#that thousands of innocent people dying and even more innocent people being targeted hurt or worse in the aftermath is funny...

[neon-moon-beam]

Okay, very serious about this dni here

I don't know what is happening but there is an influx of 9/*1 jokes on this site.

Considering I was alive when it happened (in late elementary school) and have many memories of it, lived through the aftermath, saw everything change overnight, and then saw the fallout of innocent people caught up in the resulting war, I don't find them funny, and find the people making them to be rude and sick.

Innocent people dying should NEVER be a joke. I live in NYC, and there are memorials everywhere to those lost. Not just at the place where it happened, but in the neighborhoods they lived in, etc. Many people knew someone who died, or was directly impacted.

Do not interact with me if you find those jokes funny. And especially not if you make them yourself, reblog or otherwise share them. I'm serious.

And to any edgelords who might come across this post and send me shit on anon, I will not post your messages or respond to them, and I will block you as tumblr allows anons to be blocked. So don't waste your time.

[disturbedbydesign]

The Widow and the Wolf - Chapter 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x dark!exWidow!reader

Summary: After Natasha Romanoff took down the Red Room, the former Widows scattered to the wind. Raised to be a killing machine and released into the world with nothing and no one, you decided to use your newfound autonomy to take down the bad guys of your choosing. But now Natasha is riddled with guilt for leaving you on your own. She wants to recruit you, rehabilitate you, make you part of a team again. But the rest of the squad has reservations, and no one is more against you than Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: Graphic violence; Mentions of domestic violence, rape, pedophilia, human trafficking, child sex trafficking; eventual Dubcon (not Bucky); eventual smut; slow(ish) burn enemies-to-lovers. [More warnings will be added as necessary but these are the Big Bads.] 18+ only, no minors.

A/N: This is canon-adjacent in that I just decided to pick and choose who I wanted to write for and what parts of canon I wanted to use. Best not to think too hard about where it falls on the timeline because the canon is a mess and we all kind of hate it anyway.

If you prefer to read on AO3, you can do so here.

Chapter One

You’ve been tracking him for days, not that it was hard. His patrol schedule is always the same, as is his after-hours routine: drinks at the Irish pub on Reade Street with the other boys in blue. It’s a cop bar but you waltz right in, looking lost even though you know the name, rank, and various misdeeds of every guy in the place. He looks at you, because of course he does—his wife assured you that he has a wandering eye, among his other sins.

You take a seat at the bar. “Double vodka rocks, please.”

The bartender pours you your drink and you take a deep pull, savoring the burn of it. Then you wait, but it doesn’t take long—it never does. Sergeant Thompson sidles up to the barstool next to you.

“Hey darlin,” he says, his breath reeking of cheap beer. “You lost?”

You turn to him with an innocent smile. “Evening, officer.”

“It’s Sergeant,” he says, tapping his badge, “but I won’t hold that against you. So, what’s a pretty young thing doing in a dive bar with a bunch of old men?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner but she bailed on me. Figured I’d grab a drink before I head home.”

“And where is home?” he asks, not that it’s any of his business, but cops think they deserve answers to any questions they feel like asking.

“Williamsburg,” you lie.

“You’re pretty far from home, then,” he replies, even though you both know that you aren’t. He takes a sip of his beer and the foam leaves a trace like a mustache before he licks it clean. “It’s late. Why don’t you let me drive you? Wouldn’t want you on the subway this time of night.”

“It’s only 8:30,” you say. “I think I’ll be just fine.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “Well, I really shouldn’t be telling you this—open investigation and all that—but we’ve been on the lookout for a guy in the area, serial rapist, real nasty piece of work.”

That’s one thing the two of you have in common at least.

“I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me take you home, darlin.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” you admit. “Can’t get much safer than the NYPD, right?”

He laughs and so do you, knowing that nothing is farther from the truth—especially when it comes to this guy.

Sergeant Thompson speeds across the Williamsburg Bridge with his flashers on, headed toward the address you gave him. Of course, that’s not actually your address—you don’t have a home anymore—it’s just one of many rundown warehouses in the neighborhood, variously used for impromptu raves and as drug dens and, in your case, a private place in which you can take care of business without fear of being interrupted.

“This is me,” you say, waiting for him to let you out of the back of the cruiser where he insisted you ride—caged in like a helpless animal, or so he thinks.

“This place?” he asks. “Looks like it’s about to collapse.”

“You’d be surprised what they can do to these places on the inside—gentrification and what have you. My rent is astronomical.”

“Still,” he says, “I’d like to walk you up. Looks a bit unsavory.”

“If you insist, Sergeant.”

The second you get up the stairs to the top floor, you inject him with the etorphine, straight into the jugular, and down he goes. It never gets old—how easy it is, when they think that they are the predator and you are the prey. You drag him into the loft where you’re already set up for a long night’s work.

When he comes to, he’s fixed to the chair with (among other things) his own handcuffs, mouth taped shut and a rag shoved in for good measure. You don’t want to hear him talk; it’s time for him to listen. His day of reckoning has come. He starts to squirm but between the cuffs and the duct tape and the sedative still coursing through his veins, he’s not going anywhere. Even if he did get free, you could take him down easy. It’s what you were trained for. It’s what you were born for.

“Welcome back, Sergeant,” you say, and he screams something unintelligible through the rag which, if you had to guess, would be some combination of “cunt” or “bitch” or any of the other choice words he likes to use on his women.

The tarps are laid meticulously around the room, placed strategically to catch any and all evidence of what you’re about to do. When he notices them, he goes still, because he knows. Part of him knows.

“So,” you say, pulling out the Thompson file, “this is quite the impressive resume you’ve got here, Sarge. Lots of civilian brutality complaints, including a few choice allegations from female prisoners. Oh, and then there’s the domestic violence and marital rape. You’re a real charmer, huh?”

There’s more muffled screaming but you ignore it—the last gasps of a dying man.

“Here’s the thing, Sarge. I know you think that you’re above the law, because you are the law, but you aren’t. Your wife is real tired of your shit, and me? Well, let’s just say that my motto is protect and serve.” You lean in close enough to smell the salty sweat on his brow. “And unlike you, I actually mean it.”

You pull your favorite knife from your thigh holster and slit him from ear to ear. “See you in hell, Sergeant.”

You sit on the edge of the table, swinging your legs and watching him bleed out. It doesn’t take long. The actual disposal is the real work. You set about chopping him into manageable pieces and you find yourself missing the days when you didn’t have to cover your tracks alone, when there was a clean-up team to take care of it for you.

But you’re freelance now. You’re not a Widow anymore. She made sure of that.

Sometimes—like right now, when you’re dripping sweat and every muscle in your body is screaming its exertion as you saw through bone after bone—you hate Natasha Romanoff. You know why she did what she did; you understand that, objectively, it was the right thing to do. But did she ever stop to consider the repercussions of her actions? She got out early and found a new family and became one of the Good Guys. But you? You entered the Red Room with nothing and you left with nothing.

They always said you were born to be a killer. It’s all you’ve ever known. So what exactly did she expect you to do? You may be free of the mind control, but you never had the chance to develop a mind of your own. Killing is all you know. At least now you get to pick your own targets.

Once you’ve got Sergeant Thompson all squared away, you pack him up in the trunk of his cruiser and drive upstate, listening to the 80s station you like. It occurs to you that most people have heard these songs a thousand times—so many times that they know the lyrics instinctively, can sing them without even having to think about it. It’s all new to you, though. You can’t decide whether it makes you sad to think about all you’ve missed or whether you’re lucky that you get to experience for the first time what everyone else is already tired of.

When you get to the farm, you dump Thompson in the holes you’ve already backhoed, then you hop on the Cat and fill them all in. You shoot a text to Mrs. Thompson from your burner—just a thumbs-up emoji—and she replies with a smiley face. It was only so long before he would have killed her; she knows it as well as you do. The only people that will grieve the dearly departed Sergeant Thompson are a bunch of assholes who are one false move from ending up in your web.

You didn’t charge Mrs. Thompson your usual rate—just what she could afford without drawing the attention and ire of the Mister. Sometimes, depending on the circumstances, you even work pro bono. After all, you only kill people for money who you would happily kill for free. You consider it a service, something for the greater good of society. You’ll take money, sure—you need it to live and to continue your work—but not from people who can’t easily spare it.

You have standards. You have a code. That’s the difference between the you that served as a mindless weapon wielded by others and the you that decides for yourself how to use the gifts you’ve been given. No women. No children. No collateral damage. Only Very Bad Men who’ve done Very Bad Things. You don’t see the harm in it, not really, and as you settle into bed you come back to the thought you often have before a fitful night of sleep: who’s the real avenger, Natasha?

*****

Natasha wipes her brow and throws the rag down on the mat, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging half of it before she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Bucky has barely broken a sweat from their morning sparring session, and he doesn’t even try to fake it. He’s in an especially grumpy mood.

“This is a bad idea, Natasha.”

“To some people, maybe,” she says, “but I want to bring her in anyway. I don’t understand how you of all people are against me on this, Bucky.”

“Uh, for starters, she’s a serial killer.”

“That’s a bit of a harsh assessment, considering the circumstances. And do I really need to remind you that the same could be said about the two of us? That a lot of people still say that about us?”

Bucky sighs, because he knows she’s right, but this is different—you are different. “It’s not the same,” he grumbles, but he’s not entirely sure it isn’t, and that’s what’s really bothering him.

“Look,” Nat says, taking a step toward Bucky, “I need to try, ok? I know what she’s going through because I went through it, except she’s completely alone out there with nothing and no one. You and I… we had people behind us, helping us.”

“And what if she says no?” Bucky asks. “Are you just gonna let her go on doing what she’s doing? She’s killed… how many is it now?”

Natasha mutters something under her breath and Bucky looks at her expectantly. “What was that, Tasha?”

“25 people in the last 6 months,” she states, her mouth set in a hard line.

“Exactly,” he says.

“I would like to point out that they were all very bad people. So...”

“Tasha,” he says, and he puts his hand up to silence her. “I can’t help you on this. I’m sorry. I want to, but I can’t.”

Natasha huffs out a laugh. “You know what, Barnes? You’re real high and mighty for a guy who–”

Natasha stops herself when she sees the ice-cold look in Bucky’s eyes. “Go on. For a guy who what?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ll go on my own.”

“Well, good luck to you. Hope you don’t get your throat slit.”

Bucky stomps off and Natasha is left wondering if she’s about to make a huge mistake. She knows you’re volatile, that a part of you must resent her, but she needs to make it right. At the very least, she needs to try.

Natasha grabs her tablet and scrolls through the latest intel on your whereabouts. She’s just missed you in New York, but she thinks she’s got a jump on your next target: some coke dealer down in Miami with a predilection for underage girls. Just a brief glance at this guy’s file is enough to make Natasha’s blood run cold. She knows why you do what you do. If she’s honest, it doesn’t bother her one bit that you’re doing it. It’s the thought of you out there on your own, filled with hate and anger and thirsty for bloody vengeance, that frightens her. Because maybe one day—left to your own devices, lost in the chaos of your troubled mind—getting the Bad Guys won’t be enough for you. Maybe you’ll decide that some of the Good Guys aren’t so good after all. Maybe you’ll even be right.

She contemplates being honest with Steve and telling him where she’s headed but decides against it. Steve isn’t on board with her plan. Natasha doesn’t fault him for it—he doesn’t understand, he couldn’t. Bucky, though... that’s a disappointment, and it surprises her. If anyone knows what it feels like to spend your life as someone else’s weapon, it’s Bucky Barnes.

Natasha waits until nightfall to “borrow” the Quinjet, and she finds Bucky waiting for her when she gets to the hangar.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, “but only as back-up. She’s dangerous, Natasha.”

“Maybe so,” Natasha replies, “but only because she’s afraid.”

*****

You knew that she’d be coming for you sooner or later. Might as well get it over with. Your little stilt cabin on the outskirts of the Everglades isn’t quite set up for company but at least it’s tucked away and difficult to access. You’re surprised she brought him, though—that was a mistake. You and she could have a nice long conversation, but you have nothing to say to the Soldat.

You climb up the tree to your lookout platform and hoist your sniper rifle onto your shoulder, following their slow but steady progress through the knee-deep swamp water, trying to line up a decent shot as they weave in between the bald cypress trees. When you see your chance, you take it, and you put one about an inch from where the Soldat’s metal arm meets the flesh of his shoulder. It ricochets off, as intended, and he jumps forward to shield Natasha. You hear her laugh through your earpiece.

“Relax, Barnes. It was a warning shot. If she wanted to hit you, she would have.”

“She did hit me,” he snaps.

You smile as you descend from the tree to meet them.

“Well well well,” you say. “If it isn’t the Murder Twins. To what do I owe this unwanted visit?”

“You know why I’m here,” Natasha says.

“Yes,” you reply, “but why is he here?”

The man she calls Barnes looks at you with disdain and you give it right back to him. You can tell that shot in the arm really pissed him off and it pleases you to no end.

“He’s just watching my back,” she says. “That’s what happens when you’re on a team.”

“Right, The Avengers. How adorable.”

“Listen,” Natasha begins, but you stop her.

“Let me save you the trouble of whatever little speech you have prepared. I’m not coming with you. I’m not going to Widow rehab and joining your ragtag group of misfits. And I’m not going to stop doing my work just because you come here and bat your eyes and smile pretty at me.”

“Your work?” spits the Soldat. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Bucky, don’t-”

“Let him talk, Romanoff,” you say. “He obviously has some… opinions. Now that he’s got the mask off, he can finally speak for himself.” You take a step towards him, your rifle in hand but not pointed at him. “So speak, Soldat.”

He looks flustered and not a little bit angry. You can tell he doesn’t like to be called by that name. “Killing people isn’t work,” he says.

You huff out a laugh. “And what is it that the two of you do, exactly? Run a coffee shop?”

“We are not the same,” he says, and you smile because you know that he doesn’t actually believe that—how could he after everything he’s done?

“I think we are exactly the same, Soldat, with one huge exception: you’re still letting other people tell you what to do, and I’m done with all that.”

“This is pointless,” he says.

“Now that is something you and I actually agree on.” You turn to Natasha. “You should go while you still can. I have work to do.”

But Natasha just won’t let it go. “I should never have left you alone,” she says. “This is my fault. Let me fix it.”

“I don’t need to be fixed,” you snap, and you raise your rifle and point it directly at her head. “Leave, Natasha. And take your little pet with you.”

The Soldat grabs her arm gently. “Let’s go, Tasha. She’s hopeless.”

You feel a pang of something then—some indescribable form of melancholy. You try to keep it off your face but you can tell from the look in his eyes that he sees it. A minute tremble of your lip, the quick double blink—it gives you away, and now you’re really pissed off.

“Leave. Now,” you yell, and it pierces through the sweltering darkness. “I’ll make you sorry if you don’t.”

You watch Natasha and the bionic man make their way out of the swamp. You don’t turn your back on them, not that you think they’ll try to take you by force. That would be unwise and Natasha knows it. Once you’re satisfied that they’re gone, you return to the cabin. The bloodied man in the linen suit lays strapped to the bed where you left him, squirming and shouting around the gag in his mouth.

You have to stop yourself from making this a messy affair, but the anger you feel—at her, at him, at everything—is making it difficult to temper your darker urges. You’re not one for torture, even though this man absolutely deserves it for the horrible things he’s done. You almost give in, but you remind yourself that this is a job—it is work, despite what the Soldat may think—and you have to remain professional.

You grab the man’s file off the desk and pull a chair up next to the bed. “So, Mr. Garcia, where were we?”

CHAPTER TWO >>>

[13uswntimagines]

Prank Your Way Into My Heart (Alex Morgan x Reader)

Request: @Androgynousmoneyflowervoid: Alex Morgan is mean because she is scared of her feelings for the reader and reader thinks Alex hates her. Reader confronts Alex and they get into a fight and Alex tells the reader that she had feelings for her.

