weapon back and swinging again. “Ugly?! I made this myself!”

Raph blocked the blow again. “That’d explain why it looks so bad.” He caught the next blow in his sai. He twisted it so Mask couldn’t pull it back.

Still he tried, sidestepping low and grabbing his other hockey stick. Raph cursed himself for letting him get close to it. He tried to catch the stick as it swung at him, but it was just an inch too low for his sai, and it ended up hitting him hard enough in the plastron to knock the breath out of him.

“Look kid, I don’t feel comfortable beating up some random teen, so why don’t you get running?” The stranger asked as Raph stumbled back.

“I’m not a kid!” He ran forward again. As a stick swung at him, he caught it in one sai, and spun the other in his hand. With an uppercut, his sai’s pummel hit the masked man on the chin, which was just barely visible.

“Gah! Motherfucker that hurt!”

Raph rolled his eyes. “Uh, yeah, it’s supposed to.” Behind the man, he saw the dragon’s quietly getting up and running off. It was about time.

Just as the last one turned the corner, he slowed and turned around, shouting, “We’ll get ya next time, Jones!”

The masked man, Jones presumably, turned to see them run. “Dammit! Look what you did!”

“Uh, I kept you out of prison?” Raph shrugged before getting back in a fighting stance.

“You let them get away! If they hurt someone else, that’s on you!” Jones pointed at him before turning to run off.

“Wait a minute, we’re not done here!” Raph shouted and gave chase. As they reached the street, he saw that thankfully the purple dragons were no longer in sight, must be hiding. However Jones jumped on a bike, an engine quickly roaring to life before he kicked off.

Raph slowed down to a stop, gritting his teeth. There was no use in chasing him now, but he didn’t have to be happy about it.

~~~

April adjusted her backpack to ease the tension in her shoulders. Today was one of her busier days, three classes in one day. Luckily they weren’t too long, but they all had their own textbooks. Physical ones too, why not just switch over to digital? It makes things so much easier.

Thankfully the campus wasn’t too far away from her apartment, just a few blocks away. It was already dark out, so April was planning on heating up some leftovers and crashing in bed, maybe she’ll even put on a show if she doesn’t pass out immediately.

It didn’t seem like there were that many people out on this side of town. That was fine, less potential pickpockets to deal with. A few shops were already closed, most of the restaurants she passed were still open.

It would be nice if she could get something to eat freshly made by someone else. Maybe tomorrow, she doesn’t have as many classes tomorrow, though she will have lots of homework. After her morning class, she should get started on her research essay. That means looking for resources and organizing her arguments. Maybe even writing the first paragraph if she’s lucky. By the time she finishes that, her second and final class of the day should start. Yeah, tomorrow will be a better-

Someone ran right into April, breaking her out of her thoughts as she kept herself from falling into the street. She turned around, mouth already open to chew them out, but her voice got caught in her throat.

The man had run out from an alleyway, he was pretty skinny but way taller than her. He wore a black denim jacket, his long hair was dyed purple. When their eyes met, his expression changed from one of terror to a desperate smile.

In the split second she got a good look at him, he was grabbing her and pressing something solid against her head. She grabbed his arm which wrapped around her throat and shouted in surprise, trying to pull away from what she could only assume was a weapon.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot her!” he warned, and April looked down the alley to see who he was talking to.

There was a man in a hockey mask and green vest. A bag was slung on his shoulder, and two hockey sticks were in his hand. He reminded her of the man Raph told her about a few weeks ago.

Around him, there were a few guys on the ground. More concerning were the ones who were still standing and surrounded him. The man in the hockey mask froze and April could swear she could see his eyes widen behind his mask.

“Let her go!” he shouted, taking a step forward. “She’s not part of this!”

“Not another step or her brains will splatter!” The gun was pressed harder against April’s head. She gasped in fear, on the verge of hyperventilating.

All she could do was look at the masked vigilante, not sure what she was asking him to do. The last thing she wanted was for someone to die, including her. She could feel his eyes on her as he lowered his weapons.

“Drop ‘em!”

He did, gaze back on the man holding her hostage. What April wouldn’t give to have her other friends show up.

One of the other men ran up from behind the masked man, raising his arms. April winced as his fists came down on the masked man, hitting right below the back of his neck. The vigilante fell to his knees, catching himself with his hands. But he didn’t make a move to get up.

They were going to kill him. She couldn’t let that happen, she couldn’t let someone die in front of her. April started breathing heavier, thinking of her options. She really only had three. Die, watch someone else die, or…

Biting on her lip, she let go of the man’s arm and raised her hand as fast as possible, hitting the hand that was holding the gun. He pulled the trigger and April screamed as the bullet went over her head.

The blast was deafening, and April felt dizzy as she pushed herself out of his arm. She wasn’t sure what to do now that she was free, but before the man could do anything to her, something came flying out of the alley and hit him square on the nose.

April realized it was a hockey stick, it was thrown like a spear and he was hit with the butt of it. As it fell, April grabbed it right as the heel hit the ground. She swung up as hard as she could, hitting the guy in the face once more.

His gun clattered to the ground just as he fell on his butt, screaming in pain and reaching for his face. April stayed frozen, snapping her head to the alley as the masked man tripped one of the other men before tucking his knees in and springing back to his feet with the other hockey stick in hand.

He smacked the other man in the neck, making him double over and choke for breath. April once again winced in sympathy, but took a step back as the masked man ran for her. She put a hand up to stop him, or maybe brace herself, but he took this opportunity to grab her hand and pull her away.

They started running down the street and it took April a moment to find her voice again. Once she did, she asked, “Wha- where are we going? What was that?! Who are you?!”

“I don’t know, Purple Dragons, not important,” the man answered.

“Purple Dra- the gang?!” She was not excited to run into them again. This is the second time she has, man she just has the worst luck.

There was a loud blast behind them and a bullet flew between the two of them, catching the masked man's crazy hair. April screamed in fear before the man pulled her into another alleyway. He turned at another corner, only to stop. Dead end.

“Shit, shit, okay,” he stepped between her and the entrance.

April looked around for something to do, still holding tightly to the hockey stick. She froze when her eyes landed on a manhole cover.

“Help me!” she told him, running to it and trying to pry it open. It was much harder than she anticipated, the turtles make it look easier than it really is.

“What-” he tried to ask, looking at her from the exit of the alleyway. He groaned before dropping down in front of her.

He grabbed onto the cover and together they got it off in no time. April wrinkled her nose but jumped in without hesitation, grabbing onto the ladder before she fell far. She dropped a few more rungs to make room for the masked man.