Pranks were a massive part of the USWNT culture. You had known that going in. You had accepted that you were most likely going to be the target of many of the team’s shenanigans because everyone liked to pick on the newbie. The baby, the rookie of the team as they had taken to calling you. To your surprise, the team had pretty much welcomed you with open arms. Krashlyn immediately taking you under their wing, and the youngins accepting you into their group with little fuss. 

Everyone seemed to like you. Everyone except Alex. It was like she had made it her personal duty to make your life a living hell. You took the first few pranks on the chin, smiling along with the rest of the team when you walked into your shared room after practice to find it plastered with sticky notes. Or when you woke up for practice only to be trapped in your bed by thousands of cups half-filled with water. Or when she had saran wrapped all of the pieces of your soccer kit. 

The pranks had been harmless, and in the beginning, you thought that it was just a tradition for a singular veteran to mess with their rookie, but then the pranks didn’t stop. You didn’t mind at first. You might have even secretly enjoyed the way Alex’s dimples looked after one of her tricks on you. Or how her cackle filled the room. You hadn’t minded being the butt of the joke if you got to hear that giggle. She was fucking gorgeous, and you may have had a tiny (massive) crush on the forward since before you even joined the team. The problem though was that the pranks hadn’t stopped. No, they seemed to be getting worse, and today you were truly not in the mood to deal with this shit. 

Team practice hadn’t gone well for you. You just couldn’t seem to get into a rhythm. You were groggy from being woken up at 3 am by your roommate Alex’s brilliant idea to dump ice water on you, and your sleepiness made it laughably easy for Emily to defend all of your attacks on goal. Your passes were sloppy and not even Lindsey’s jokes could lift your grumpy mood. You were incredibly relieved when Vlatko called practice and released you to all go change in the locker room. All you wanted to was to get back to the hotel and go to sleep. 

You ripped your soaked tank top over your head, tossing it on the bench beside you, and began digging through your bag in search of your favorite sweatshirt in hopes that it would provide some of the comfort that you were desperately craving. You groaned when you realized that it was missing. You dropped the bag, whipping around and glaring at the blue-eyed woman who was already smirking at you from across the room. 

“Ok, where the fuck is my shirt?” You growled, marching over to Alex. Her Cheshire cat-like smile widened at your rage, her eyes shining in the most hypnotizing way. 

“Why are you asking me, rookie?” She shrugged, bringing both of her hands up behind her head and stretching out her legs. God, she was enjoying the way your abs flexed with each annoyed breath you took. 

“Because you’re the only one who can’t seem to stop messing with my stuff,” You spat back, pointing your finger in her face. Her eyes left yours and shifted to the way your bicep was put on display with each angry jab of your finger. 

“What can’t take a joke?” She laughed, wiggling her eyebrows, proud that she could get this far under your skin. Sure there were more… pleasurable ways, but your adorable angry face made her hesitant to stop. That and the fact that you were almost 10 years younger than her. If she couldn’t have you the way that she wanted, well, this was a good substitute. 

“Not when I’m the only one who’s getting messed with,” You scowled, taking a step closer to the woman with each word until your finger is planted firmly in her chest. You try not to think about how her heart feels hammering against your finger, or how good she smells. You’re supposed to be angry, outraged. 

“Slow down kid. Why don’t you go shower first? By the time you get out, I’m sure your clothes will have turned up,” Ashlyn intervenes, appearing out of nowhere to wrap an arm around your middle and pull you away from Alex, who looks more amused than afraid. You weren’t known for being a hothead, but none of the girls had ever seen you get so pissed off. 

“No. Last time I showered in the locker room, someone dumped ice on me, and the time before that she doused my favorite sweats in paint. All I want is my shirt so I can get on the freaking bus,” You snarled, shoving your self-appointed team mom’s arm away from you. Alex didn’t want you here, that much was obvious. But you were here none the less and didn’t understand why she couldn’t just leave you the fuck alone. 

“I told you that I don’t have it,” She smirked, showing off her dimples as she raised her hands in innocence. She really didn’t have it, not anymore. It wasn’t her fault that you were generous enough to… donate it to a few of the kids who had snuck into the stadium to watch the practice. You lunged at the woman, the angry words coming out of your mouth as garbled gibberish, only to be stopped again by Ashlyn’s arm. 

“Alright, I think that’s enough. Take mine, and go get on the bus, and you stay away from her,” Ali said, with authority, stepping in between your very angry form and Alex’s laughing body. You struggled for a few more seconds, the team watching as frustrated tears left your eyes before you finally went limp. You shrugged Ashlyn’s arm off, pulling on the shirt Tobin offered you and huffed out the door. 

The room was silent, most of your team shocked by your outburst. You were usually like a little ray of sunshine, always smiling and laughing. They had never seen you so angry. Alex’s eyes were glazed over, staring into space. Who the fuck gave you the right to look so hot and adorable at the same time when you were pissed?

“You know, I think you’d have better luck if you just told her how you felt instead of acting like a middle school boy,” Kelley said after a few minutes, settling down beside the star forward and pulling her out of her thoughts. She sighed. She didn’t like that she had hurt you, but finally admitting her feelings for you was too terrifying to even consider. Yes, she was acting like a child, but having you this way was better than having you avoid her because she freaked you out. Was it healthy to push you away to avoid rejection? No. But if she never told you how she felt, then you could never turn her down. 

“But she’s so cute when she’s mad, and have you seen those abs,” Alex murmured, biting her lip. Kelley shook her head. How oblivious could two people be? The two of you were always sharing longing glances, and you kept trying to be Alex’s friend, despite her horrible treatment of you. You both stared at each other like lovesick puppies, and she was tired of you getting hurt. 

“I’m sure she’d willingly show them to you if you asked, rather than destroy her property,” Kelley grumbled, and the rest of the room snorted. Just because the two of you were oblivious to each other didn’t mean the rest of the team followed suit. If they could just convince Alex to get over her hesitance due to the age issue, or the fear of rejection, then the entire team dynamic would be better off. They really needed to get rid of the sexual tension that followed the two of you as it was always a bit distracting.

“Hm…” Alex hummed back noncommittally. Why would you pick her over someone like Mal, or Emily or any one of the other youngins you were always hanging with? In her mind you wouldn’t, and why would she need to tell you about her feelings if the plan was already set into place for her to see your abs again. The team shared worried looks, knowing what Alex’s demeanor meant, they could only hope that it wasn’t as bad as the time she had turned all of your t-shirts into crop tops.  

*****

They would find out exactly what she had done not even two hours later. Most of the team was gathered in the conference room munching on whatever food the staff had put out for them. They hoped that excitement for the day was done, but Alex’s smirk and the bouncing of her leg told them that it wasn’t.

You had avoided everyone when you arrived at the hotel, longing for a hot shower and a good nap before you had to deal with the fallout of your outburst. Everything had been going fine until you caught a glance at yourself in the steamy mirror. Your normal Y/H/C was far from its normal shade. 

“What the actual fuck Alex,” You yelled, slamming open the dining-room door, and storming up the women in question. She took in your very angry, very wet form staring down at her clad in nothing but a sports bra and some basketball shorts. She could only assume that you had seen your hair before you had the chance to put on a shirt. 

“How do you know that it was me?” She smiled up innocently at you, biting her lip at the fact that your abs (which just happened to have little water droplets dripping down them) were mere inches from her face. 

“Because who the fuck else would think dying my hair pink was a good idea, and you’re the only one that had the other key to our room” You spat, clacking your teeth and lifting a strand of the hair in question.

“Well, you did say that you needed to liven it up a little bit,” She shrugged. Maybe it was more of the fact that she had thought you would look better in pink, the same shade of pink as her favorite pre-wrap. At least she hadn’t been wrong. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” You glowered, running a frustrated hand through you now ruined hair. You had wanted to do something cool, like different shades of blue and teal, but now you looked like a fucking flamingo. 

“Mmm, did I?” She challenged and her interest peaking as you turned your glare to the floor. It seemed that all Alex wanted was to humiliate you in front of the world, and now she had gotten her wish. You shook your head, it was fine when the pranks were kept within the team, but this was so much farther beyond that. There would be no way for you to hide this from the media, and you weren’t looking forward to their mean comments. 

“You know what, I don’t know what your fucking problem is with me, but I’m sick of you fucking picking on me,” You growled, channeling your frustration and raising to your full height. She may never feel the way you felt about her, but that didn’t give her the right to be an asshole.  

“I don’t have a problem,” She denied, but the gloating smile on her face told you differently. 

“I’d beg to differ. What did I ever do to you to make you fucking hate me?” You finally broke, unable to hold back your frustrated tears any longer. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words would come out. Your fingers tugged roughly at your hair. 

“I don’t hate you Y/n,” Alex said softly, her joyful demeanor crumbling, her shoulders slumping. She hadn’t meant to push this far, it had just been so hard to stop. 

“Do you just think I’m not good enough? I swear that I won’t bring the team down. I can get-” You started to ramble, your tears making it very difficult to understand what you were saying. You were so caught up in your thoughts that you failed to notice the soft hands gripping your shoulders or the fact that Alex’s face was getting very close to your own. 

Her lips touched yours midway through your self deprecating rant, your eyes growing wide when her soft flesh touched your own, before slamming shut and remembering that it was probably a good idea to kiss her back. And you did. Your lips moved in harmony, a symphony of fireworks exploding behind your eyes.

You had dreamed of this moment for as long as you would remember, praying that one day you would finally be given the chance to fight for the woman’s heart. You had all but given up hope that she felt the way you did, but with her tongue gently probing your bottom lip, you couldn’t help the butterflies that filled your chest. Her hands migrated from your shoulders to the baby hairs at the back of your neck, pulling your closer, while yours found the curve of her hips. 

Air became an issue within seconds, and you reluctantly pulled away, taking in large gulping breaths, and instead of taking a step back, Alex followed you, connecting your foreheads. 

“What?” You asked breathlessly, trying to ignore both the loud wolf whistles of your teammates and the heat from your blushing cheeks. 

“I’m was being an ass, and I’m sorry,” “It’s just, I didn’t know how to tell you. You’re just so young, and to be honest, the way you make me feel scares the crap out of me,” She confessed, and you could see the honesty and insecurity in her bright blue eyes. You placed a sweet kiss on her lips, realizing that you were slowly becoming addicted to them. 

“So you thought it was better to push me away then to tell me that you liked me?” It was your turn to smirk at her. 

“It’s not an excuse. I’m so sorry that I hurt you, and if you hated me, I would understand,” She mumbled, leaning peck your lips this time, and you huffed. 

“I don’t hate you. I’ve actually had a crush on you for the longest time…” You giggled, pinching the skin that was exposed by her shirt riding up. You would never admit it, but you had plastered your walls with posters of the women’s national team growing up, and you may or may not have had a propensity doodle your favorite players number all over all of your notebooks. 

“Hmm,” Alex hummed against your lips, wondering exactly how long ‘the longest time’ was, and thanking her lucky stars that she hadn’t entirely fucked up her chances with you. 

“Does this mean you’ll stop messing with me,” You whined, pulling away from her face and burying your nose in her neck. 

“As long as I don’t have to steal your stuff anymore to see those abs,” She giggled at your adorableness, running her hands through your newly pink hair. You sighed in contentment into her neck. 

“Why don’t you buy me dinner first,” You muttered sarcastically raising your eyebrow and, leaning back to finally look her in the eyes. 

“I think that can be arranged,” She shot you a wide smile, her cheeks turning blood red when your teammates started cheering again, bantering about how you two finally got your shit together. 

“I can’t believe Alex basically pranked her way into your pants,’ Kelley snorted after a few minutes, and you couldn’t help the cackle that left your lips. You were smooth, but no one was smoother than Alex. Hopefully, she could woo you as well as she could prank you.

[sophi-s]

Cost of Kindness

Chapter II: Fear me not

By: sophi-s

Fandom: Darksiders video games

Words: 6373

Characters: Raphael, Original Character (OC)

Warnings: Blood and injury, suffocating, violence, Raphael is sad :(

Summary:

Nicola is quick to find trust in herself and quick to lose it. She doesn't realise however, that the man she fears sees something in her others cannot. And this something is what made him save her life again.

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Through the few short weeks, the apocalypse has taught the dying Humanity many different things. Resourcefulness, cunning, true strength of unity… and among other things, the cruel life had taught them, was bravery in its purest form. Bravery that isn't simply an absence of fear but the power to overcome it. Stay cool-headed even in the most extreme scenarios, allowing them to face down even the most horrifying demons and either get away mostly unscathed or sometimes even beat them if they were lucky. Without those traits, survival was nigh impossible these days.

This last very important lesson however, Nicola seemed to have quite spectacularly failed to learn. Even as lucky as she was - considering that she lived thus far - she never was the bravest creature in this God-forsaken world. Smart? Sometimes. Ingenious? Sure. But brave? Not really, no. Especially now, as she was staring up at the angel who she decided to trust not even a minute before and who has just ruthlessly murdered a demon with little to no remorse in a very, very sickening way. Her muscles refused to move as though Raphael had already used the spell of paralysis against her as she watched the corners of his mouth, previously quirked upwards in a small smile, slowly descend. His expression in the matter of seconds morphed into confusion when a quiet sob escaped her. This horrifying, agonized screeching was still ringing in Nicola's ears, the demon kept writhing before her eyes and she couldn't help but wonder.. what did it feel like? To have one's life drained like that. Because judging by the sounds the Goreclaw produced, it must've been truly torturous.

"Human…?"

The soft voice of Raphael snapped her out of this strange haze and the sight of his hand extended towards her once again made her heart jump and begin to race. Her mind was telling her that if Raphael wanted to harm her, he would've done it already. Besides, moments before the demon came, he healed the cut on her forehead demanding nothing in return. Only because he could and - for some reason - wanted. But the chilling claws of panic gripping her throat and the fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, screaming inside her head made the voice of reason merely an inaudible whisper drowning in the sea of primal fear of the possible approaching danger. And right now, her body definitely settled on "flight".

"No! "

She yelped and tried to get away but her heels met the corpse behind her and it caused her to trip over the husk of the once frightening demon. With an expression of shock, Raphael retracted his hand as her rear painfully met the tough and damp floor. There was utter horror gleaming in her emerald green eyes, matched by lack of comprehension in his.

"Why are you frightened?"

And he has the audacity to ask why. Nicola thought bitterly as she started to scramble away. At the first glance, Raphael seemed so kind, he was such a gentle soul. Even his face, despite the collapsed cheeks, has the most trustworthy look to it Nicola had ever seen. This kind is the worst. Makes you trust them, lower your guard.. It seems she'd conveniently forgotten about one fact she noticed moments after she found Raphael. He's completely, absolutely and utterly insane. Unpredictable. At first he couldn't even remember his own name or how he got here. Who can guarantee her that he won't have an abrupt change of heart and lash out at her? She wasn't going to take chances. Leaping up to her feet, Nicola blindly runs off into the dark pathway she initially emerged from, her shotgun left forgotten on the floor just as she heard an almost frantic-sounding call echoing from the haphazard hide-out alongside the sound of rustling feathers and cloth.

" NICOLAAA! "

To her, this shout may have as well been a roar of a Fallen that not so long ago nearly succeeded in ending her life. A golden hue on the walls glistening with wetness trembled and started to move. No one had to say that out loud for her to realise that the angel was actually chasing after her. And to think that merely seconds ago Raphael was struggling with standing up properly… The pain of her overworked legs was gone, forgotten. They carried Nicola like a completely different entity, moving on their own, tireless and strong with only one purpose. Get away. Survive. Escape.

How Nicola managed to get to the point where she started her sightseeing tour of the sewers without any source of light and without tripping over all those bodies she found before was a mystery even to her. Even the slickness of the ladder didn't phase her as she pushed the lid off and quite literally pounced out of the hole in the sidewalk like a puma. She only hoped she'd managed to lose her pursuit in the winding corridors. Placing the lid back where it belonged, Nicola immediately booked it for the nearest alley just to be sure.