He climbed in quickly before her and pulled the manhole cover back on. They quietly climbed down the ladder and reached the concrete landing. When they reached the bottom, April heard him gag at the smell. No matter how many times she was down here, she couldn’t get used to the smell. How the others did it is beyond her.

She still shushed him. Right above them, they could hear loud footsteps.

“Where’d they go!” one of them shouted. “Where’d they fuckin’ go?!”

“Shit, did they go to another alley?”

“Go! Find them! I’ll kill that Jones guy myself!”

There were some more footsteps before it was finally quiet. April let out a breath, relaxing her shoulders. She turned to Jones and gave him a mean glare. Even though the lighting was dim, she got a better look at him now that they weren’t running from their lives. He was taller than her, and had a strong build. There were a few cuts on his arms but they were already drying.

She whisper-yelled, “What the hell was that?!”

“What?” He looked down from the manhole cover.

She gestured up. “That! Why were you fighting Purple Dragons, are you crazy?”

“No I’m not- I didn’t mean for-” he sighed, turning away from her. “Are you alright?”

“I had a gun to my head, no I’m not alright!”

“Are you hurt?!”

April stopped for a moment, letting herself focus on her body. Her lungs and legs ached and her hands were shaking, but that was it. “No, I’m not hurt. Now are you gonna answer my questions? Or are you just gonna keep avoiding them?”

“I think I’ll do the latter.”

“Oh come on, I was held hostage because of you! I think I deserve some answers.”

“They’re Purple Dragons, I don’t think I need a reason to fight them.”

She stared at him with wide eyes before nodding. “Got it, you’re crazy.” She turned around and started looking for some familiar landmarks. “Can I at least get your name?”

“Can’t I get yours first, Miss reporter?” he snapped back.

“April O’neil. Now yours.”

He sighed once more, raising his head to look up as his shoulders dropped. “Casey Jones. So, are we gonna stay here and wait for them to leave the area? Cause that could take hours, and it stinks down here.”

“No.” April took out her phone and turned on the flash. “There should be another way out. I just don’t want to pop out somewhere unfamiliar. Luckily I’m uh, a bit familiar with the sewer system thanks to some friends.”

“What kind of friends hang out in New York sewers? Frogs?”

That made April chuckle a little. “No but you’re not too far off.”

Casey frowned from behind his mask but followed as April started to lead the way. They didn’t walk very far before he felt his hair rise on his neck. There was the sound of four splashes that made him twist his head before wrapping his hand around April’s phone, killing the light.

“Hey-” she tried to argue, but he grabbed her and pulled her close to the wall, shushing her.

“We’re not alone,” he warned.

April held her breath before looking around herself. She saw two shadows, but the harder she looked, the more familiar they were. She couldn’t help but snort in amusement. 

“What? What is it?” Casey asked.

She just pulled herself away. “Oh nothing.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” a new voice said from behind Casey.

He jumped and turned around, swinging the hockey stick. It clanked against wood. April turned the phone flashlight to reveal Donnie and Mikey standing behind them. Mikey was smiling, and Donnie was rolling his eyes.

“What the!” Casey shouted and stepped back. “Where the heck did you come from?”

“Hey April,” Donnie greeted, ignoring Casey. “What brings you around here?”

“Yeah, we were just about to come see you when we heard your voice,” another voice behind them spoke up. They turned around to see Leo and Raph, the shadows April saw earlier.

She frowned slightly when she saw Raph scowling, glaring at Casey.

“What’s he doing here,” Raph asked, pointing his sai at Casey. The masked man held his hockey stick tighter.

“It’s you! I know you,” he growled.

“Yeah, and I know you too.”

April went between the two. “That’s enough, we are not fighting down here. I don’t care what you do out of the sewers on your own time, but we’re not doing this right now.”

Leo, of course it would be Leo, was the first to sense something was off. “What’s going on?”

“We were being chased by Purple Dragons, we just barely got away in time,” April answered.

“Purple Dragons again?” Mikey asked. “What is with those guys?”

“I think they’ve gotten bigger,” Donnie said. “Their territory has expanded, but what about the other gangs? Are they stronger now?”

“Okay what the heck is going on?” Casey interrupted their conversation. “Who are these… kids?”

April tried to speak up, but Raph beat her. “We’re ninja, so if you so much as tell your mom about us, we’ll find you and keep you quiet.”

“Oh yeah, I’d like to see you try. If I recall, I won our last fight.”

“Yeah, as if running away is winning.”

“Stop it, both of you!” April told them. “I said no fighting, what part of no fighting do you not understand?! I can’t think with all this yelling. Now let’s just-”

She froze when they heard metal slide against metal. Light cast down from the manhole cover, and someone poked their head in. Once he saw them, he pulled his head up and they heard a shout. “I found ‘em! There’s more now!”

“Goddamn it!” Casey moved to the front. “You guys go, I’ll hold ‘em back!”

“Like hell I’m gonna run away from a fight!” Raph said, moving in front of him as the Purple Dragons started entering the sewers.

“Raph wait!” Leo shouted, pulling out his swords. Casey gave chase after Raph did, and Leo quickly followed.

More than three Purple Dragons entered, they must have gotten back up or their buddies woke back up. Maybe even both.

When April saw the skinny guy who held her at gunpoint, and she couldn’t help but feel satisfied to see he was covered in blood from a nosebleed. Whether she gave him that or Casey didn’t matter, though she told herself that she had a hand in it.

“You should stay back,” Donnie warned before he and Mikey went to join in on the fight. 

She did just that, she couldn’t help but feel useless. Not that there was much for her to do. Raph and Casey were fighting like demons, spearheading the fight. Leo seemed to realize they wanted to fight, so he and his brothers just played as back up. Not letting them sneak up on the two hotheads or go after April.

“Bet I can take down more than you,” Raph egged Casey on, a smile creeping up on his face as he took one of the men down.

“Please, it won’t even be a challenge, short stack,” Casey shot back, smacking someone with the flat part of the hockey stick’s toe.

“I told you earlier, we’re ninja.”

“Kid ninja frogs? Yeah, real frightening.”

Raph hit someone in the face with the butt of his sai. “We’re turtles!”

“And teenagers!” Mikey added as he moved low and hit the back of someone's knee with his nunchuck.

“Okay he might be a kid,” Raph admitted, hitting the guy Mikey knocked over in the back of the head. “He’s only thirteen.”

“Hey! I’m officially a teenager now!”

“Mikey!” Leo shouted, pushing him down before a loud blast echoed through the tunnel. “Pay attention to the fight!”