Once she was more or less hidden, she leaned against a crumbling wall, breathed out silently and covered her mouth to muffle the uncontrollable sobs. She thought that for once she found something that wasn't about to end her where she stood but it seems that the Universe has taken it as a matter of some twisted honor to slaughter every single member of the human race. This is just unfair. Sure, there was a lot of people who deserved to be smited into oblivion by the God himself for what they'd done but if the apocalypse was supposed to be some kind of punishment, then for fuck's sake why does the entire race has to suffer for it?! How is this even fair ?!

It's not. That's how.

Nicola looked up at the night sky glittering with numerous stars, winking at her like thousands of watching eyes as tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving clean trails in the dust and grime. Eventually, her heartbeat started slowing down, her breath evening out and the adrenaline gradually receding from her system. Now she had a moment to clear her head and think. She had no doubts she can be forgiven for running away. Every person in their right mind would do the same in her situation. Nicola refused to die like this.. But on the other hand… This panic in Raphael's voice, the almost childishly innocent smile as he closed the cut on her skin and the gentleness to his every move as he tried to heal a defenseless kitten… God, this is so… so… Nicola couldn't even find the right word. Despite what the angel did to that Goreclaw, no one said he meant to hurt her too. He may be crazy but that doesn't mean he's a psychotic murderer. This was a demon and angels rightfully hate demons! In his mind there was most likely nothing wrong with that. Besides, she gave Raphael no reason to think of her as a target. All of the sudden, Nicola felt unbelievably foolish for running off like that. Raphael saved her life after all. And she acted nothing if not horribly ungrateful. Should I go back? She'll have to anyway. In a hurry, she left her weapon back down there and Haven was short on those… Dang it…

She sighed. It honestly made her feel like a moron. Damned survival instincts… Sure, they were keeping her alive all the time but sometimes they were just so incredibly annoying. Why would they make her run away from someone who protected her even though he had no reason to do so and nothing to gain from it? From the first angel who seemed to care what fate befalls her? Goodness me, this is so stupid… Nicola shook her head and was about to walk back to the entrance to the sewer when she noticed something in an adjacent alley. Seeing a pair of hungry yellow lights slowly moving closer to her, just above the ground made her heart drop. Her sight has long got used to darkness and so it took her only a fraction of a second to notice curved, black horns above them, long and spindly arms on either side of a slender body ending in a long, scaly lube. A snake-like tail…

With a pounding heart, Raphael quickly moved through the sewer that has long ago turned into his hide-out. Tracking down the strange little human who unexpectedly visited him in his "lair" was harder than it seemed. She was way faster than he would have given her credit for. By all means, in her short legs she shouldn't be that quick. Fear does strange things to people.. But why was she afraid? This short meeting was inarguably the most wonderful thing that happened to him ever since he left the White City. He couldn't quite remember how long ago it was but definitely too long for his taste. All he recalled was the horrible, sharp bite every time he repeated the ritual to finish his greatest creation, followed by a short-lived feeling of elation soon to be replaced by deathly cold within the centre of his being. Each time getting worse and worse until he couldn't stand it anymore. Quickly descending into madness caused by never-ending pain and the chill of his damaged soul, the invisible wound in his chest as cold as a forgotten grave, he knew he can't keep doing this. And so, after having lost his purpose, there was no reason for him to stay anymore. He refused to disappoint his brethren.

You've fulfilled your task. They don't need you anymore.

Raphael halted for a moment, blinking to try and chase away the taunting whisper in the back of his head. It is not true.

"You're wrong. They do. More than ever…"

In the premature Endwar, Heaven's Legions probably wished he was with them. But that doesn't change a thing. He's not going back. Not after he failed to save Ithuriel as an unexplainable surge of panic paralyzed both his hands and his magic. It still sometimes haunts his damaged memories… The young warrior slowly languished from a poisoned wound, grew weaker and weaker with every moment and the archangel couldn't move, couldn't even speak to call for help. Just.. stood there and watched unable to act. Until… A painful twinge through his chest made him wince. No. He can never allow something like this to happen again. He cannot fail them.. He refused to let anyone down like that. Ever.

Frankly speaking, Raphael started to wonder when he'd taken to talking to himself. Solitude clearly wasn't serving him… It's been so long since he had anyone to speak to and even longer since his mind felt this clear. This woman, Nicola, told him she is a human. Considering what has happened to the Third Kingdom, Raphael found it hard to believe. But the spark of life in her soul… it really did feel human. She wasn't a fiend from the Black Depths, nor was she of his own kin. Earth was where she belonged. But there was something in her… something so oddly familiar.. soothing. A flame like those burning in hearts of Heaven's people, just somehow fainter. Only a small fraction of it. Maybe her soul belonged to an angel before it was purged by the Well? Who knows?

But that aside, she was still human. And so, it might as well make her the last survivor of her race and the first creature to show him a lick of sympathy ever since he chose the path of a hermit. The Balance was in danger and this human was imperative for its preservation. For the first time in decades, Raphael felt needed. He had a purpose again. No one was forcing him to do this but the words in a caring tone leaving Nicola's mouth and clear concern for his well being even though she barely knew him for a couple of minutes were something he has been so… so dreadfully missing. As confused as he was by her attitude, he couldn't deny that it was… nice. How long has it been since someone expressed clear worry for him? Too long… The archangel wished this odd mortal near even if for just a short moment because strangely enough, her kindness directed specifically to him somehow eased the never-ending suffering and helped him focus his thoughts that kept running rampant without control whenever he couldn't busy himself with something other than the hole in his chest. And now they were focused on one goal. Find the human.

Raphael waved his bandaged hand through the air before him to invoke a spell and frowned when he detected the familiar presence he was searching for somewhere over his head. She must've left for the city above him. Right where she's out in the open for demons to pick out. Why did she run?

She knows what you are. And she is just a human. Of course she would run like a coward.

No. Raphael brushed this poisonous voice off. Believing in a single word it says will mean his failure. If he does, he will be doomed. Forever lost in the depths of insanity. No matter.. Channeling his magic, Raphael warped and reappeared amidst the sorrowful ruins of the city once inhabited by hundreds of humans. A wave of fresh air hit him in the face and for a moment made his head feel like it was spinning. His eyes opened wide when he took a huge gulp of oxygen. He never realised how sweet it can taste. After such a long time in the damp darkness… The stars peered down at him from the moonless sky, shining like shattered diamonds woven into black velvet. Enchanting and stunningly beautiful. If it wasn't so dangerous out here, Raphael would've surely been more eager to leave the dark pit he was stuck in to marvel at the Earth's still present beauty but such as it was… The moment he let his eyes wander across the vast expanse of the Earthen sky, his feathers bristled at the sound of a shrill cry of fear that tore the silence asunder. A cry of a female voice. Familiar voice. It could only mean one thing. His heart skipped.

Rushing towards the source of the scream, Raphael soon discovered the reason right behind a corner. The same human that indulged him in a much needed interaction, that calmed his restless spirit, was now struggling against the tightening coils of a serpentine body of a demon sorcerer which apparently has picked her as its midnight snack. Already feeling a mist of rage fall over his mind, Raphael shook his head to shrug it off for a little longer. Keeping his head as cool as he could, he performed a gesture with his hands as a string of words in his mother tongue slipped past his lips and his vision zeroed on the Shadowcaster.

Nicola was absolutely sure these were her final moments on this horrible, horrible world when the Shadowcaster jumped at her from a nook and wrapped its tail around her to try and strangle the life out of her like a gigantic, twisted constrictor snake, and watch her perish in suffering. What an awful way to die. Seeing the wicked grin of this malformed face as the last thing before her consciousness leaves her for good. Nicola hoped that if she had to die, then at least she would be sent off by a friendly face… But it seems that God denied her even this last, small comfort.. She fought ferociously against the crushing pressure that was successfully preventing her from catching another breath but to no avail. Her lungs felt as though they had been set on fire and her desperate wriggling only made the demon laugh excitedly as it whispered something she couldn't understand. She didn't have to though. Something told her it was nothing nice.. Dark spots started to gather in the corners of her vision and slowly encase her mind in darkness and she has already come to terms with the fact that this time she isn't getting out of this one alive when… the hold the Shadowcaster had on her loosened.

Taking a wheezing breath, Nicola fell over, still trapped in the coils of the scaly body. What? Once her vision cleared out a little, she saw her attacker lying stiff like a statue with its nasty eyes, previously burning with malice, now opened wide in shock and a web of golden lights crawling across its skin spoke for itself. Before any coherent thought could form in her head she was suddenly yanked free from the demon's grasp by an invisible force. A small cry escaped her when she felt a sharp sting on her thigh where the monster held her with its claws and soon she was gently deposited on the ground. Looking up into a pair of big, white eyes blinking down at her upside down from underneath a green, ragged hood.

"Raph-... phael…?"

She gasped to let her crushed lungs expand properly, though she needed no answer. It was him. He did follow her. And he saved her bacon. Again. Nicola truly wanted to laugh. If there were any doubts still left in her mind that Raphael is a friend before, they disappeared at this very moment. You bloody idiot, you ran from a dude who was trying to protect you and almost got yourself killed in the process. Nicola scolded herself inwardly as she struggled to breathe properly. No running again. Although she was most glad to see Raphael, she immediately noticed something was wrong. He was looking at her but without this soft smile. His eyebrows were knitted together in an expression of worry and… guilt? Why the…? And that's when she noticed that his eyes were flicking between her face and the spot on her leg which was quickly starting to grow warm and wet. Craning her neck to see, Nicola nearly choked once she caught the sight of three deep gashes torn into her flesh. And they were spurting about a lot of blood… Like.. a lot.

"You're bleeding… Hurt…"

His hesitant words only confirmed that it wasn't a hallucination caused by oxygen deprivation. Nicola bit her lip and tried to find that healing shard in her pocket but between being nearly choked to death, her empty stomach, sharp pain and seeing that amount of blood leaving her injured appendage she felt too dizzy to keep her head up and laid back down on the ground with a miserable mewl.

"In the eyes of our blessed Father, your days are numbered, foul beast.."

She heard Raphael hiss through his teeth once he looked up towards the place where the Shadowcaster was surely still face planting under the influence of the spell and his troubled frown turned into a scowl. There was this weird sound once more. Oh my God, he's doing it again… Nicola gulped, already preparing for the round two. Even though she was certain now that she had nothing to fear from him, it still doesn't mean she liked what she saw back then when the Goreclaw jumped her. She was already hearing the screeches of the demon even before they could come to be but this time no such thing happened. Something was different. The light that coalesced around Raphael's hand was not green but golden as the magic vibrated through the air once again. Everything lasted but a second. And instead of a series of pained shrieks, Nicola heard a single, sickening crunch. And then silence. Nothing more. Whatever happened, it was quick and mostly quiet. Probably because they were outside and more demons undoubtedly prowled nearby, and Raphael was definitely smart enough to realise that. Thank goodness… Nicola breathed before she saw the shimmering stars swimming before her eyes quickly starting to disappear along with her hearing. Soon, she slipped her eyelids closed in spite of the pain in her leg and found herself sliding into the dark. Hold on. Just a little longer.. Just… a little…

… longer…

If anything could be said about Shadowcasters, was that their skeletons, as flexible as they are, characterize with astonishing brittleness. One flick of Raphael's wrist was more than enough to snap its neck and give it a far quicker and more merciful death than it deserved. He couldn't allow himself for another drain as it would bring half of the Horde bearing down on both him and the wounded human at his feet. Besides, he didn't feel in need of its energy. The human…

Looking down at her, Raphael felt his heart cease for a second. She was lying there on her back, pale and motionless, her intricate green eyes shut. Alive, the blaze in her soul flickering, but clearly unconscious. Blood was still oozing from the wound he himself had made because of the spontaneous decision to wrench her free from the fiend's hold. He wasn't careful enough and failed to notice that the demon dug its talons into her skin. The archangel had seen a fair share of pain. He used to be the head healer back in the White City after all. The number of warriors he'd pulled out of the cold clutches of death was impossible to count. But somehow this was different. The poor woman was defenseless, weak and delicate. She couldn't even fight the demon that tackled her.

Azrael was right. Humans are very, very fragile.. Compared to other races, they were frighteningly easy to crush. Anything could kill them. From eating something wrong, through illnesses, to even falling into the water. Truth be told, Nicola was the first human Raphael had met in person and he didn't want her to be his last. Just stay calm. Don't panic… Not now… Kneeling down next to her, so small in comparison to him, Raphael gingerly peeled the torn trouser leg off the wound and placed his quivering hand over it, concealing the whole thing with his palm. His magic began to flow into the human once again to seal the torn flesh but there was very little time he had.

He barely managed to lessen the bleeding when a sound of a distant roar and a crash of a car being tossed aside, reached his ears. His head snapped up as his eyes darted around, searching for the owner of this cry. He would recognise it even in his sleep, even if the last scraps of his sanity left him. A Trauma was somewhere nearby. No doubt heading in this direction, attracted by the commotion and possibly the smell of blood as well. And a Trauma he couldn't afford to fight right now. Those things are hearty enough to break through his magic and get to him before he is able to put them down. Scooping up Nicola into his arms, Raphael wrapped his dusted wings around both her and himself and with a single arcane word they both vanished, leaving only a trace of quickly dissipating golden glow in their wake.

-

How long had she been out, Nicola couldn't tell. All she knew that she felt as though someone ran into her with a car. Her breaths were shallow and her heart was beating way too fast for comfort. Groaning quietly, she laid her arm over her face before opening her eyes. To see a dark, damp ceiling gently illuminated by a warm light. Where the Hell-...? The last second before the blackout came back to her like a punch to the gut. The Shadowcaster. Raphael.. With a startled gasp, she shot up, looking about, promptly regretting her decision when the world started to spin again. And to her utter astonishment, she was once again in the small section of the sewers where she met Raphael, settled on some ratty blankets and covered with another one that fell from her chest the moment she stirred.

"Keep still.."

She heard and nearly jumped when she felt a hand fall onto her shoulder and gently coax her into lying down again. And honestly, with how nauseous and weak she felt, Nicola wasn't about to resist and let herself be lowered to the ground. Unsurprisingly now, she saw the familiar scrawny angel sitting cross-legged next to her and staring intensely at her with those big, disturbingly hollow eyes. He brought her back into his hidey-hole? It looks like it.. Why exactly however, Nicola couldn't tell. And there wasn't much she could read from those eyes. A couple of seconds passed. A minute. Two. Five. And he still kept staring. The awkward silence continued until Nicola decided to break it by clearing her throat.

"Uh… what's up, buddy?"

If she wasn't feeling like shit, Nicola would've burst out laughing when she saw Raphael look up at the ceiling confused but she really didn't have strength to explain that this was just an expression. Chucking to herself quietly, she rubbed her eyes with pads of her fingers to clear her blurry sight a little when again her stomach loudly demanded nutrition. And the poor angel who was still looking at the ceiling quite literally jumped away and glared at her abdomen distrustfully when it "growled at him". Seems like angels know as little about humans as humans about them…

"What… was that.?"

Carefully pulling herself up to a sitting position, miserably failing to stop a fit of giggles - even though it pulled her sore muscles over her ribs - Nicola waved her hand dismissively. Any fear she once felt in the presence of Raphael was gone now. Not only did he rescue her twice but the way he was getting confused or spooked by literally anything Nicola did - purposefully or not - was just somewhat endearing.

"I'm just hungry.. I haven't eaten for a whole day.."

"Oh… hungry… hmmmm… Yes.."