The man with the gun was the same skinny guy from before. Casey smacked the gun out of his hand, which clattered into the sewage. That seemed to be the only gun in the fight. Raph then tackled the guy to the ground. “That’s my brother!” he shouted before punching the guy.

As soon as he was out cold, Raph got back up and went back to back with Casey. There weren’t that many men left so Donnie and Mikey stood on the sidelines. Leo joined them as soon as he finished the last man he was fighting.

With only two men left, Casey and Raph were the only ones left fighting them. Casey swung his hockey stick up, hitting the guy in the chin. At the same time, Raph punched his dude in the stomach before bringing his fists down on his head as he doubled over.

They both turned to each other and shouted, “I got four!” at the same time.

Casey frowned, “How’d you get four? I don’t believe it!”

Raph crossed his arms. “Well I’m just that good.”

“Yeah right, I have a hard time believing a kid tied with me.”

“Well you better believe it!”

Leo rolled his eyes. “That’s enough, boys.”

Raph huffed and put his sai’s away. Casey put his sticks away before rolling his shoulder. “Oh well, guess you guys fought pretty good for a bunch of frogs.”

“Tur-tles,” Raph hissed. “But you did pretty good too for a meathead.”

“So what do we do with these guys?” He gestured to the knocked out dragons.

Leo stepped in, “We should leave them for the police. That way we get them off the street and no one has a vendetta against any of us.”

“Not that anyone would believe them about you guys,” April said. “How are you guys going to get them up out of the sewers?”

“Well… I don’t think we have to. We’ll just call the police and say we heard a fight coming from a storm drain in the alley.”

“Well, less work for us I suppose.” April turned to Casey, eyeing him under her phone’s flashlight. With better lighting, she spotted a familiar green emblem on his shirt, just barely hiding under his vest on the left side of his chest. It was in the shape of a shield with a book in it and it was surrounded by a leafy wreath. “You should be heading home, if you don’t keep your grades up, you might not be able to play in the upcoming hockey game.”

Casey sighed, “Yeah, I- Wait what? What are you talking about?”

“You go to Eastlaird University, don’t you? I just guessed you played for the hockey team. Do they let you wear your custom hockey mask? Or is that just for vigilante stuff?”

He covered the emblem with his vest when he noticed her eyes bounce to it. “I could be a graduate.”

“You seem too young for that. Besides, you already admitted it. Guess I’ll be going to the next hockey game, Jones.” She walked past him and grabbed onto the ladder, the turtles quickly following her. Mikey and Leo were giggling.

“Nothing gets past her,” Donnie mumbled under her breath.

“Try not to wear anything that reveals your identity anymore,” Leo advised. “If she can figure it out, someone else can.”

Casey waited for them to have climbed up enough before following. Out of all the things he was expecting tonight, this was definitely not one of them.

“If I’m gonna be seeing you guys, can I at least get your names?” he asked once they reached street level.

Raph reached out a hand to help pull him out of the manhole. “I’m Raphael. Big blue over there is Leo.”

“I’m Donnie.”

“And I’m Mikey!” he ran up to him. “I knew there were more humans that wouldn’t hate us! Told you, Raph!”

“The first thing he did when he met me was pick a fight,” Raph argued. “But I guess that was because of a misunderstanding. We can’t all be smart.”

“Yeah you’re not either,” Donnie told him.

“Well, I’m gonna go home and take a shower. Try to forget the smell of sewage. Guess I’ll be seeing you all, fighting Purple Dragons and all that.”

“Don’t be a stranger dude,” Raph told him. “And stay out of jail. That means don’t kill anyone.”

“Yeah yeah, no promises on jail though.”

“Alright, let’s head to my place,” April said, watching Casey leave. “But I’m not buying take out this time. Sometimes I think you guys take more of my money than my landlord does.”

[publicabsent]

the house incident.

had she known such a predator waited for her, perhaps she never would have left the house that day.

midmarch air pushes against her hair, the smell of early spring flowers carried with it. the sky shines blue, happily unaware of the day it brings. the girl, too, expects nothing from her cursory glance at the overgrown lot.

the rusty chain fence seems to be the line for the brambles & the yellowed grass. the few trees among the brush seem almost burnt up & dead, gnarled bare to the branches. her feet freeze in place, hazel eyes finding the well-disguised maw of the beast -- an old house, somewhat victorian in style. she squints, seeing both a version condemned by neglect & a version painted an elegant mossy green. the green house focuses its image, the slate roof & white detailing seeming fresh. she remembers halfway, while still studying the house, that the gate into the fence was not open before. maybe it was, she reasons. perhaps i wasn't paying attention.

her feet carry her close enough to spot the deep blue curtains, drawn back to display an ornate hearth of dark wood. a house of luxury, to be sure. though the house seems unassuming, she can feel the iciness creep around her ribs like a warning. she shouldn't be here; she needs to go to the library -- in an act of betrayal, somehow, her hand uses the brass knocker. the face in the ornament leers at her. (had she even approached the front door?)

the oaken door swings in to reveal a rich foyer, creamy wallpaper offset by nearly black wooden accents. it feels as though the house itself wants her company, though the chill is creeping into her spine. yellow sneakers feel cemented to the earth, unable to enter or exit.

"oh," a warm, syrupy voice coos, "hello, dear, do please come in."

the medium's feet oblige, entering softly into the carpeted hall. the door closes behind her, jaw gently closing in. she hardly notices, more aware of the graceful blonde woman gliding toward her. the woman is dressed in a lavender housecoat, effortlessly fashionable for seemingly no audience. her hair is gathered into a braid that cascades over one shoulder. she must be a mother, the brunette thinks. one who reads bedtime stories & holds you close. a warm one.

"you must forgive my appearance, it's been quite a while since company ... well, never mind that, come into the parlor, will you? i shall put the kettle on."

practically ushering her guest into the room, the blonde woman nearly vanishes once the younger girl is shoved into a seat. though the room is beautiful, clearly the one she'd seen from the window, something feels wrong. it smells too old. almost rotted.

"here we are! it's just earl grey." the blonde woman sets a tray holding a delicate tea set onto the table. "oh, where are my manners," she chuckles, seemingly unbothered by her guest's silence. "lady isadora whitney. pleased to meet you, miss ... ?"

finally, the brunette speaks. "an -- annette. um. c-carli."

isadora fixes two cups of tea, allowing annette a better look at the intricate floral painting. white carnations & red poppies decorate the side of the porcelain cup, & the icy sensation intensifies.

"m -- m-miss, i ... i really sh - should --"

"go? oh, do stay, darling. you'll notice time is ... peculiar in this house. & company is so rare these days."