Raphael murmured, seemingly a little embarrassed by the whole situation and twisted his body around to reach for something. Furrowing her eyebrows, Nicola tried to shift to see what exactly he was doing back there but she didn't see a lot. At least not until he turned to face her again and very slowly - like he was afraid he would frighten her again - extended his hand to her. And in his palm sat a paper bag where undoubtedly Nicola's sandwich was. Hesitantly, she reached for the packet that rustled encouragingly and a faint, pleasant smell of cheese, ham and pickled cucumbers emerged from within. A nice change from the stench around. It wasn't much but made her mouth water nonetheless.

"Thanks.. though I'd be glad if you didn't go through my things. Okay?"

"Okay…"

He replied with a nod and sat down again, watching Nicola devour - not eat - devour half of her sandwich in a few bites. Goodness, she was so hungry she could eat a horse.. However, halfway through something beside Raphael's thigh caught her attention. There, next to his knee sat a small cat. The same back and white kitten the angel was taking care of before. Looking at her with those blasted big, green eyes with pupils expanded almost to the point where its irises weren't visible and hungrily licking the sides of its mouth. At first she tried to ignore it. But the cursed look cats, especially the little ones, can give! The longer it stared at her, the more sure she was that she doesn't have the appetite anymore.. Goddamnit. Pulling a slice of ham out of her sandwich - the only part that would be of interest to it - Nicola clicked her tongue and offered the food to the kitten.

"Here, little buddy.. Come here."

I'm too soft for my own good. One day, some cat will be the death of her… Carefully and slowly, the kitten approached her, sniffing the piece of meat before snatching it out of her hand and retreating into the safe place behind Raphael to consume the gift. Cats can smell good people from a mile. Looks like she was wrong to ever doubt Raphael had anything but good intentions. Smiling slightly, the angel reached out to the cat and brushed his knuckles against the black fur around a new scar on its back. The loud and comforting purr interrupted only by an occasional swallow rung out and made even Nicola smile as she finished her own food. Even with how meager her snack was, hopefully it was going to last her at least until she finds her way back to Haven. One day of poor eating wasn't going to kill her after all.

When she was done, she peeled back the blanket to examine her injured leg. Nicola pulled a face at the three - even if mostly closed - claw marks on her thigh and the bloodied trouser leg. It didn't look that bad anymore but she could imagine that it would definitely slow her down. The slightest move was causing her mild discomfort. Running and walking anywhere is definitely off the table for now. Still, Nicola much preferred the dull ache that was now in place of excruciating throbbing.

There was no doubt in her mind that this is all once again thanks to the kind, even if a bit unhinged, angel who was now sitting beside her with a quietly purring kitten nested on his lap as he kept stroking its head and back and murmuring something to himself in a strange, melodic language Nicola couldn't understand but found beautiful and enchanting nonetheless. She watched Raphael for a few moments, listening to his deep, soothing voice that made her feel a bit sleepy. After the apocalypse Nicola rarely slept well because of nightmares. And it showed. But before she inevitably dozed off, she felt she had to say something.

"So uh…"

She started, successfully getting his attention, judging by how his eyes shifted to look at her.

"Um… Thanks. For… for everything I guess.."

For a whole minute Raphael didn't answer, simply watched her with his head tilted to the right, a silent question in his eyes. Nicola scratched the back of her neck awkwardly and decided to clarify.

"You know.. for saving my butt two times now, treating me.. And sorry I ran away. I was scared, you got pretty spooky with that Goreclaw back then…"

"Oh…"

He replied with raised eyebrows.

"Forgive me then… I did not mean to frighten you…"

"Oh, no no no, you don't have to be sorry, it's okay! I'm not scared anymore.."

Nicola assured him quickly. Making him feel bad for it wasn't her intention at all.

"Seriously though. Thank you.."

She repeated with a grimace when she tried to shift to a more comfortable position but the ache in her leg made it significantly more difficult. With an empathetic look to his face, Raphael steadied her by returning his hand to her shoulder and moving the other - already radiant with his Heavenly magic - to her wound. The prickly sensation came back, bringing relief in pain as he sighed tiredly.

"This is.. my duty…"

As surprising as it was, Nicola couldn't deny that Raphael seemed to have changed in some way since she found him absolutely deranged. Now he seemed a little more… collected. Focused. Calmer. But simultaneously even sadder and very jumpy. Still, he remained as mysterious as he did before. But maybe if he retains this composure, Nicola could pry something from him about his background. Why is he here alone? What happened to him? How did he get here? There were way too many questions to ask at once but she had to start with something.

"Your duty? You're some sort of a… uh, what shoudma' call it? Doctor, medic, something like that?"

Despite the question being seemingly innocent and harmless, Raphael reacted by turning his eyes down to look at his hands as he flexed his fingers a couple times with a barely noticeable wince twisting his lips. His answer was so quiet that Nicola barely caught it.

"... was… I left.."

"Huh? Wh- why?"

At that, Raphael looked up at her, again with this tortured gleam in his eyes that made her heart squeeze painfully and shyly pointed at Nicola's side.

"It hurts.."

He chimed as she stared at her own hip in confusion. Again, the angel was making no sense. Her side didn't hurt for one, and two, it can't have been the reason why he left… whatever he left to abandon his previous life. A little startled that maybe he knew something she didn't, Nicola probed the place he pointed out but all she could feel was the healing shard in her… in her pocket… All of the sudden she recalled what Raphael told her before.

Hesitantly, she dug the glowing crystal out of her vest and lifted it for Raphael to see better and asked a wordless question which he answered almost immediately.

"The shards… they hurt me.."

This was probably the lowest Nicola's eyebrows have ever descended, making the look of confusion on her face even more blatant. I thought they were supposed to be healing shards? Why would something made to heal one person hurt another?

"How?"

With an expression of anguish, Raphael placed his hand over his chest and took a small gasp of air as if to make his point.

"I created them.. and some of them hurt…"

The revelation made Nicola's jaw fall slack. She'd been suspecting this before when Raphael referred to the crystal as "his" shard but hearing the confirmation almost had her gag. How many times a healing shard has saved either her or someone else from the Tree, she couldn't count on both of her hands. After Ulthane snatched her from the Fallen's talons it took the large one to heal her and make sure she survives afterwards and still it shattered after it served its purpose. At this very moment, no one could ever convince her that the sad, mad angel before her is evil in any way. With a huff of disbelief she shook her head, shifting her gaze between Raphael and the shard.

"Wait, hold up, you made those?! Oh.. my God, I could kiss you, my dude."

A very undignified snort almost escaped Nicola when she saw the face Raphael made. Something between astonishment, horror and curiosity. She remained oblivious to how improper it sounded in his ears. He cocked his head again. Goddamnit. Every time he does that, Nicola just… can't. It constantly reminds her of a puppy looking at some bizarre wonder of nature.

"But.. why would you want to do this..?"

"It's an expression. In other words, I wanted to say I can't thank you enough. How did someone like you ever end up in… like- like this?"

Nicola said "like this" in the last moment before she could say "in such a shitty situation" because she realised just in time how inappropriately awful this sounds, considering they're in the damned sewers. I'll have to learn to stop accidentally making jokes.. For some reason Jones absolutely adored her for it, unlike most of her friends who kept either groaning or facepalming every time and begging her to stop before they kicked a bucket from the sheer badness of her jests. The kitten in Raphael's lap meowed in annoyance when it lost the touch of the angel, coaxing him to keep smoothing out its fur still stained with dried blood. He did, and Nicola didn't miss that he was deliberately avoiding her gaze.

"Long story.. very long.."

"That's alright, we have time!"

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. Her curiosity was just too strong. Besides, Nicola wasn't going anywhere anytime soon with how her leg was fairing (just thinking about how worried Ulthane and the rest have to be made her a little sick) and she honestly doubted Raphael is going anywhere either. But the way it came out made her sound like she was prying to get to something the angel clearly wished to keep to himself. Whether because it was something to be ashamed of or something very unpleasant to speak of. In honesty, Nicola was sure he would scowl at her for this but he simply looked away with a grim look on his face. And it was even worse because it made her feel awful.

"Oh… sorry, if you don't wanna talk about it then it's alright! You don't have to tell me."

"Another time.. rest now."

He hummed and extended one finger towards Nicola's forehead. Before she had time to ask him what he was doing, he lightly poked her right between her eyebrows and all of the sudden she felt unbelievably drowsy. She blinked a couple of times but everything was starting to double before her eyes which were closing all by themselves. With a wide yawn Nicola soon fell into the embrace of magical slumber Raphael called upon her.

He caught her before she could fall down and lowered her onto the blankets to let her sleep in peace. The poor human needed her rest to make up for the amount of blood she lost merely an hour before. Sitting back, Raphael settled for keeping a silent vigil over her until magic wore off. What am I going to do with you? He wondered. For some reason he felt so inexplicably drawn to her and couldn't help it. Something about her was just easing in the pain and warming up the empty void in his tormented soul, even if only a little. The small animal he rescued before rubbed its fuzzy head against his hand and started to knead the fabric of his trousers with its laughably tiny claws that compared to demons' talons were nothing. Still, it stung a tiny little bit. Despite this, Raphael let it curl up in his lap again and fall asleep as well while he watched the human woman and the strange spark dancing within her like a candlelight.

--------------------------------------------------

Chapter II is done! Getting angsty. And say hi to Raphael's kitty. Isn't it cute? :3

Also, here's part 1 if you haven't seen it yet.

[pretend-writer]

Down Below (Chapter 65)

Summary: After being sent down on Earth with the other prisoners from the Ark, Y/N Reyes faces series of events and learns about survival. With new things happening around her, she is now starting a new chapter in her life.

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader, Raven Reyes x sister!reader

Word Count: 1.6k words

Warning: swearing, mention of murder and sex

Down Below Masterlist

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With everything that was going on with Octavia and Wonkru, it seemed that the least of my problems was what was happening at Shallow Valley. After catching up with what had happened since we lost contact with them, apparently Diyoza was getting kicked out of her group by her own people & McCreary was their leader now.

He was much worse than Diyoza; In the beginning she was willing to even offer us half of the Valley. Only if Octavia surrendered of course, which at that time I thought that was a sign of weakness. Now I felt dumb, wishing we took that choice when we could've.

Now it was confirmed that Clarke was helping McCreary defeat us after her and Madi left the bunker. It was selfish of me to even hate Clarke for siding with the psychopath considering the things I've done down at the bunker, but this was an absolute shit situation.

The worst of all was that I overheard people saying that Marcus was by their side as well. The hate I had for him from when we were down at the bunker grew stronger, wondering how he can just sit there and help McCreary kill us. Or even kill me, for that matter. I knew I was awful but surely he doesn't want me dead, does he?

Whatever McCreary & his new crew were planning to do to us, we heard everything, thanks to Diyoza and Echo. We knew what we had to do to try to take over the last liable land on Earth. We had to make this right because our life depended on it.

The plan to blindside McCreary was genius; not going to lie, having Echo on our side nowadays was painful to process but she sure was good at what she does.

'Make sure you all know your parts in the plan. Any questions?' Bellamy rested his hands on his hips as he looked around the tent.

'Tell Echo good work with this.' Octavia added.

Bellamy rolled his eyes at his sister, 'In two hours you can tell her yourself.'

She kept a straight face as him and the other warriors walked out of the tent but I could tell she was hurting. Spending six years with her by my side, I've learned so much about her.

Octavia and I became close down in the bunker, especially because we had no one to trust but each other. Which was why it hurt so much when she told me she never asked for help from Abby.

I did feel bad for Octavia about the way Bellamy was treating her; It wasn't fair for him to give her the cold shoulder after what happened between me and him couple hours ago.

'Y/N.' Octavia mumbled, 'The reason why I knew to burn everything was because I overheard you and Monty talking about the hydrofarm. You asked me why I did it but you'll see when we get the Valley.'

'We've sacrificed a lot to save our people. I'm not proud of the day I killed innocent people but I did it so that I can save you from Abby. What do we gain from burning down the one thing we needed to live?'

Octavia stood, 'You'll know once we get there. I promise you.'

I looked down, disappointed in myself because I knew that all of this was my fault. This whole massacre started when I started killing people at the bunker. Blodreina and Skafaiya wouldn't exist without my mistake in the cafeteria that day.

'I'm sorry about what I said, Y/N. I'm glad I had you with me at the bunker.' Octavia sighed. 'Okay?'

Without making eye contact with her, I slowly nodded and left the tent. It was tough to process, I didn't know what to say or how to respond. The truth of the matter was, I became broken from that turn of event and I'll live with that regret for the rest of my life.

Needing to get ready before the battle, I approached my tent to get all my gear. After feeling a light tap on my shoulder, I turned around.

'Hey, how're you holding up?' Bellamy smiled lightly which made my heart full. It's been a long time since I've seen his cute, freckles face. Most importantly, he was smiling at me.

What happened between us a few hours back suddenly made me nervous; It's been a long time since I've been intimate with someone, I felt so shy in front of Bellamy.

Especially after the huge fight we had over Wonkru, I didn't know how he felt about everything now. 'I'm doing alright. You?'

'Good. I really hope this battle against McCreary's men goes well.'

'Me too.' I mumbled as I thought about whether I should say what I felt. Knowing that it would distract me during the fight, I decided to ask. 'Uhm, I know this is sudden but... what are we doing?'

'We have three groups of-'

'No, I meant about us.' I gulped, scared of his reaction and answer. It was hard having "casual sex" with someone you deeply cared about and loved. If it was nothing, I had to know for my own sake.

Bellamy paused, unsure of what he should say. The facial expression on his face made my heart drop, knowing that whatever he was thinking wasn't good news for me.

'I-I don't know. I want us to go back to how it used to be but it's hard.'

Fiddling with my shirt, I sighed. 'Yeah, I get it. I just didn't want my hopes up so I wanted to know exactly what was on your mind.'

'We should just take it slow... see where it goes. If that's alright with you?' Bellamy suggested.

'Sounds fair.' Inside, I was dying of happiness since I knew that this was too good to be true. It was as if I was given a second chance that I didn't deserve. This time, it was going to be different.

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As the group split up, Octavia, Bellamy, me and a few other warriors marched into the battleground. With nothing but sand and a huge wall of dirt around us, we kept walking to position ourselves.

Bellamy looked through his scope in his gun, searching for the enemies on the top of the cliff. 'Just like Echo said...'

The sound of bullets rang from the other side of the cliff, realizing that it was Echo, John, Emori and Raven fighting off McCreary's men.

'Echo was right.' Bellamy mumbled, continuing to look around for more men that was possibly hiding our nearby. 'Let's do this.'

Octavia signaled Wonkru to charge, which immediately had all the warriors march through the rest of the warfield. Following the Wonkru warriors, I marched right behind them as I gripped my submachine gun tightly.

She came right next to me as if she rushed and tried to catch up. 'Y/N?'

'What is it?' I asked politely yet uninvitingly. The whole argument with Octavia was going to be hard to get over considering she was the closest thing I had to a family down at the bunker.

'Are you still mad at me?' That was a direct question I would've never expected from Blodreina. Perhaps she was scrubbing of her dark days just as I was.

Not knowing how to put my feelings into words, I kept it simple. 'I'm just disappointed.'

'Well, I-' Immediately, we were interrupted by gun shots from the opposite side. It felt like thousands of McCreary's men all fired their weapons at once, trying to wipe out every one of the people that was left of us.

Quickly aiming my gun to where the fires were coming from, I started shooting. It was unclear of who was exactly firing as all of their men were hiding but I could tell I got a few hits as I heard groaning everytime I shot at them.

Wonkru wasn't enough to fight these men because our people were getting killed left and right. Feeling the rage in me, I started to fire my gun in the air, hoping to get any McCreary men I can injure or kill. Soon enough, I felt a sharp pain in my thigh which caused me to fall to the ground.

'Reyes, take cover!' Bellamy immediately rushes towards me and grabbed onto me, basically dragging me to the safest place he could find.

We took cover, hiding behind a boulder and watching Wonkru getting slain one after the other. Far up ahead, I spotted Octavia with a gun, firing at our opponents.

'Blake, we have to help Octavia.' She was out in the open, they could target her at any moment and possibly kill her.

'Even after what she'd done?'

Flailing my nose from frustration, I shook my head. I was as guilty as Octavia at the bunker; why was he able to try to forgive me but not his own sister?

Without thinking about the pain in my thigh, I quickly got up and ran towards Octavia. Bellamy yelled out my name but with all the noises from gunshots and screaming from pained warriors, I was unable to hear him. Even if I heard him, it wouldn't have made a difference; I was going to save my friend.

Finally catching up to Octavia, I pulled on her shoulder. 'Come on, we need to hide until this clears out.'

'I'm saving us out of here, I need to lead Wonkru to Shallow Valley.'

'Y/N!' As I heard Bellamy's voice, I also heard an unfamiliar noise coming from McCreary's men. It was a huge gun-like war machine, whatever that was it did not sound good. 'Y/N, lets go.'

'You can go, I'm not leaving without Octavia.' I shouted back.

Bellamy grunted, instantly grabbing onto my arm and ran the opposite direction from McCreary's men. Turning around, I saw Octavia chasing us from behind.

The next thing we knew, a electronic pressure of some sort blasted from the drill-like weapon which caused the people in the area to fly off the ground. Then the rest of the warzone was in silence.

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tag list; @jodiereedus22, @coffeebooksandfandom, @bellamyblakemorley, @wisestydia-15, @dbtvluv , @hurricane–amelia , @lexalexy , @olkathefoxi, @lena-davina, @kellbell44, @thehakunamatara, @akelly4477, @morgannope, @littlegirl-fox, @captainam-erika-trash, @greygarbage, @nathaliabakes, @eternallyvenus, @rauwz, @broco8, @eridanuswave, @minamisulemisa, @lilacs-lavender

[princeescaluswords]

Emissary!Stiles is less about keeping his white pack in touch with humanity and providing good, unbiased advice but more about enabling abusive behavior and toxic traits that fandom valorizes. Time and time again I've seen it. Where Derek is "healed" by having his shitty actions validated. And it's explained away as being "werewolf culture" which.... wasn't a concept in canon but fandom fabricated one and holds it up as gospel

Imagine, for a moment, that this was a summary of a different show.

Season 1:  A middle-aged man targets, stalks, manipulates, threatens the loved ones of,  and repeatedly assaults a teenage boy in order to force this teenage boy to help him kill the people who burned his family alive along with any innocent people who happen to get in his way.  His nephew, an adult, also targets, stalks, manipulates, threatens, and repeatedly assaults the same teenage boy in an attempt to find the killer of his sister.   The teenage boy’s romantic interest does not know of her family’s roles as paramilitary vigilantes, who attempt to kill the middle-aged man, the nephew, and the teenage boy.

If this were Law & Order or any other copaganda show, there would be no discussion of whether the boy was asking for it.  There would be no examination of whether the teenage boy’s panicked actions in response to being targeted were just or moral.  If the teenage boy reacted in fear or hatred against the men mangling his life into something unrecognizable for their own purposes, there would only be sympathy.   If the teenage boy believed that the only way for this nightmare to end and for him to get his life back would be to kill the middle-aged serial murderer, especially after being told  “You don't kill with him, he kills you,”  he’d be cheered, not scorned.   Not a single person would be wondering about his best friend’s self-esteem.

It’s baffling that everyone holds it against Scott for wanting to kill Peter to be human again, but no one holds it against Derek for killing Peter for power.   Even more baffling is that while everyone sees Derek’s character growth as he learns that power isn’t the answer to everything, these same people can’t see how Scott’s evolving rejection of killing as a solution is also character growth.  Actually, it’s not baffling at all, it’s racist.

But they can’t truly evade the fact that Scott was Peter’s and Derek’s victim in Season 1.  So they create a werewolf culture in which Peter’s and Derek’s behavior is considered normal.  We do get aspects of werewolf culture on the show.  They do have a symbol of vendetta, but fandom misses the pained and disdainful reaction of Talia and Deucalion when Ennis draws the vendetta spiral in the distillery.   Not a single werewolf treats what Peter did as normal or laudable, with even the freaking Demon Wolf dismissing him as a ‘sociopath.’  While Derek might accept Laura’s death as an accident, the moment that Scott proves it was premeditated, Derek seeks Peter’s destruction.  

What these fandom members do miss in their rush to condemn Scott as a colonizer (I can never write that with a straight face), were other examples of the culture that appear.  Such as Talia defending the Argents when she says “we’re not the only people who adhere to rituals that are thousands of years old.”  Or how Peter, Derek, Deucalion, Satomi, and Brett all exhibit respect for Scott’s ascension as True Alpha.   That aspect of werewolf culture doesn’t serve their agenda, so they forget it or dismiss it as “cult behavior.”  Who’s the colonizer now?

The claim that Scott is in the wrong because he rejects werewolf culture embodied in Peter’s killing spree and Derek’s badly run war is the same type of sleight-of-hand that they use when they argue that Scott’s remark that maybe the Argents had a reason is horrific and more than justification for Peter mentally violating him while Stiles attempt to throw Derek out of his jeep in response to Derek’s admission he was dying was “banter.”    

Their agenda is one of submission.  It’s one of invalidation.   Peter was a monster, not a liberator nor a Left Hand, since he didn’t care about the difference between the people who hurt his family and the people who didn’t.  Derek was a flop as a person and as an alpha until he learned to put the past behind him.  Stiles’s inability to put principle before emotion led him to disaster.   

Through the course of the show, Scott learned the lessons his foils taught.  He rejected the concept that killing solves anything.  He avoided the pitfalls of being held prisoner by his own trauma.   He learned that sometimes you had to put principle above love and even friendship.  This is what made him a True Alpha.

They should recognize this.  They should recognize that as much backstory as they gave Peter and Derek and Stiles, they made Scott the hero as a direct result of him learning from them.   But they can’t.  They won’t.   And you know why.

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (125/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[7 July, 233 Before Age. Fytpall IV.]

They told stories on Fytpall IV, of a creature that slept at the bottom of the wine-dark sea. Immeasurably old, it had lain dormant for undreaming eons, and one day it would awaken and resume whatever unfathomable business it had upon the surface. It was said that the creature was indescribable, and all who saw it were driven mad by its appearance. Even the fish knew to avoid that part of the sea, and so it was utterly devoid of life.

The legend was mostly true, although the Fytpallians had overestimated the creature somewhat. Gorath'th the Defiler of Souls was eminently describable. It had a body somewhat like a carnivorous dinosaur, only its skin was smooth and slimy like a frog's, and at the end of its long neck was a jawless mouth ringed with pointed teeth. Tentacles would snake out of its throat when it ate, and it had a eerily humanoid eye on the center of its chest. Instead of fingers or toes, its limbs ended with thousands of hair-like cilia.

Also, contrary to the Fytpallian tradition, Gorath'th would never reawaken, as it had been accidentally killed during a battle between Luffa and the Jindan Saiyans who had invaded Fytpall a week earlier. The invaders had tried to lure Luffa underwater, hoping that they would find an advantage there, but instead she unleashed a massive ki attack, as she believed there were no innocent life forms in the area to get caught in the blast. And this was true enough, for the Defiler of Souls was by no means "innocent." Gorath'th was vaporized in its sleep, never knowing what had destroyed it. Would such an ancient and unknowable horror have felt humiliation over such an ignoble death? Probably. Gorath'th was a lot more insecure about these things than anyone knew.

The irony was that the enormous explosion that had destroyed Gorath'th hadn't even been meant to kill anything. Luffa had only used it as a diversion. While her two enemies moved off to escape the range of the attack, Luffa propelled herself through it, just so she could catch one of them off guard and drive her fist into his face. A normal Saiyan would have been killed on impact, but the Jindan power had made this one strong enough to survive. That was fine. She was quite satisfied to simply break his jaw. That would be enough to keep him from saving his comrade.

The Jindan Saiyans were stronger than ordinary Saiyans, but they were still no match for Luffa in a one-on-one scenario. Accordingly, they worked in squads of at least six. Luffa countered this strategy by splitting them up and picking them off one at a time. Now, she closed in on her true prey, a Saiyan woman with scars running down both sides of her face. She had looked very confident in herself when she had been flanked by seven teammates, but now she was alone. Luffa struck her hard enough to knock her out of the water like a missile. She flew after Scarface and battered her with her fists every time she was close enough to strike. By the time Broken Jaw recovered--if he ever recovered--Scarface would be too badly hurt to help him.

The key, Luffa had found, was to resist the urge to finish her enemies off. That was what they expected her to do, after all, and she had found it was best to keep switching targets as quickly as possible. She sensed Bald Guy pulling himself together from the beating she had given him a thousand miles away, while Kidney Punch seemed to be alive, but he had lost the will to fight. The other four--Shorty, Screamer, Kinda Cute, and Head Wound-- were already dead. She would kill them all eventually, but it was important to keep them from regrouping or formulating any kind of plan. Her right knee and left shoulder were still bothering her, and while she was certain that she could kill four Jindan Saiyans at once, she couldn't take that chance. She had been fighting battles like this on a dozen planets already, and each one had taken a toll on her body. If she allowed herself to take too much damage on any one battle, then she would risk losing the war.

Luffa refused to let that happen. Dying in any one battle would rob her of the battles yet to come. That was what she told herself. It was easier than facing the real reasons.

[4 July, 233 Before Age. Buulprind III.]

The city was utterly ruined. The Jindan Saiyans who destroyed it were all dead, and Luffa was overdue to join another battle on Fytpall. But her own ship was hours away, and the transport she had planned to use had been destroyed in the battle. There were other ships, but the spaceports and shipyards were in disarray.

And she needed medical attention. Under different circumstances, Luffa might have simply taken the first spaceworthy vessel available, and headed for her next mission without bothering to bandage her wounds. But she had been too slow this time, and she knew she couldn't afford to lose any more strength. And so, she found a hospital in what remained of the city and waited for someone to treat her.

Unable to sit still for any length of time, she roamed the halls, occasionally helping herself to rolls of bandages. On the sixth floor, she found a woman sobbing over an unoccupied bed. There were a lot of people crying in this place. Some didn't cry. They just stared blankly, as though still registering what had happened to them.

"I couldn't get them all in time," Luffa said from the doorway. She hadn't meant to speak these words aloud. It wasn't until the civilian looked up and noticed her that Luffa realized she had said anything. The woman took one look at her and rose to her feet.

"I'm sorry," Luffa said. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

"Are you all right?"

The woman began to fuss over Luffa's bandages. She had applied them rather sloppily, and several of them were soaked with blood. Before Luffa could object, the woman was close enough to notice her tail.

"You're the Federatrix," she said. "Luffa."

"Yeah," Luffa said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, even as she still wiped the tears from her eyes. "These bandages are a mess. Who put these on?"

"Uh, I did," Luffa said.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you did a better job that I could have done before yesterday," she said. "One of the nurses downstairs finally showed me how."

Luffa watched, but not very carefully. Mostly, it was just an excuse to look away, and to avoid saying anything.

"They won't come back, will they? The Saiyans, I mean."

"No," Luffa said. "I mean, not these Saiyans. I killed them. But there might be others. Sometimes they hide and try to ambush me, or wait for me to leave the planet."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't fast enough to stop them. I didn't think they would blow up the city like they did, not while they were fighting with me."

"Well, you're hurt," the woman said. "I'm sure you did the best you could."

"How'd you end up here?" Luffa asked. She had been trying to steer clear of this topic, but something about the word "best" made her desperate to talk about anything else.

"I brought... It's stupid, really. He was... there was nothing they could do for him. After the blast, I went looking for help. I told him I'd come back for him. But it took me hours to find help, and they couldn't go back right away. There just wasn't enough... He was unconscious when they finally found him, and he'd lost so much blood... They took him into surgery an hour ago, and they'll do what they can, but..."

Her voice started to crack and she set her jaw as she continued to work on Luffa's bandages. "Well, it's not important now. You've seen how it is here. There's plenty of other people who can be helped. I can't just hide in here forever."

She seemed to gather strength as she spoke, and when she was done with Luffa's bandages, she clasped one of her hands into her own.

"Thanks," she said. "I needed a kick in the pants to get me motivated again."

"What?" Luffa asked. "I didn't mean to--"

But the woman wasn't listening. "You've been protecting us all, fighting with everything you have, in spite of your injuries. I don't know how you Saiyans can do it, but it's inspiring to have someone like you on our side. Someone who never gives up."

Luffa's eyes widened and she pulled away. "I... I have to go."

"Oh, of course. I didn't meant to take up your time. You should really have a doctor take a look at you..."

But Luffa had already run out into the hallway, and through the nearest window to escape into the sky...

*******

[7 July, 233 Before Age. Fytpall IV.]

It wasn't the joy of battle, or even the guilt she felt over innocent lives she had been unable to save. Both of those emotions were there, of course. As she kicked a Saiyan hard enough to shatter his pelvis, she couldn't help but enjoy it, and worry that it might not be enough.

But besides these feelings, what coursed through her heart was a very particular dread. She was doing the "best she could". She was the Super Saiyan, which meant that, by definition, her best was the best that any Saiyan could do, anywhere, ever.

Failure was one thing. Luffa had failed before. Her mother had taught her at an early age to get back up and try again. As much as she grieved for the civilian casualties in this conflict, she accepted it as part of the nature of war. The problem for Luffa was that when she wasn't good enough, it meant that the entire Saiyan race wasn't good enough.

Broken Jaw tried to take Luffa's head off with a blade of concentrated ki energy. She dodged it with inches to spare and responded with an energy blast from her mouth. A glancing blow, but good enough for the moment.

For a time, she had believed that a protracted battle with other Saiyans would be satisfying. Now, she wasn't so sure. In the end, they always seemed to fight just like all the other aliens and monsters she had encountered. They were just more familiar to her, in a way. Was that all the Saiyan species really was? King Rehval had boasted about shaping the destiny of the Saiyan people, and Luffa herself had always believed that the Saiyans were capable of an inherent greatness. But time after time, the Saiyans always seemed to fall short of her expectations. She was the best one, and if she was disappointed with herself, what hope was there for the rest of them?

There was no hope at all for Kidney Punch. Luffa finished him off with a Vengeance Canon through the heart. He died a warrior's death, but Luffa knew that was an empty statement. He was no courageous warrior, just a flunky in Trismegistus' mad cult. He had come to this planet to die in a useless battle, and perhaps to kill as many people as he could before death finally caught up to him. If by some miracle he had survived, he would have returned to his master's side, and lived out his days as a pathetic joke of what a Saiyan was supposed to be.

She couldn't get the woman from the hospital out of her mind. She had seen that kind of grief before. Luffa had experienced it firsthand, when she failed to save the Dorluns all those years ago. When she lost her son to the treachery of Kandai and the Tikosi. And yet, these civilians that she had failed, who were too weak to defend themselves, they seemed to bear their suffering far better than any Saiyan. To be so overcome with pain, and then to carry on helping others like that.

And that woman had said Luffa had inspired her. It shamed her to even think about it. These people of the Federation had been mostly an afterthought to Luffa. She cared about them, to a point, but they had never really been high on her list of priorities. She had defended them mostly in the abstract. Other than Extraliga, she had never spent much time among their people, or their soldiers. Now, Luffa was beginning to take some pride in them.

She wasn't sure how to feel about that. Luffa had hoped that fighting these last few cultists on Fytpall might distract her from that heavy feeling in her chest. As she tracked down Scarface, she decided that it wasn't distracting her at all. Scarface was too badly hurt to do much more than beg for her life. Perhaps it just as well that the people of the Federation gave Luffa something to be proud about. The Saiyan people didn't seem to have much to offer.