annette had figured she was a ghost. such a statement confirmed it. the spectacled medium looks into her teacup, eyes widening at the sick dark green that tinged the liquid. the internal chill was closing its fingers around her throat; she needed to run, but nothing moved. not until isadora, with surprising strength, hoists the living girl up by her upper arms, holding just slightly too tight.

"perhaps a tour of the house? i hope, annette, you shall find it most diverting. off we go, then."

the ghost drags her haphazardly through the labyrinthine corridors. old family portraits glower down at annette as she passes, feet failing to find reliable purchase. isadora's voice has not changed from the warmth it held, but something underneath it has shifted.

"you see, darling, the women of my family have had dreadful luck when it comes to families. husbands sent to war, sickly children, conniving in-laws. i was no exception. i'd had, oh, perhaps three husbands ... ? only sweet horace never betrayed me, if only because i didn't let him. i had the most wretched, ungrateful children, despite my love & care."

isadora releases her cargo, sending annette falling to her knees. despite the exquisite appearance of the floor, splinters enter & tear at the skin of her knees. the medium looks up at the lady of the house, finally seeing the change.

her limbs were longer, bonier. her kind face had shifted into something gaunt & burned away in places, her teeth like jagged crumbs of marble. once-lovely hair was brittle & singed. there was no time to notice the talons on isadora's fingertips before they sheathed themselves into annette's jawline, pulling her to her feet & into the spirit's face. she smells of burnt flesh & rot.

"i elected to make my own luck. a dinner, for all my family."

realization strikes the living girl as she is practically thrown into the burnt bones of a once-lovely dining room. the feeling of death permeates the charred room. (now that isadora's nails no longer hold her, she feels the blooding trickling down her neck. the stale, dusty air stings.)

isadora killed all of them.

"the children were easy enough. poison for the bigger ones, but the littlest two i simply smothered. since my care was so suffocating."

annette stands stock still, eyes unfocused on the room before her. if so many died here, why did only she linger? are they hiding? lying in wait? or maybe they're watching, waiting like vultures -- annette's shoulders & head slam against the flimsy wall, only feeling a slight give. one of isadora's arms is braced just under the medium's collarbone, but her other hand snatches a delicate wrist. her grip is tight, almost too tight. the brunette wails despite herself, the sound tearing at her frozen throat.

"listen when i speak, you pathetic little shit!"

a sharp wrench of her wrist, salty tears now mingling with both dust & the slowing trail of blood. hazel eyes are wide, & she distantly wonders whether her wrist is broken. isadora seems not to care, gripping fragile upper arms & pulling her guest along yet again.

as they wander the house, what first appeared warm & welcoming is now cold, tattered, & watching the stranger. isadora, in between brief flashes of violence, explains placidly what she had done.

her first husband, along with his new wife, met their ends with a garrote. the wife, "wee thing she was," all but lost her head. annette's queasy expression prompted a vicious yank at her curls, baring her throat. the command to feel no pity for "that whore & her employer" rattles in annette's skull, shaken about by the sharp strike to her face that follows. all the living girl manages through pain & tears are mouthed apologies & an attempt at stoicism.

isadora's second husband never remarried. a polite, soft-spoken sort of man, she claimed she pitied him. this pity precedes a non-fatal blow to the head & a hanging. as the ghost's grip slackened, in one single moment of daring, annette tries to run. but the claws return, raking gashes from shoulder to forearm.

another angry pull at her hair, nearly eliciting a scream. "running, you coward? poor creature. what do you have to run to? i cannot imagine --" another yank, the ghost's grip twisting in now-filthy hair -- "anyone wishing for your return, darling. do they even know you're gone?"

lady whitney's gnarled hand remains twisted in annette's hair, nails occasionally gouging at her scalp as she tells of horace. his fate, by far, was the most dreadful. tortured by his wife, fingernails plucked out & body prodded with the red-hot poker till he confessed his intended double-crossing, mewling out a plea for mercy. he finally died when she thrust the poker through his ribcage. were it not for the still-vicious grip, annette may have vomited.

"my only mistake was letting the fire roar too long. it swallowed the house. but death isn't the end, is it, wretch?"

the small girl is tossed forward, only barely catching herself from flying face-first into the once-grand staircase. one step connects just below her ribcage, determined to leave a bruise & knocking the wind out of her.

before she can move to her feet, sharp nails clench her ankles. isadora begins to climb the stairs.

"many years later, some foolish little girl, some stupid child let her curiosity lead her here. the stairs held her weight going up, but upon her descent, the floors simply ... gave way."

as the ghost spoke, annette was being dragged up the stairway. the first stair caused her teeth to clamp on the inside of her cheek, the taste of blood filling her mouth. shaking hands scrabble desperately to find something to resist with, only managing to bloody her fingertips till it hurt to use them. her pleading is hardly audible, voice long gone. that was when the hands began to appear. they held onto her where they could, pulling against the lady whitney. hands with no fingernails grasp her wrists, but she feels them all over her. pinning her to the spot.

"let her go, you snakes! i've already killed you once, could i not do it again?"

annette squeezes her eyes shut as isadora continues to rage at unseen victims, her grip on the girl's legs vanishing. all she can think of is home. or anywhere else. the hands seem to hold her tighter, but in defense. still, she squirms against them. isadora's shrill screams grow louder & louder, till annette's ears are simply ringing. suddenly it's pouring rain.

she's flat on the ground, dried grass surrounding her. as if it all vanished. other than the ringing in her ears, the rain, & the odd passing car, all is quiet.

annette remains on the earth, bleeding & breathing heavily, until she shivers at the cold rain. the pain at her movement spreads over her, waking up her still-reeling mind. lifting herself to her feet takes a few attempts before she's steady.

trudging home in the rain is worse. her hair feels heavy & matted with knots, blood, & dirt. her scalp is screaming. she's sure at least some, if not all, of her wounds are still bleeding. it's agony to fumble for her house key, traces of blood left on every surface she touches. climbing to her attic is simply out of the question.

at least, she thinks as she collapses onto the sofa, at least i wasn't gone too long.

(she awakens the next morning to her mother's yell: gone a month & bleeding on the sofa? why bother returning?)

[bitchfitch]

that ask about the coelanth cane + me visiting my extended family is making me rethink the design. Bc like. I have my own furnace now and it definitely gets hot enough to melt down brass. plus my cousin has one of those uber long drill press lathe things for boring out riffle barrels. If I give him my walnut dowel blank he can bore it out and I can drop an aluminum pipe down it to add some heft and rigidity. add a brass foot+ a rubber pad and a slightly modified version of the spikes already on my cane and it would be both all terrain And the ultimate 'fuck off' stick.

And then that's getting me thinking, if I'm already boring out the length. why not make a few cuts, add and some threads +decorative rings to have compartments. Unscrew the handle to find the little metal key chain thing for my emergency meds, unscrew just below that to find the jelly beans, and unscrew below that for the knife.

because while I am a big proponent of canes being used as blunt force weapons, Literally all canes will crack bones with minimal strength due to how the length multiplies the force put into the swing, there is nothing sexier than a cane knife.

[royalzigluxuryfurniture]

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Overall, the Royal Swing is a true masterpiece that combines beauty, comfort, and durability in one stunning package.

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[frostbittenfemme]

What was a quiet and peaceful M*A*S*H Unit becomes active and organised , medical staff rushing out of their living quarters and into the hospital wing, all with one goal in mind; evacuation.

Just as Wild makes it onto the site a mecha sporting several shades of bright green rushes straight for her, giving her no chance to move out the way. Instantly she recognises the mecha and calls out. “Triage!”

Triage pays no noticed and comes barrelling towards her, causing Wild to brace and shield her helm for an impact that doesn’t come.  She lets out a squeak when a strange feeling washes over her frame. She glances around only to see Triage running away from her.

What the frag?! Did they just go through her?

Seeing no other option she follows Triage into the building where to her relief she finds the rest of the staff tending to their patients.

“I’m here! The Decepticons are getting closer!”

A chorus of worried voices both from staff and patients fills the hospital wing.

The doors to the operating room swing open and a tall helicopter ducks down as he makes his way through the door way. “Listen up!” He gives a stomp of his pede to catch everyone’s attention.

Everyone in the room goes silent, optics all focused on Paxafere. Wild can't help but smile when she sees her amica endura.

“These instructions come from Wild, we have to bug out.  Brass and Clamp, you’re to get supplies loaded up to the convoy, get everything  you can carry. The rest of us are to start getting patient on the buses for transport, use the triage system to determine who needs to be moved first just like in Iacon. Red tagged patients bug out with the medics!” Paxafere orders, passing out triage tags to the other members of staff. At his command the staff spring into action; Brass and Clamp begin raiding the supply closet, grabbing anything off the shelves and any storage crates they can carry.

Bunsen, Triage, Paxafere and Charge all focus on triaging patients; those who were fit enough to help began to help the staff members in any way they could.  Even with the relentless barrage of attacks raging through city, her staff do not stop, they do not give in. Wild can do nothing but watch her staff  with immense pride. She has always been proud of them but seeing all this just makes her prouder. Yet at the same time her spark aches. Her staff were never suited to the ways of war, they weren’t soldiers or warriors yet they followed her into battle blindly. All they wanted to do was help others. All they wanted to do was help her.

The time goes surprisingly fast and before she knows it the ward has been picked clean, it’s nothing more than an empty shell. All but a few of the patients were loaded onto the convoy; one of which Wild had discovered was Steelbreaker; who had taken damage to his t-cog during battle rending him mode locked among various other wounds that left him unable to move from an upright sitting position – something that couldn’t be fixed under a M*A*S*H units care.

Wild watches as Paxafere once again comes out of the operating room. Except this time Wild recognises he’s trying to put on a brave face. She knew the decision she made to stay behind was going to be hard on him, but seeing it truly was something else. Paxafere heads on over to the group of staff once again to relay orders. “Time to get these patients and ourselves out of here.”

“But what about Wild?” Clamp pipes up, fidgeting with the chain on her glasses. “She’s in the middle of surgery as soon as she gets her patient stable she’ll be with us.” Paxafere answers. “We can’t leave her alone! She didn’t leave us when the clinic got attacked! ” Bunsen yells, pointing to the door to the operating theatre. Just as Charge was about to answer a round of explosions rocks the building, both patients and staff cry out in fear.

“I don’t like it as much as you do but we have no choice, Wild wants us out of here and we have to do what she says." Paxafere adds. "If we don’t go now we’ll never get out. We have to trust her. I mean come on it's Wild.” Charge comments.

The comments are met with a mutual understanding among the staff. Each of them taking one last lingering look at the operating room door before moving the last of the patients. They know what they need to do, yet none of them like it.

Wild follows them as they load each patient with care, as well as themselves onto the transport vehicles. Following suit Wild does so too. Her gaze however remains fixed on the hut in which her past self remains in the operating theatre, watching as it gets further and further away eventually disappearing from sight altogether.

[ashtok1]

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[sufferawitchrp]

⯎ SUBPLOT No. III — OUR LADY OF SORROWS ⯎

TW: blood, coarse language, violence

The Iron Maiden was a sumptuous creation of red brick and gold. It was a provocative smile throbbing in the near impenetrable shadow of evening, a host to the sensual explosion of swirling hips and a satin ribbon threaded through locks of braided hair. Mounted on its gabled rooftop, pillars of platinum light swirled overhead, a dozen sterling eyes piercing through the impassive mein of nightfall. The tachycardia of an evening in full-swing could be heard; the inside of the establishment was festooned with satin, silk, and semi-precious stones while the walls were painted a wicked shade of sangria. 

Curtains of lace and velvet unspooled from the vaulted ceiling, their presence accentuated by the strategic placement of gaping windows and erotic frescoes. Overhead, a brass chandelier dangled from a single gold chain, its structure molded into the figure of a woman whose arms and legs were thrown upward as though she were grasping for salvation in the midst of free-fall. Balanced atop her flailing hands and feet were four large candles dripping fragrant wax. 

A restive haze drifted above the heads of the establishment’s patrons, their slender cigarettes smelling of peppermint and cloves. Laughter and heated debates erupted from between the slight part in their mouths while their hands idled around a crystal tumbler or the narrow stem of an ancient wine. A lone figure wandered among them, edging its way between tables crowded with playing cards and gilded plates stacked high with half-eaten appetizers. The train of a long cape swept across the polished floor, narrowly missing the flat soles of glossy dress shoes and the swaying leg of a padded chair. The silhouette navigated the heart of the parlor with ease before disappearing behind a pair of large double doors – twin windows to another world that was far more silent than the one that had just been left behind. 

Here, the aroma of mint and spices were exchanged for the dull perfume of old tapestries. The corridor was ribbed with silver suits of armour and an assortment of taxidermied heads mounted on old plaques. The exuberant din of entertainment faded with each footstep as the figure navigated the empty halls, her heavily lined eyes focused on the patterns that blurred beneath her feet. Filigrees and tassels merged into an endless stretch of dark wood until the cloaked figure came to a sudden stop before a square enclosure. The woman raised her hand and pressed her palm flat against the wall; a small cloud of dust fluttered upward before the panel gave, shifting no more than an inch before it dropped away. The woman squeezed through the gap and pressed onward into the encroaching darkness, maneuvering through the blackened labyrinth for what felt like an eternity before coming upon a spiral staircase whose metal steps descended further into the swollen darkness. Dropping a hand onto the banister, the woman made her way down the stairs until she stepped out onto an ever tighter path of cold stone. 