*******

[8 July, 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Treekul's hair had grown to nearly three-quarters of an inch in length, for she had been without her hair trimmer for some time. Despite her confinement on this planet, surrounded by Saiyan cultists, hair growth was the most frustrating burden for her. Treekul took a private comfort in repeatedly trimming her scalp, but Rehval had forbidden this during her "apprenticeship". He said this was to discipline her mind, but she suspected that he just did these things for his own amusement.

She was late for today's "lesson", but Rehval never seemed too concerned with her punctuality. If one of his cultists stepped out of line, he would have them severely punished, but she was different. The only non-Saiyan on the planet, Treekul was never indoctrinated into their belief system. Instead, he made her a priestess and gave her a free hand to wander around his underground compound. This was all balanced by the fact that she was powerless to escape, and had no real way to resist him.

"Your distillate was very well done, Treekul," he said as she entered the chamber leading into his private laboratory. "You have some real talent."

"Look, I don't want to sound ungrateful," she said, "but why are you bothering training me at all? The war with the Federation, your vendetta against Luffa, running this cult of yours. Not to mention brewing up the Jindan potion you use to give them all that extra power you promise them. And I guess you're still the Saiyan King, even if everyone around here only knows you as Trismegistus. You've got enough on your plate already, don't you?"

"You've answered your own question," he said. "A king is only exceptional among his subjects. Surround him with other kings, and his crown becomes commonplace. So too does a teacher lose standing outside of a classroom. An alchemist loses grandeur when compared to other alchemists. A Saiyan becomes insignificant in a crowd of Saiyans. But a man who can be a king and an alchemist! A teacher and a deity. A Saiyan and a diplomat."

There were bottles and equipment arranged on her lab bench, but he was focused on a large pot of water that was suspended over a flame. Every few seconds, he sprinkled leaves and red powder into the pot, then stared intently at the surface of the liquid.

"Are you a fortune teller, too?" Treekul asked.

"You recognize the technique," Rehval said. "I'm impressed."

"I'm not an alchemist, I just study their history," Treekul replied. "I wouldn't be much good at that if I didn't know a scrying pool from a retort."

"Luffa is on Fytpall," he said. "By morning, my followers there will be dead."

"You don't sound too concerned about that," Treekul said.

"They give their lives for a higher purpose," he said.

"Level with me," Treekul said. "I'm not exactly in a position to expose your plans, and no one here would believe me if I told your secrets. What's this war of yours really for, anyway? Is it just a diversion for some other plan? Or are you really trying to kill off your own people?"

"Not at all," he said with a chuckle. "If one of them manages to kill Luffa, I would reward him beyond his wildest imaginations. Or her, but to be honest, I don't think any of the women in my fold would ever stand a chance. But for the men at least, it's not impossible, just very unlikely."

"Then why bother sending them?" Treekul asked.

"To wear her down," Rehval explained. "Before, I made the mistake of luring her to my home. I thought it would give me the advantage, but she escaped, and destroyed a lot of things I considered precious. I see now that that the only way to defeat her is by force. Not a single, decisive strike, but through attrition. My followers will chip away at her, little by little, across dozens of worlds. She seems to be healing between battles, but she still has to travel from planet to planet to block my offensives."

"What if she just quits?" Treekul suggested. At last, Rehval looked up at her, and his glare made her regret the question.

"You don't understand anything," Rehval said. "She's not just some general, like the ones you probably studied in your history books. She is a force of nature. As I rise up to claim supremacy over the Saiyan race-- and through them, the entire universe-- she rises up to oppose me. Force, counterforce. She would never back down from this challenge, and even if she did, it would only prove that she is not the threat I took her for."

"Oh," Treekul said, not understanding any of this. "Why didn't you just say so before?"

"You would understand if you had met her like I did," Rehval muttered. "If you had seen the wild look in her eyes, felt the raw intensity of her ki. No. No, she's the one. Nature resists alchemy, my dear. Each reaction, every shortcut, every convenience we make, there is a price that nature demands in return. A shrewd practitioner knows how to reach a fair bargain. This scrying pool only demands a few drops of blood, and the caloric from the fire. A glimpse into the future doesn't cost much, if that's all you seek. But my goal is to change the universe itself, and so the price I must pay is nothing less than the head of my nemesis. I was a fool to think she could ever be convinced to join me, but I had to try. Yes... I had to try. She's far too magnificent a woman... far too magnificent indeed..."

The one good thing about this rambling, Treekul thought, was that he was obsessing over some other woman, instead of herself. It wasn't much comfort to her, though. "You wanted to show me something, Boss?" she asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Yes, of course," he said. "Your performance on your last few exercises proves that you're ready to take a more hands-on approach with the cult."

"Huh?" Treekul asked.

"I want you to administer the Jindan potion, Treekul," Rehval said. "One day, I may have you manufacture it yourself, but for now, I just want you to oversee the ritual with the next class of recruits. It will help you understand how it works."

"I... I thought they just..." Treekul mimicked the act of drinking from an imaginary cup, and gulped for emphasis.

"Oh, that's definitely part of it," Rehval said. "But the rituals before that are important for preparing the subject. Heh. If you just drank the principal elixir by itself... well, I'd show you what happened to some unruly followers when they tried it, but... there isn't really anything left of them to see."

"Oh," Treekul said. Without realizing it, she took a step backward. He had been so calm and composed around her before. Almost friendly. But each time she met him, the gentle self-assured confidence seemed to slip a little more. It frightened her more than she wanted to admit. And while she knew there was no point in trying to run from him, her instincts sometimes got the better of her.

Suddenly she found herself leaning back in his arms. He had crossed the distance between them with a burst of speed she could hardly comprehend. Treekul knew about the immense power of the Saiyans, but this was her first personal demonstration.

"Ley lines," Rehval said as he looked deeply into her eyes. Her back rested against his left hand, while his right was steadying her at the hip. If he noticed her trembling, or the fear in her eyes, he didn't show it.

"I built these caverns to align with different ley lines across the planet," he said. "Can you feel it? We're standing on a node right now."

"Is that right?" Treekul said.

"The Jindan elixir is a medium between the living energy of the body and the geological energy of the planet. The Jindan transmutation allows a Saiyan to supplement his own ki with planetary power, which is usually much greater. I estimate that a planet with a high population and good biodiversity contains enough ki energy to rival any living foe, including Luffa. The trouble is that there's been no way to direct this sort of power, or to put it all at the command of an individual."

"Until you found a way," Treekul said.

"I found a better way," Rehval said with a smile. "Instead of drawing upon the life energy on Nagaoka's surface, I can tap into the energy of the planet underfoot. The hard part is converting that energy into a form that living beings can use. But I'll show you. I'll show you everything..."

"Could you, uh, let go of me?" she asked, fighting the urge to panic. She wasn't sure how he would react if she struggled, but she was reluctant to find out.

"Is that what you want?" Rehval asked. "I have so much power, Treekul. Far more than any Super Saiyan. I'm offering to share that power with you. You can feel it, can't you? Through my hands, the caverns, my followers? I very much want you to understand that power. It means a great deal to me."

"Hey, I can tell you're powerful," Treekul said, choosing her words very carefully. "But I won't fully appreciate it all until you teach me what you know, and you can't exactly do that while your hands are full, can you?"

He began to laugh, gently, the way someone would during a conversation over a meal. She was beginning to think he saw her as a friend.

"You're right, of course," he said as he finally released her. "Let's get back to the matter at hand. Alchemy is a path to power, Treekul. The Jindan ritual will show you how I can manipulate incredible energies."

"Okay, but that's not really sharing power with me," Treekul said. "Even if I learn how to do this thing, I can only make Saiyans stronger and bind them to your cult, right? That's just me doing your work for you, and you've already got me under your thumb."

"You know, that's an interesting point," Rehval said. "I hadn't thought of it that way. You see, this is exactly why teaching is so rewarding. It gives the teacher a fresh perspective." He stepped away from Treekul and began to pace around the lab, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at the floor as he mulled it over.

"All right," he finally said, turning to look at Treekul again. "We'll do it like this. Tell me what you want. What do you desire most? Then let me show you how you can use alchemy to achieve it."

"How about a haircut?" Treekul said. This was a lie. What she wanted most was to leave Nagaoka and never return, but she doubted the wisdom of saying so out loud.

Rehval looked disappointed. "A haircut. You know, I'm starting to think you lack imagination."

"You didn't ask me to think big, you asked me what I wanted," Treekul said. "And right now, that's my answer."

"It would me much more interesting to show you how to make hair grow," Rehval replied. "Abiogenesis is a fascinating topic."

"Maybe so, but that would be the opposite of what I want, so it would be a waste of time," Treekul said. "You talk about power like all that matters is having more of it. What good is owning a mansion if the shower doesn't work?"

"Fine, you've made your point," Rehval said. "I'll need to prepare your materials for the lesson. Why don't you rest for now, and I'll send for you when I'm ready. Hm, yes, this might be interesting after all...."

With that, he began to busy himself with the reagents and glassware on the benches, and muttering to himself as he rummaged through the cabinets. Treekul hesitated for a moment, half-worried that he might grab her again if she moved, but eventually she decided that he had dismissed her, and that this might be her best chance to get away from him for a while.

She felt a strange elation as she wandered the halls of the compound. As shocked and afraid as she had been when he suddenly grabbed her like that, now that it was over, she felt like she had come away with a bit more leverage. He seemed almost desperate in some way, like he needed her approval, or something else from her that he couldn't simply take by force. As long as that was true, then she still had a chance.

And he was going to teach her something she could actually use, which was an unexpected bonus. Trimming her hair was a low priority in this situation, but he had been the one to confiscate her electric trimmer in the first place, so the fact that he might let her cut her own hair again seemed like a step in the right direction. If she couldn't escape the planet herself, and if she couldn't trick the cultists into helping her, then maybe Rehval himself might provide her with a way out.

The only problem with that, she reasoned, was that she would have to spend even more time with him for her lessons. And yet, this session had turned out to be almost exciting. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad...

NEXT: Morale

[omegaqueencas]

Take a Cue - Billiards Vingettes

1- John started teaching Dean to play pool as soon as he was tall enough to reach the felt, and Sam had early memories of sitting on the edge of the table in grimy bars, watching his father guide Dean’s hands on the cue, just like he guided them on a gun doing target practice. 

Once, Sam got his fingers crushed against the edge of the felt by the ball because he’d forgotten John’s admonition to be careful. Dean didn’t want to play for a while after that, until Dad snapped, “He’s gonna get hurt worse than that some day, do you want to be able to take care of him or not? Pool’s a good way to make money, in a pinch.” 

After that they played again, and Dean had a hard-eyed intensity that Sam was slowly becoming familiar with as his brother grew older. 

2- Sam’s earliest role in hustling pool was as the teary-eyed distraction. If Dad’s mark was making trouble about handing over the money, it was Sam’s job to come over sniffling and wide-eyed, asking if they were angry with his Daddy. Dean would stand protectively behind him, ready to drag him out of harm’s way in case it didn’t work. It always worked. 

3- Later, it was Dean who taught Sam to play. Night after night, whenever there was a diner or a bar with a pool table, they’d take down the cues and rack the balls. At first Sam just practiced hitting any ball into any pocket, and then, as he gradually improved, they played every variation of billiards on the books, and a few that he was pretty sure Dean made up. 

“You scratched the cue ball! You have to pick truth or dare.” 

“That’s not a real rule, Dean.” 

“How do you know? And don’t chalk the cue between every turn, it makes you look like an amateur.” 

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t looking like an amateur the point?” 

“Yeah but only when you want to. Pool is a dying art and w e have to be defenders of her honor. Come on, truth or dare Sammy?” 

“Don’t call me Sammy. Fine, truth.” 

“Were you jerking off last week, after you walked in on me and Carla Benetti?” 

“Ugh, you’re such a freak, Dean!” 

Dean waggled his eyebrows. “Answer the question, you can’t welch on truth or dare.” 

“Time to go, boys,” their dad called, and they had to put the cues away. 

Twenty miles down the highway, both curled to sleep in the back seat with streetlights flickering in magic-lantern shadows on the inside of the car, Sam leaned his head against Dean’s shoulder and whispered, “Yes.” 

“Huh?” Dean said, already thick with sleep. Dean could fall asleep anywhere, at any time. 

“I said yes,” Sam repeat, low enough to not be overheard by John beneath the roar of the engine and the rush of the road. “I was jerking off. After I walked in on you.” 

“Oh.” Dean breathed out, a little shakily, and his hand found Sam’s skinny knee, squeezing. 

The dark made Sam brave. He reached down and closed his own fingers around Dean’s, holding them in place. They fell asleep like that. 

4-John watched his boys circling the pool table. Sometime in the last six months, Sam had started to grow and didn’t look like he was stopping, and it was throwing off his game. It would take practice to get accustomed to his new reach and strength, and although it would eventually be an asset, it was clearly aggravating Sam now, as Dean beat him up and down, game after game. 

John was at the bar, waiting for a contact who was supposed to meet him. Despite spending most of their lives in a car or assorted motel rooms together, he didn’t often get a chance to just watch his boys together. Not without haranguing them to finish their drills, or do the dishes, or stop their damn fool arguing. Tonight he had nothing better to do, until his contact showed. 

Dean was teasing his brother, ragging on him, the kind of patter he never got to use on marks, not when he needed to keep them calm. Sam was not staying calm, going red-faced and pout-lipped, bangs in his eyes. It was affecting his playing. Steady breaths, John could have told him; just like aiming a gun - shoot on the exhale. But Sam was getting to that age where you couldn’t tell him anything, lanky and stubborn. 

As Sam leaned over to take a shot, Dean passed close behind him and ruffled his hair. Sam missed the shot badly, and straightened up, scowling. “Dean!” John heard, over the noise of the bar. Dean grinned, unrepentant. 

Beside John, someone cleared his throat, and John turned to shake hands with the tall, grizzled ex-hunter he’d been waiting for. At some point during the conversation, he lost track of the boys and when he glanced over, they were both gone, pool game abandoned with balls scattered across the table. 

Just as John’s heart jumped with adrenaline, wondering if something or someone could have snatched them right here under his nose, he spotted both of them coming back from the bathrooms. Sam was still red-faced, and Dean still looked smug. They didn’t finish the game. 

5- There was a stretch of time where they were too old to be shepherded into a bar innocently by their father, and too young to convincingly pass off fake IDs. They kept their skills up at billiards tables in all-ages restaurants and permissive dives all across the country, places that would turn a blind eye to a pair of teenagers playing pool as long as they didn’t drink. It was easy to hustle in places like that. Everyone underestimated a kid. 

Sometimes people looked at Dean’s mouth or Sam’s beanpole legs and thought they could hustle something else. Dean always sent them away firmly as long as Sam was in earshot. Occasionally, if money was really tight, he’d slip out after putting Sam to bed, come back near closing time, and make a little more on the side. 

6- Watching Sam’s ass as he bent over a pool table was Dean’s favorite kind of public masochism. His bubble butt was the one place he’d never lost his baby-boy softness, although Dean knew from touching it a thousand times that the plump roundness was all muscle when Sam flexed. 

Sam’s Levi’s strained over the generous curve and Dean knew he wasn’t the only one watching. It made him hot with jealousy and pride to have other people’s eyes hungry on Sam as they played. His arms flexed in his t-shirt as he lined up his next shot. It was a view good enough to sweeten the sting of the money marks lost.

Sam didn’t love the buzz of hustling like Dean did. During his teen years, Sam got more and more bitchy about how weird it was to count hustling pool as domestic budgeting, and he started the same tune right back up after Dean came to get him at Stanford. But he loved the game; had always loved mathematics and precision of it, the way Dean loved the art and music of the clacking balls. 

It never took much to cajole him into a game or two. Sometimes Sam even won, and always the competition, the posturing, the subtle exhibitionism left them both wound up and desperate to get off. 