Metal sconces burned with a ferocious light, their flames illuminating a jagged ceiling of pointed rock. The rugged walls opened up into a room furnished with a large table and rows of empty shelves, each one housing an assortment of jars and metal tools. She extended a hand, sweeping a slender finger down the length of a rubber handle before lifting the small cleaver off the shelf. She passed the object between her palms as she resumed her journey, edging towards a small corridor whose walls were lined with the cold iron bars of multiple holding cells. The sound of movement could be heard at the far end of the passageway as she approached, her heels skittering across the damp stone until she came to a stop before a rusted lock; on the other side, a male figure lay prone in a questionable state of undress. He continued to stir on the ground and then, coming to the sudden realization that he was being watched, he lurched to his feet and took hold of the bars. 

“Bitch!” he snarled, saliva pooling around the corners of his mouth, “Let me out!” He shook the bars in a stubborn rage until exhaustion washed over him and he had no other choice than to slump against the iron.

The woman stepped forward and withdrew a small needle from an inner pocket, its golden edge shining bright in the dimly lit dungeon. “I can’t do that if you won’t cooperate,” she replied, dark eyes wandering over the length of his bloated torso. “Get up and give me your arm.” She bent low and extended her opposite hand, palm upturned and expectant.

“Fuck off,” he hissed. “Cut the shit already and just let me walk out of here.” His chains slithered across the stones as he rose up onto his knees and snatched the woman’s wrist from between the iron bars. He pulled her towards him and barked a vicious laugh as she struggled within his grasp, her face pressed flush against the frosted metal. “Knock it off already or I’ll fuckin’ kill you when I get out of here.” His grip tightened but a fraction before his fingers went slack and his mouth popped open in an anguished cry. The blunt edge of the needle pointed upward, its hollowed tip biting into the sweat-slick skin between his thumb and forefinger. He yanked the needle loose and jumped to his feet – the shock and pain disappeared from his face, scrubbed away by anger. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” he bellowed, spitting something thick and green between her feet.  

Something flickered in the woman’s eyes then — an incalculable rage that was there and then gone in an instant. The man had seen it and paused, his mouth dropping open, tongue wagging in desperate search of an apology. He had only just begun to form the first of many panicked syllables before the woman raised her hand and then brought it down in a smooth, sharp arc. 

The cleaver cut into his neck and he dropped to the floor, a scarlet pool growing fast beneath his gaping throat. She stepped back as a ribbon of blood edged towards the pointed toe of her boot, its surface aglow in the sparse light. The bridge of her nose wrinkled as she turned away and dissolved into the shadows.

SPECIES SPOTLIGHT — VAMPIRES SUMMARY — Held in high esteem across the entirety of New England for its elaborate night-time performances and exclusive culture of indulgence, the Iron Maiden has become a place of immense interest for those looking to sate themselves on the fine art of fantasy and seduction. However, the lounge is host to something sinister — something wicked tucked away behind a veneer of exposed skin, expensive lace, and the smoke of imported cigarettes. - - , ## [blood mother] - - , ## [iron maiden] - - , ## [iron maiden] - - , ## [iron maiden] - - , ## [iron maiden] - - , ## [iron maiden]

[ask-paradox-and-friends]

CHAPTER 23 THE HONORED CHILDREN PT2 @splatoonfan88

—---------------------------------------------------------------

*Taking the first move Zues charged and used his practice swings to which Mai dodged with ease and when he used his kicks she effortlessly jumped over his legs and as the air projectiles she started stretching.*

Mai:hmm..I like these eyes..Thank you father. *her eyes soon flashed as her eyes turned the same color as her hair with red arrows she turned and gave a glance.* what did you call this again? Ah yes. Devine. Ax.

*she then gave him a kick with enough force to send him into the wall and smiles as she cracked her knuckles swing a flurry of jabs.*

Zues:Wait that's my Meteor—-

*he was interrupted by Mai punching him in the face repeatedly to the point that it was shocking soon she kicked him again into a wall and shrugged.*

Mai:done.

*Zues then came out mad as he charged to which Mai responded by swinging her halberd into his chest cutting him and she dodged like a graceful ballerina and soon cut him again and again till he grew to his maximum size so haply someone could give him an exciting fight. Seeing she couldn't keep up with a sword she pulled put her other Völundr being a sword from her back and she soon started swinging it as Zues responded with his punches.as the duo kept up Mai Jumped back and growled as she redid her Völundr and the duo became a pair of electrical spiked brass knuckles that had their spikes serrated with the length of daggers as she held her stance and smiled as She kept punching with Zues swinging everything with what he had he soon sighed and used one technique.*

*with one charging he smiles as time soon slowed to a crawl then to a complete stop as he used The Fist That Surpassed Time and he ran full speed.*

*BLOOD FLEW A FIGHTER WENT DOWN AND unknown to even the smartest and even the almost all knowing Sunblood Zeus went into the wall after dragging himself across the ground hitting his head several times as he crashed with some of his teeth knocked out his jaw was completely broken and dislocated with his head knocked around 180⁰*

Heimdall:UNBELIEVABLE! THE WINNER IS MAI THE MOTHER OF!...WAIT!

Zues:HOLD IT!

*after an extremely loud and gross sounding snap as he fixed his neck he pointed to Mai.*

Zeus:you..why do you fight the gods? You aren't truly against us.

Mai:I am not against your people. But I am against you. I am here to save and help the children. Is there any woman alive who needs any reason to save and protect her family?

*As everyone was moved many prayed and cheered her on as Mai got closer smiling Zues soon saw she had all his powers and he soon got upset and held up his hands.*

Zues:I never wanted to use this…it rattles these old bones too much… but I have no choice!

*He soon started in a odd manner he started compressing all his muscles becoming his ultimate form as his very being started sending out an aura of fear that sent a primitive fear into every God and mortal. In a sense all the Valkyries in the stands got scared but in a weird form of showing who they are all the god killers did things Noone thought.*

*Tsugu in a scared stance held Reginleif close in a hug. Kaito stuck Hirst on his back and took out a large chain sickle in a fit of protective rage. Paradox kept Thrud behind him in a boxer's stance growling. Derail who had gotten a new mechanical arm thanks to Sunblood that transformed into a large gun he held his flesh arm out to block Alvitr. Sunblood threw Gondol over his shoulder and started quickly assembling a rail gun pointing it at Zeus. And Deku pushed Randgriz to his mother and the other users of One for All and stood there ready to kick someone.*

*Meanwhile Mai had several wings sprout out of her body as her halo appeared over her head. Each of her wings was the color of the rainbow and her halo started housing a light comparable to the sun in her own response. She wasn't scared but..this could be difficult…*

[cynicalone94]

Hit Him Harder

He doesn’t expect to wake up again.

He’d expected the man to keep whaling on him, to finish him off once he was unconscious. But apparently they’d stopped to wait for him to wake up.

Trudy is still crying, still struggling against the ropes binding her.

“S’okay Sarge.” he breathes, struggling to get his feet under him. 

She shakes her head angrily and he lets his head drop back to his chest.

It hurts to breathe.

“N’fault.” he gasps. “Sorry had to see this.”

“You get him beaten to death and he’s apologizing to you.” the man scoffs. “Who is this guy?”

“N’idiot.” Jay gasps. “F’ya lisen t’my br-”

He’s cut off by another fist slamming into his stomach. Guess the break is over.

“Still too much sass left in this one.” the man in charge says, shaking his head. “Hit him harder.”

The statement is punctuated by a baseball bat being handed to the guy who’s been smacking him around.

He pulls off the brass knuckles and hands them over in return. Then he turns back to Jay with a wide grin, swinging the bat back.

He hears something crack as the bat impacts his chest. Four more blows follow and Jay’s knees buckle.

As he swings back for the next strike, one of the other guys grabs the bat.

“Hey Greg.” he says. “I got a couple of cricket balls, what do you say we try some target practice instead?”

“Up to Matt.” Greg says with a shrug, lowering the bat.

“I don’t care.” The guy in charge, Matt, says. “Long as you don’t miss too much.”

Jay takes the lull in the abuse to get his feet back underneath him, swallowing back a groan as he works on breathing through his nose. 

The other guy comes back with the balls and Greg backs away from Jay as the guy sets up next to him.

Jay watches the pitch fly across the room. Maybe Greg will miss.

But the guy makes clean contact with the ball, sending it flying directly at Jay.

It slams directly into his chest and he groans.

“Now that is a hit.” Matt cheers. “Can you do it again?”

“If Tony can keep up the great pitching.” Greg cheers.

“Ready for another one?” Tony asks.

“Batter up.” Greg says, hefting the bat.

The next pitch is returned off center and sends him staggering back and twisting away from the force. His movement is stopped by a second hit to the other side that spins him back toward center. 

Tony and Greg seem to have found a rhythm because the hits just keep coming, trading sides of his chest to keep him off balance. 

Every punch to the chest forces the air out of his lungs and the pauses between them aren’t enough to give him the chance to replace it. 

Just as he’s about to pass out from the lack of oxygen, they finally stop. He hangs limply from the chains, struggling to draw another breath. 

When the fog finally retreats enough for him to be aware of anything other than the fight to breathe Trudy is begging them to stop from behind the gag.

Every breath he takes causes his chest to spasm, his lungs barely able to pull in any oxygen.

He tastes copper and he supposes that explains some of the horror on Trudy’s face.

He coughs, staring down at the spatter of blood that paints the floor. 

That’s not good. 

The next ball arcs up to slam into his throat and he gags, bile filling his mouth.

He lurches forward, stomach somersaulting.

The vomit burns as it’s ripped from his throat and the taste of copper intensifies.

His shoulders are screaming as the motion jerks against his bound wrists.

His lungs scream for oxygen, puking just making it harder to draw in even a partial breath.

His eyes burn with tears and he closes them.

He needs to get out of here. Needs to find a way to get himself and Trudy to safety.

What will they do to her after he dies? He doesn’t have much longer. Between the oxygen shortages and internal bleeding he’s not going to be hanging in here much longer. 

They don’t even wait for him to pull himself together. Almost as soon as he stops puking another ball is slamming into his stomach. 

His stomach convulses again and the hit, off center this time, spins him to the side and opens up his lower back to the next hit. 

The momentum keeps him spinning. 

Just as he completes his first 360, Greg coming back into view readying the bat for another hit, a shot rings out and the man drops. 

Jay continues spinning and doesn’t see anything else. But more shots ring out and he hears Matt shouting. Then everything goes quiet. 

A hand lands on his arm and he jumps away, shoulder crying out in agony as his feet leave the floor. 

“Easy Jay.” Trudy says, gently steadying him. “Try to breathe.”

He wants to laugh. Breathing is all that he’s been trying to do for the last ten minutes. 

“T-t-” he gasps. 

“Don’t try to talk.” she urges. “Let’s get you down from there. I’m gonna step away for a minute but I’m not leaving, not going anywhere.”

He can’t help but whimper as her hand leaves his arm but after a minute the chains suspending him lower. 

He tries to lock his knees, to stay standing as the weight on his legs increases but a cough rips its way from his throat and he drops to his knees. 

She unlocks the cuffs, arms looping under his armpits as he collapses, and lowers him to the ground. He can’t stop coughing as she helps him roll onto his back, cradling his head in the crook of her arm. 

He hears the beeping of a phone screen and then a clinical voice. 

“911. What’s the location of your emergency?”

“This is Trudy Platt, badge number 34299. I don’t know where we are, I’ll need you to trace this call and route Intelligence to this location, rush an ambulance and send the coroner.”

“Getting a location now. Ambulance is already rolling.” the dispatcher chirps. “I’m patching you in with Sgt. Voight now.”

“Trudy?” 

“Hank.” Trudy says. “Jay, keep your eyes open.”

Jay forces his eyes back open. He’s tired, cold, and still struggling to pull in a full breath. 

“I know, Jay.” she soothes, fingers carding through his hair. “Just stay with me, kid. Hank, Jay’s hurt. You need to hurry.”

He tries to stay with her. He really does but it’s so hard to breathe and he’s so tired. No matter how hard he fights to stay close to the surface he can’t. 

He definitely doesn’t expect to wake up again this time. 

The beep of the machines wakes him up. 

He’s not feeling any pain but everything feels tight and heavy. 

He rolls his head to the right, a tired smile spreading on his face as he takes in the desk sergeant sitting next to the bed. 

“Sarge?” 

“Jay!” she says, sitting up. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alive.” he says, offering her a small shrug. “You saved my sorry ass.”

“Only seemed fair.” she tells him. “Considering I was the reason your sorry ass was there to get that beat down.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sarge.” he says, shaking his head. 

“Matthew Vera was looking to hurt me.” she reminds him. “You got caught in the crossfire. And that’s not fair.”