Someday he was going to fuck Sam over a pool table. The opportunity just hadn’t presented itself yet. They sucked each other off in the car instead, taking the edge off enough to make it back to the motel. 

7- Sam could beat Dean sometimes, and Dean occasionally lost to an unlucky mistake with a stranger, but the first time Sam saw Dean get his ass whupped at pool by a girl was at the Roadhouse. Dean was excellent, professional caliber, but Jo had grown up in a bar with a pool table, spent every day of her life there. And Dean had underestimated her the first time. It was stupid of him, Sam reflected, when Dean himself had so often taken advantage of his blond good looks to lower a mark’s expectations. 

Jo won the second game on skill alone, Dean playing hard and focused against her. He won the third, though. She looked a little breathless, a little bright-eyed and turned on afterward. Sam could sympathize. Win or lose, playing Dean at pool was always a semi-sexual experience. That was part of what made him such a good hustler. The game was as much about domination of this cocky, beautiful, attention-seeking young man as it was about the billiards. It drew people in helplessly, like Jo. Like Sam. 

8- There was something unknowable about the Winchester brothers from the moment they first set foot in the Roadhouse - a mystery that went beyond Ellen’s strong reaction. Dean was mouthy and charming, Sam withdrawn and polite, but both of them were in some undefinable way, untouchable. Like everyone else in the world was slightly unreal, and only the Winchester brothers really existed for one another. It was at the pool table that she finally figured them out. 

Waking up in the middle of the night and padding down the hall to the bathroom Jo heard noises from the bar downstairs. Sometimes her mom would take weird meetings with hunters at odd hours, and Jo was always curious, so she crept to the top of the stairs where she could watch without being seen in the shadows. 

It was Sam and Dean, playing pool. The hard clacking sounds she’d heard weren’t beer glasses but balls. She understood insomnia. There were nights when she couldn’t sleep that she’d spent hours at that table, trying to lose herself and her grief in the patterns of the balls on the felt. 

They circled the table like a pair of graceful animals, not speaking at all, and watched each other with intense eyes. That was what caught her attention, held her in place wrapt instead of going back to her warm bed. She’d played Dean earlier that evening, beat his chauvinist ass twice, and she’d seen how he watched her as he played - first casually, then measuringly, and finally triumphantly. But he had never looked at her like he’d seen her, like she was real in his world, like he was looking at Sam now. 

He watched his brother like Sam was a work of art, a piece a theatre. Appreciative, ecstatic. And Sam was looking back, almost predatory. She’d written him off as the soft, hurt college boy to Dean’s brash edges, but there was nothing soft about the way he was looking at his brother. Dean leaned over the table, deliberately slow, and Sam’s eyes were hungry. 

The unnamed suspicion growing in Jo’s gut clicked into focus when Dean put a hand on Sam’s back, dragging it down to the curve of his ass. Sam didn’t flinch, as if they did this all the time, just took his shot and sank the ball. Then he stood and grinned at Dean, wolfish. 

When Sam pushed Dean back against the edge of the table, pressed up between his spread thighs, Jo slipped away. She didn’t actually want to see them kiss or fuck or whatever they were about to do. God knew hunting made you crazy and destroyed innocence fast. Jo wanted to keep a tiny piece of her sanity for herself, in blissful, plausible denial about the mystery of the Winchester brothers.

 HAPPY WINCESTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR! xoxo Anon 

[robotshibbins]

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

        The sound of heavy boots, on which stood a large, vengeful knight, echoed through the claustrophobic caves. This moment was one the knight sought for years, one he was not particularly proud of, however he felt it was his duty to end this man’s life. Somewhere within the twisting maze of tunnel, past the scrounging of the Undead and the quiet patter of falling debris against the stone floor, was the stumbling run of a man terrified for his life, and this was the knight’s prey.

        “You’re a fool, Marlow!” cried the man, a preacher named Strauss, the pitiful whine echoed through the cave system, “First you sully your body with the taint of a witch, then you hunt a holy man!”

        These words did not calm the knight down. He increased his pace, the sound of his sand covered boots getting louder and quicker.

        Stomp stomp stomp.

        Marlow’s gear clattered against his jacketed body. The empty sheath of his sword, his revolver, clasped safely in a boar-leather holster, a half dozen fire-bombs, and his damascus-steel knife all jangled, rattled, and gently knocked about on his belt. On his back, a worn but not ill-maintained intermediate rifle, and the dagger of his long-dead spouse. The blade was a thin, enchanted one, forged from a vein of magic infused ore by magical means. Marlow was not keen on using it, though when it came to dealing with foes who had some degree of mystic powers coursing through their veins, it was quite handy. Presently, it was encased in its blue sheath.

        “Was laying with her that enticing? Was that wench-?

        The knight tuned Strauss’s bait out, merely hearing the mumbling of a man on his last legs. He was getting closer to his target, letting the aging madman waste his already limited breath on threats would be wise.

        Stomp stomp stomp.

       Eventually, Marlow came across the corpse of one of Strauss’s followers, a humanoid mutant known as an Oculi, a tumorous, multi eyed creature whose glowing yellow eyes cut through the darkness. As typical for a corpse in the post-Armageddon wastes of America, three Undead surrounded it, they ripped off bloody chunks of the sickly flesh with their teeth and nails. They had a similar amount of eyes as the Oculi, though they were pale, the eyes of a corpse. The knight’s ancient flashlight illuminated their pale, malnourished bodies, the tattered remains of their former lives’ clothing tightly wrapped around their bodies. One undead looked up from its meal, with saliva covered meat hanging out of its mouth, and right into the knight’s green eyes. Its head was still roughly human shaped, though with its six eyes, lipless mouth full of pointed teeth, and lack of a nose, it was clearly far from a human. The creature slurped up the strip of flesh, then roared at the knight, which alerted the two other Undead. The knight readied his sword, and an Undead charged at him, raspily panting. He swiftly dodged, and slashed at the beast’s back, which staggered it. Marlow was then knocked onto his stomach, tackled by another Undead. It clumsily attacked his head, using its fists as clubs. Despite his worn, green helmet protecting him from any major damage, it still hurt the lone knight quite a bit. With a grunt of pain, Marlow elbowed the the Undead in its abdomen, which sent it recoiling off him. He then stood up, grabbed the cursed creature’s head with his two hands, and savagely bashed its head into the stone wall over and over again, sending blood, flesh, and bone all over the tunnel. The knight threw the limp body aside, and drew his knife, anticipating another attack from the two remaining undead.

      The as of then unwounded Undead clawed at Marlow, which he narrowly dodged. He followed this with a well aimed jab at the creature’s neck, lodging the blade in its trachea. With a wheezing gurgle, it swiped at Marlow with a fist, hitting him in his right shoulder and sending him spinning into the opposite wall of the tunnel. He hit it with a grunt, but he quickly recovered, landing a few heavy heymakers on the Undead’s large head. It staggered back, and Marlow took the opportunity to retrieve his knife, yanking it out of its throat. He held the blade in a reverse grip, then punched the Undead square in one of the largest eyes on its head, causing to stagger again. Marlow followed this with a few stabs in its eye, removing it once more from this mortal coil. As he withdrew the knife, the last Undead grabbed him from behind, and attempted to bite at this bare neck. The knight attempted to launch the cursed one over his shoulder, however this only ruined its attempt to bite him. He slammed it into the tunnel wall, trying to dislodge it.

      A groan from the undead, followed by it throwing both itself and Marlow to the floor with a slam, the two landing on their sides. Marlow attempted to elbow the emaciated creature in its gut, missing quite a bit, though the few he did land was enough to make the undead scamper away. He stood back up, and slashed his knife at the Undead, though it forcefully smacked the blade out of his hand, which sent it clattering across the stone floor. Marlow, in response, kicked the Undead in its stomach, sending it down to the floor with force. The creature clumsily stood to its knees, and was greeted by a thin dagger to its throat. The enchanted steel reacted with the Undead’s cursed blood, and the beast combusted, sending it recoiling, flailing, and screeching down the tunnel. Marlow wiped the blood off his lover’s dagger, sheathed it, then put his cheap respirator on, to block the smell of burning flesh. He retrieved his knife and sword off the floor, sliding the knife back in its sheath and holding the steel sword firmly in his right hand. Marlow walked past the immolated undead, and it was back to the hunt.

The knight’s pace hastened, a jog to finally track down the man who caused him, along with thousands of magic users and their families, an immeasurable amount of pain and loss. Even if that wasn’t damning enough, in recent years he and his Oculi warband have been razing villages and communities for even the slightest tie to magic users. If it weren’t for the mostly mutant composition, they would’ve likely been inducted into the dreaded House Mercer, a staunchly anti-mutant and anti-magic knight order. He continued for some time, before eventually seeing Strauss in the distance, crouched over and catching his breath. The knight stopped, removed his respirator with his right hand, and drew his revolver, holding it steadily in his left hand. He aimed for the preacher’s chest, and pulled the hammer back. Strauss looked up as he heard the cylinder click into place.

      “Fuck!” The preacher cried.

      The .44 magnum revolver fired with a smoky, reverberating bang, which sent a round through Strauss’s abdomen, and he fell to the floor with a pained yell. Marlow placed the revolver back its holster, and he stomped towards the downed Strauss, preparing to cut him down. However, an Oculi rushed at the knight from behind the wounded preacher, wielding a chunk of wood with some nails in it. Marlow stepped back, dodging the attack, and stabbed at the Oculi in retaliation, only nicking it. The Oculi roared, then swiped at the knight again, which missed him by a wide margin, and opened it up to attack by Marlow. He stabbed it under the ribs, bringing it up and eviscerating a few vital organs. The knight yanked the blade out, and kicked the dying Oculi to the floor. He stabbed it again in the neck, which sliced through its spinal cord with ease, though it bit in a little too well. As Marlow attempted to withdraw the blade, he was tackled to the floor by the wounded Strauss, rather forcefully for just being shot in the stomach. They crashed to floor with a thud, and the preacher punched the knight square in the jaw a few times with his right fist, with rather surprising strength.

        “Even six years after she burned like the witch she wa-”

The silent wanderer spoke up, “QUIET!”

Marlow delivered a swift sock to Strauss’s throat, followed by the knight sending his right knee into his groin. The preacher stood up, before falling right back to the stone floor, a pained groan left his bearded face. The knight shot up, and knelt over Strauss. He began ruthlessly beating him, which sent blood riddled spit all over the tunnel. With every punch, Marlow spoke.

        “You raze villages! You slaughter innocent people! You burn children! You killed hundreds! You killed my fucking wife!”

Strauss was barely moving by that point. His face was covered in his own blood, his nose and cheekbones were decimated. Marlow, once he realized the mad preacher did little more than wheezed through his damaged airways, stopped his assault. His hands hurt, it was likely his knuckles were beaten worse than Strauss, though he couldn’t tell if the blood on his gloves was his own or Strauss’s. He looked down on the man, fury raging in his eyes. Strauss coughed, which spat blood over the surrounding area.

        “...yoou…” the preacher spoke weakly, “god’s wrath will come upon you, you damned fool. She never loved you, you wer-”

        Strauss words were replaced by a gurgling rattle. Marlow had stabbed him directly in the throat with his wife’s dagger, the slender blade driven deep into his neck. He twisted the blade even deeper, an action which severed Strauss’s spine. Red blood seeped out of the wound, pooling onto the dirty, dust covered floor of the tunnel. His grip tightened, and Marlow pulled the blade out of the mad preacher’s neck, a gory fountain blossomed out of the wound. Strauss spasmed a bit, then with a wheezing rattle, he stopped. The knight stood, wiped the dagger off with immense care on his own jacket, and returned it to its sheath. He stared at the old man for a moment, he didn’t know if he was truly dead, or living his last moments. He knew that he wouldn’t return as an Undead, as without the spine in his neck, the curse which afflicted all of the people in the Wastes wouldn’t truly take hold of his corpse. Marlow spat on it, then turned around, and returned his focus to removing his sword from the Oculi’s neck. After some struggling, he pulled it free, some arterial blood spraying from the wound.

His mission was done. He stopped Strauss, cutting the head off the snake that was one of deadliest Oculi warbands in Utah. It would eventually collapse, either from infighting or it lacking true unity from a strong figurehead. He still didn’t forgive himself for the rampage he went on when he saw his wife Alicia's burning corpse in that small village. However, he felt no guilt over killing the man that misled so many to fuel his hateful campaign, who killed so many with his own hand. Marlow walked out of the tunnels, his steps lighter than before, a heavy, but almost peaceful thud against the stone.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

[mutemwija]

Pridecember Day 24: Christmas/Believe

In which the dueling is done with sleighs pulled by a three-headed dragon and a thousand Kuribohs...

(This was actually written for last year’s Pridecember Prompt “Christmas” but since it fits this year’s prompt as well, I decided to post it here as well 🎅🌟)

Thanks to @siosiri so keeping me motivated enough to write it! 😘💕

I wish you all a very merry Christmas! 💝🎅

The ice-cold wind whipped around his face, stinging tears blurred his vision and his freezing hands gripped the reins frantically.

He needed to be faster than the wind, faster than the sun coming up before him. If he didn’t make it in time it would all be over. Life as he knew it would seize to exist.

It wasn’t usually like this in the night of the nights, the night he prepared a whole year for. Usually he had enough time to attend every child, to tend to them, even just a small moment. It was the best part of his existence – the waiting children, their from excitement and curiosity wide eyes as they sat with their families or stared out of the window to get a glimpse at him as he flew over them.

But not this year.

This year, the main clock that stopped the time for as long as he flew around earth, delivering presents, magic and hope had suddenly, without any prior warning sign simply resumed ticking.

And thanks to that fact there was barely time to take a breath – or a cookie for that matter. It was just aiming, striking, next and again aiming, striking. One shot off target, one second of hesitation and the plan would fail.

The only advantage was that people might mistake him for a shooting star if he dashed over the sky like that and he preferred to be mistaken for a dying star than for an UFO (which had happened before).

It was unsettling him greatly though. Never, in all those centuries he existed and did this job had the clock ever failed him – it was bound to his magic and the spell was technically impossible to break.

Now, someone had apparently found a way and he did have a very good idea of who that someone was.

He’d definitely need a very hot bath and a very hot chocolate with double caramel flavor when he got home today. If he came home unseen and impeccable as it should be and only after he’d given his new assistant a talking-to.

He was the only one he thought capable of breaking the spell of the main clock…

What was this mad man thinking? Manipulating the procedure like that?

How in the name of St. Nicholas had he even accomplished that?

Atem had many assistants over the centuries, some respectable, some ambitious, some idle, one even just a little bit too child-friendly but none of them could ever enrage, goad and fascinate him the way Seto Kaiba did.

Prideful, arrogant, bossy, gruff, infatu… no infuriating and aloof to name just a few of his dominant traits. He paced around North Pole as if he owned the place, not Atem, as if he had built it all and organized the most important night for thousands of years now, not Atem. And of course he was seeing improvements every where he looked. On more than enough opportunities he had to keep him and Mahad from kicking each other’s hands in, only to continue to argue with him himself. Granted, he was right with his suggestions from time to time but you just didn’t change century old traditions in a heartbeat.

On top of that the guy was ridiculously tall. It was a real pain in the neck that he had to look up at him all the time – literally.

But these eyes were the worst. These deep, expressive eyes, blue as the dusky night sky and clear as the ice surrounding them. He’d only barely kept himself from gasping when he’d stepped into the hall this morning, with his blue coat and white fur, looking like a very young, very handsome version of Father Frost.

He was like the forbidden fruit – ensuring misery but too appealing to resist.

And now he’d actually managed to turn Christmas Eve into a life and death race.

Atem was furious.

Partly because of the manipulated procedure, mostly because right now Seto with his monstrous dragon was in the damn lead.

Of course this wasn’t a race to determine the winner but a race to escape their discovery.