“The reasons he was gunning for you weren’t fair either.” he points out. “You think I don’t recognize the name?”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” she asks. 

“Nope.” Jay says with a smirk. 

“You should try to get some rest.” Trudy tells him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to stay.” he says, shifting against the sheets and already blinking tiredly. 

“Kid.” she says, smoothing his blankets. “I’m not going anywhere. Get some sleep.”

He nods, offering her a small smile and then letting his eyes drift closed. 

“He was my bus driver.” he whispers as the fog starts to cloud his mind. 

By the time she processes his words, connects them to their conversation in the parking lot, he’s already asleep. 

But it’s a start. 

[kcuf-ad]

Magna Swing's Made Up Spells:

Fire Creation Magic: Burnin' Knuckle - Basically it creates brass knuckles made out of fire.

Fire Creation Magic: Soul Chain - For the main reason of giving him chains and so he could drag his enemies, yelling "Get over here!" and punching them square in the jaw.

[ross-hollander]

Ego

The space would have put a viewer in mind of a cathedral. A more martial-minded one might imagine it like the inside of a bullet. Objectively, it was a circular chamber with a high ceiling that soared up into a sharp-sloping dome. The air reeked of bloody metal and resounded with the pound of armored feet treading on a gore-sticky floor. A cacophony of obscenities gleaned from across a hundred star systems bounced off the walls.

Sartabakim was gloating, at the moment. He brandished his trophy overhead in one massive scarred fist. The skull had already been turned in- that was compulsory -but this relic was the type that entitled the one who claimed it to showboat. A pair of blood-splattered ceramite wings, lashed together with a length of spiked brass chain.

"Angels fly no longer!" he roared triumphantly, bloody saliva spraying from the shattered remains of a vox-grille. His helmet had disintegrated ages ago, but the armor chips remained embedded in the flesh, clinging together by wires and flesh. It was difficult to tell them apart. "A proud Son of the Dead Angel, skull taken and wings ripped off!" He spread his arms wide in shameless ego. "Tell me, brothers, who here claims such a feat? Who, tell me?"

A barrage of mixed sneers and acclaim met his boast. This was the highest form of art that the hounds of Khorne practiced: the bragging competition. Eima was the first to step forward, bat-winged skull of the murderer judges on his shoulder-plate long since plastered over with gore. He wore his helmet off among company, and the skin of his face below the eyes off at all times, half his head a flayed, bloody skull, locked in a death's-head grin. A tongue far too long licked over bare teeth before he began.

"No brother, I. No great achievement, yours. Golden Legion's skull at the base of the Throne, you ever laid? Knife and teeth, taken with, damned armor, claws broken on?" Eima spat to accentuate his point. It came out as a glob of blood. "Thought so, didn't. Great matter, Martyr's son, hardly."

The jeers and hails rained over the center of the throng of warriors once again, as Kanai shoved Eima back to the sidelines. Once a Word Bearer, he had heard the call for him from the Skull Throne, and now wore hate-red armor in place of his native burgundy, trophy rack adorned with captured helmets- many models, but the heraldry exclusively of the Ultramarines. He spoke.

"Eima, nobody understands that cursed accent of yours. Lose that Underhive jabber and learn Gothic like the rest of us." A shower of abrasive chuckles at this, and a spiteful hiss from Eima.

"Now, I think you're lying. But this- none here can deny this." He shoved a hand outwards, showing off a grim token; a cybernetic eye with scraps of rotten flesh still clinging to it, bloody wires ending in a violent tear.

"I took this bauble from a son of the Tyrant of Olympia. Warband leader, blasphemer of the Gods, all-around insufferable bastard. One swing of the axe!" He swept his hand in a horizontal slash. "Put an end to his blathering about mastery over the Gods, I tell you that!"

There was a roar of approval, and scarcely had the clank of fists battering breastplates- applause, for those who would never be without one hand armed -died down before Jenserik elbowed his way through the crowd, slugging Kanai in the chest, the latter taking the blow and staggering back into the crowd.

Jenserik was a son of the Lord of the Red Sands, and the Nails whirred in his skull with every movement he made. He unhooked from his armor a rusty chain, the hook at the end holding his own trophy: a dented silver helm, sized for an Astartes but with a prow-like, front-swept grille. His voice was like the guttering of a broken motor.

"I took the head of a Silver One, once. One of their Grandmasters." He spoke it offhand, as though bringing up some trifle. "Sorcerer and warrior. The affront of it almost made me lose my focus. I thought to break his skull open instead of take it off- pull that witch's brain out and crush it in my hand. But I restrained myself. Although, kinsmen, I tell you shame- I cut his gun-arm off before I killed him. Not our way, killing a man who can't fight, but for him, as long as he had those damnable powers, I say he could still fight. It was a good day, that day. We lost Mazakr, the old Helbrute, but they lost more. Many more."

The applause rose again in a thunderous exultation, and Jenserik idly strolled back into the ranks. Namus stepped into the ring, already unshouldering the colossal horn he carried chained to his back, but was met instantly with a hail of curses and insults. He looked around, indignant affront plastered over his features, which over the years of service to the Blood God had melted into something part canine and part reptile.

"What? What is my offense, you curs? You didn't even let me speak!"

"We all know what you'd say, Namus," groaned Kanai. "You killed the Swarmlord. Was that it? Was that going to be it, you insufferable prick?"

"Killed," growled Viscera, rolling his eyes, flicking an imagined speck of dust off his immaculate blue-and-white heraldry. "Your Warband all got themselves slaughtered trying to bring the thing down, and you happened to strike the lucky blow. I don't call that a killing."

Eima laughed aloud, jaws clacking together. "No killing! Last man, only. Bauble on your back, dead, should have been given to. Fallen tribute."

"My work adorns the Skull Throne!" Namus snarled, but in his tone was resignation. He was excessively proud of the horn of the Swarmlord that he lugged about, but for all it impressed outsiders, none of the congregation here respected it.

"Doubtless, doubtless," spoke Jenserik, stroking his chin in bemusement. "But any Jakhal can consecrate a skull when fifty other warriors helped clear the way. We wish to see valor, not just results, Namus, we're not Iron Warriors. Back down."

The circle stood empty as Namus, growling spite, returned to the ranks. There was a pregnant silence, only creaking armor and whirring Nails to break it. Then one sound, quiet but steady, was heard: the steady plink-plink of a chainaxe idling. The ranks broke open in a wide berth as the one who bore the weapon stepped through them, the one whose helmet bore the grand bladed horns of the Bloody Thirteenth and whose bare arm showed the scars of ten thousand years of warfare.

All stood in awed expectancy as Khârn stepped into the center of the circle.