Still that didn’t mean that Atem didn’t want to win.

It was all very confusing.

He couldn’t recall the last time he had been racing the sky as fast as that, the last time he had felt so incredibly free. By now, the frosty wind burnt in his lungs, forced the tears horizontally out of his eyes and he was sure he’d lose one or two fingers if it continued like that any longer – and if the situation had been a different one he’d be crowing but now he needed to concentrate.  

When and particularly how Seto had managed to fuse his three dragons into one, Atem had no clue. The whole flight over Canada it had been three but when their paths crossed again over Russia it was just one, but with three heads. With Mahad’s help he had been able to multiply his guardian Kuriboh into a number so large, the little balls were darkening the sky before they merged them into one giant body.

The presents were spread over Scandinavia in the blink of an eye and after that all that was left was the racing duel home.

Atem glanced at his side, suppressed a smirk and set spurs so hard he was sure he’d hurt Kuriboh. He would apologize later, now he needed to get home first.

Before the sun rose, needless to say.

If only to soothe his consciousness.

The dragon’s enormous wings cut through the air beside him but Atem kept his eyes straight ahead. If he got distracted now he would definitely loose (against the sun) and he simply didn’t want that. Seto’s ego was already bursting, he didn’t need another boost.  

Gritting his teeth until they gave a cracking sound, Atem mustered the last magic he had in his body, transferred it to Kuriboh and slipped through the barrier around North Pole only by a hairsbreadth earlier than Seto’s dragons.

He heard him curse behind him but ignored the triumphant feeling inside him and concentrated on slowing the sleigh down and landing it safely.

The giddy sense of delight he’d felt in the last minutes vanished the moment the skids touched the ground and all that was left was anger and horror that Seto had dared to touch the main clock and risked not only their exposure but also and furthermost the spoiling of Christmas Eve for generations and decades!  

Seto’s sleigh was still sliding to a halt but Atem had already walked, no stomped over to him, grabbed the reins of this exaggerated, gorgeous beast and pulled harshly at it. “Are you completely mad?”

Slowly and with his head held as high as his loss obviously let him, Seto stepped out of the sleigh. He was completely unperturbed by Atem’s rage and took his hat off with a peace of mind that brought Atem even more to the edge. If he weren’t so tall, he’d probably slam him into the sleigh right here and there but instead had to crane his neck again while Seto towered over him as tall and as proud as ever. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Feign your innocence somewhere else, Seto! The main clock has never failed me until this day and you’re the only one besides me who knows how enough to sabotage it.”

Blue clad shoulders simply shrugged. “So what if I did?! We made it, didn’t we?”

“But at what cost!” Atem gestured to the still dissolving, hard breathing and kind of pale looking Kuriboh’s. He had never summoned so many of them and if it wasn’t for Mahad’s extra magic, he wasn’t sure if he’d even managed it. The poor little fluff balls were completely exhausted while Seto’s dragons still roared majestically, standing their ground as proudly as their wielder.

“I really don’t know why you’re so angry.” Seto grumbled, his blue eyes now flashing with anger as well and Atem watched closely as he forced the next words over his lips. “You won. You should be happy.”

Atem groaned exaggerated.

Again with this stupid rivalry.

“I told you so many times that this evening, this job isn’t about being best, or being first, it’s about the children. It’s about bringing them happiness. It’s about faith and hope, peace and love. It’s a magical night, where anything can and shall happen.”

“Then why are we stopping the time and hide until it’s all over?”

“We’re not hiding, we’re surprising them. Secretly.”

“It’s not a secret when they all know it’s coming.”

“That’s not the point…”

“What is it then? So many children are looking out of their windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of you – how can you say this night is about them, when you don’t even give them a chance to achieve their wish?”

Atem swallowed thickly, hoping Seto wouldn’t notice.

“It’s just a race against time if we don’t at least slow time down! You saw for yourself how we had to rush because of it. What if something had gone wrong and we’d have had to make a detour…”

“It would have only increased the suspense.”

“And then?”

“Why not make them aware of the magic around them!”

“Because they could have seen us!”

“So what? Seeing is believing. You’ve been hiding for all these centuries and still expect children to believe in you starry-eyed because their parents told them to, because it’s what kids do? What if one day they stop? What, if you fade into the dust you were made of then? Is this what you want? You have to give them something to hold onto, something to grasp, a proof, not just an old as the hills, outdated fairytale. Your life depends on their believe!”

Atem narrowed his eyes. “So, you disobey my order because you’re worried about me?”

Seto ignored the sentiment but lowered his voice and glance nonetheless. “I did not disobey your order. On the contrary, I carried your… our task out and mastered it superbly. You know, I did.”

“What did you want then?” He asked tentatively, seeing no reason to question Seto’s work today. It was superb, just like he said (overlooking the manipulating of the main clock of course…) and watched his every movement, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his side, how his jaw tensed and the reflexive blinking of his eyes as if he dared him to speak his mind. And Atem read him like an open book. “My appreciation… was it that?”

Seto said nothing, just stared at him, stared down at him defying, challenging, outraged that Atem had hit the nail on the head in his very first try.

The smaller man could only sigh. “You don’t need that.”

For just a split second disappointment flashed in Seto’s eyes but it was gone in such a quick way that Atem thought it was just a figment of his imagination and it got replaced with something akin to wrath. “Good to know.”

He was about to push past him, but Atem grabbed his forearm and stopped him, speaking gently and steady.

“You don’t need it because you already have it! Why did you think I chose you as my assistant? Just because I wanted someone to lecture and scream at from dusk till dawn?” He gave a short dismissive laugh, but actually it was partly true since he enjoyed their tiffs and arguments and the wretched fact was that he even found him, it, (damn it it, get a grip Atem!) hugely appealing. “I gave you the job because you have so much potential. You’re a real talent, Seto. In all these years, I haven’t seen anyone as studious and hardworking and thoroughly devoted to this task as you. And you take pride in everything you do and you’re absolutely sure of yourself… Just why are you striving for my appraisal so much when your self-esteem is higher than anything I’ve ever known?”

Blue colored eyes lay calmly on him belying the storm that raged behind them.

Because I admire you his mind screamed but his mouth formed the words “Because you’re the boss and everyone should strive to gain a better position than the one they already have.” instead.

Atem gave the dry, small laugh Seto always longed to hear when they argued. “I feel like I should be worried about my job…”

Seto shrugged as he stared unblinkingly at him. He could feel the cold of his fingers seeping through his thick coat and the wind-induced tears had left smeared traces at his eyes. A small part of him acknowledged this as his fault but since he had won he wouldn’t grant him the satisfaction of caring enough to worry.

When Atem finally let go of his arm, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a small step away from Seto, his eyes not once leaving his. “I admit it was fun to race across the sky like that. Actually I haven’t done that in ages; it made me feel like a whippersnapper…” He grinned, the use of this word made him feel ancient despite the fact that he didn’t age at all. “But we can’t turn Christmas day into a duel against time. We will work side by side. Are you content with that?”

The fact that he asked, made it seem like he really wanted Seto here, at his side but he wouldn’t believe him so easily and straightened his back. “We’ll see about that.”

Atem opened his mouth to protest but suddenly didn’t feel like arguing anymore.

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose so…”

He’d said what he could say, maybe not what he wanted to say, but it was better than nothing, right? It was a start. And despite the look of it now, he was sure Seto would understand sooner or later. After all, he couldn’t blame him for trying to proof himself to him. Even if his methods were a little extreme.

“Anyway, we’ve done our work for the night. Take care of your dragons, get some rest and… take a look at the joy you brought.” The last part was uttered warily since he very much hoped Seto would join him to see how the children reacted to their presents (and the left-behind sweets and drinks) but wasn’t sure if his pride allowed it. He met his gaze once more, smiled gently and nodded once. “You’re dismissed.”

Atem waited for any sign of reaction but Seto just gave a small nod himself and with a heavy sigh, he turned around and walked away slowly.

But really he wanted nothing more than to stay where he was and look at Seto some more.

Groaning inwardly at his own thoughts, he clenched his hands in his pockets.

Why was he being so stupid? They should have a professional relationship, nothing more, nothing less. He knew it and he should act like it.

But damn, it was getting harder each day.

“Actually…” Seto called out and Atem’s heart as well as his footsteps stopped but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t trust himself enough for that at the moment. A moment of silence went by and he thought Seto had changed his mind when he spoke up again. “There’s one present left.”

That sentence brought Atem back from his sentimental feelings at once and reality hit him in the face colder and harsher than the wind in the sky before.

Forgetting a present was a thousandfold worse than the damaged main clock – it meant, somewhere out there was a child waiting and hoping in vain, it meant that he failed, when he was supposed to be unfailing and perfect.

Upon returning, he’d already activated his inner compass and tracking magic to find out just where he had to lead Kuriboh but stopped deadly in his track when his eyes fell on Seto again.

The present that was left, lied in his hand – a small, neatly in purple and gold wrapped package with a ribbon on top. Atem immediately recognized that it wasn’t from his factory, that it was individual and hand-wrapped and his eyes went wide.

“A happy Christmas to you.”

His mouth dropped slightly open and a shudder ran down his spine as Seto handed him the gift, his gift and Atem looked between the package and his assistant as if he expected one or the other to disappear in a cloud of smoke in the next second.

In all these years no one had ever given him a present – occasionally Mahad had given him a bottle of glogg at the end of the year but that was all. And why would anyone give him a present in the first place? It was supposed to be the other way round after all. Delivering presents was the reason for, the sole purpose of his existence.

He’d known from the moment he first laid eyes on him that Seto didn’t give a damn about traditions and rules at all and he had proven as much well enough already but this… this took things to a whole new level.

This showed him that his talent was exceptional and that he should indeed fear for his job but all he felt right now was pride and pure, unbridled joy.

Impatience and nervousness were starting to crawl up in Seto’s mind when Atem just stared at his gift instead of opening it and he stepped from one foot to another, clearing his throat softly. That had Atem looking up at him and he lifted his eyebrows, telling him to hurry up. It was obvious that the man was astonished, perhaps even flattered but that was no excuse to turn into stone.

Finally, Atem laughed apologetically and Seto watched him closely as he unwrapped the package slowly and carefully, obviously enjoying every second of it. Seto could tell from the bright gleam in his eyes that the other was dying from excitement and struggled to maintain his dignity like that, cold, red fingers trembling slightly as they fumbled with the ribbon.

Atem gave the smallest gasp when the paper was finally gone and it was all Seto needed to know that he hit the nail on the head. He noticed him swallow again before he slowly looked up to him and Seto hold his breath.

“I… Where did you…?” Atem stammered, wondering how Seto even knew he’d always wanted to have one of these, he’s never spoken of it to anyone. A small, reasonable part of him hoped it was just a lucky coincidence but he knew that couldn’t be because Santa always chose the right gift. It was the essence of his being.

He cleared his throat to steady his voice but he still sounded a little off. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

Seto nodded as if he wanted to say that he already knew that but his eyes had taken on a gentler glow and his smile was a relieved one. As much as Atem liked that look on his face though, he suddenly felt so guilty that he hadn’t thought of getting him something as well.

One of Seto’s dragons roared softly, breaking the spell between them and as Atem watched him caress the shimmering scales of his guardian, he came up with an idea that had his blood boiling already.    

“You know… maybe we could race again some time? Not… on Christmas Eve of all days but the year does have 364 other days, so…”

The smirk Kaiba shot him after these words hit him right in his core. “Prepare to lose.” He deadpanned with a low voice that Atem hadn’t heard him use until now and he shuddered again, this time from excitement.

He laughed to mask it and then smirked at Seto, throwing his words right back at him. “We’ll see about that.”

With that he turned on his heels and strutted away proudly, Seto’s gift safely enclosed in his hands, cold and exertion completely forgotten.

Seto watched him go and allowed himself to look at the other for a moment more before turning away too. He was glad it had worked out that well. Sure, it wasn’t the triumph he initially wanted but another, more amicable, sweeter kind of success. One he appreciated just the same.

And when he turned around once more to get a last look at his retrieving figure, he got the feeling that this was what Atem was talking about the whole time when he lectured him about dreams and hopes and the spirit of Christmas.

This was a magical night, where anything could and should happen.

[maddi02engctbc-blog]

///Discussion Post 3///

GRACE HAUS - Artist

Artist part 3 answer the question and then analyze the rest of the image. What is the first thing you notice in this sketch?

JANNA TORRES

The first thing I noticed in the sketch is the dark clouds in the sky that have lightning. They give off a dark and creepy vibe as if something terrible is about to happen. I believe the setting is in Johannesburg since the book has been describing it as a dangerous city with many buildings and people roaming the never-ending streets.

MADELEINE HENRY

The first thing I noticed in this sketch were the dark clouds and thunderbolts. The rest of the picture symbolizes how everyone is trying to run from the evil ways of society and from all the crime that is happening because it is like a storm that could destroy everything you have like the death of Jarvis whom Absolam Kumalo has killed. In his death, he lost his wife, children, and his parents. His kids lost a father, his wife lost a husband, his parents lost a son, and so on. There is also one person in the picture who is alone while everyone else seems to be in a group with other people. This symbolizes how if you somehow stumble while trying to escape the ways of society no one will be there to pick you up because everyone is only thinking of how they can save themselves; society has made it so in the book that if you stop for other people you will also get hurt in the process. For example, in the book, it mentions how John Kumalo is gifted with the power to give great speeches but if he speaks too much during a protest, it could cost him jail time.

JULIANA CAFFREY

The first thing I noticed was the thunder and dark clouds. I took it had foreshadowed the dark and terrible thing will happen in the future as the story "road" goes on.

GRACE HAUS: I drew this picture to represent the remark in ch.15 that says, "there is a man sleeping there in the grass and over him is gathering the greatest storm of all of his days bringing death and destruction. people hurry past him to places safe from danger and whether they do not see him there in the grass or whether they fear to stop even a moment, they do not wake him, they let him be" . in a way you were all like the people he describes, too caught up in their own safety and the fear they have of the future to show some humanity for the man whose life is falling apart before their eyes. this goes to show how life in this society tears apart families and strips people of their humanity and values.

JANNA TORRES - Diction Detective

1) "Why fear the one thing in a great city where there were thousands and thousands of people?" (Ch.13, pg. 44)

~Stephen is wondering why he is worried about his own son committing murder while there are thousands of people in Johannesburg that commit the same crime. He is in shock and disbelief that Absalom would do such a thing since he knows he raised his son well. He reassures himself that he will "rebuild what has been broken", which means that he wants to mend together his broken family back in Ndotsheni. The thing that was broken could also indicate Absalom's morality. Being a priest, Stephen will ask for God's forgiveness about his own son committing a sin.

2) "The man does not joke now. One does not joke about murder. Still less about the murder of a white man." (Ch. 14, pg. 46)

~The man described in this quote is John Kumalo, who is seen as a person who is amusing and easygoing. But when it came to the topic of murder, his tone completely changes to anxiousness. It's only natural to not joke about murder, but what makes the situation more disturbing is the fact that this incident can evoke fear and anger in a community that discriminates the whites and the blacks.

3) "[John] says it with meaning, with cruel and pitiless meaning." (Ch. 14, pg. 49)

~In this scene, John Kumalo's words towards his brother Stephen become demeaning and rude. He is relieved and happy that it was not his son who committed the crime. As Stephen claims that he will get a lawyer to prove his son innocent, John pries at him in a way that makes him seem glad that Absalom is taking all of the blame. This could also indicate that his image needs to be saved from any stain that could potentially ruin his credibility.

4) "Stop," cried Father Vincent, "Go and pray, go and rest." (15, pg. 52)

~After hearing Stephen's dying hope, Father Vincent prevents him from saying any more, for he is disobeying God by speaking wrong of his son Absalom. He acts as Stephen's guiding figure who leads him to the right path and picks him back up, using the faith in God.

5) "[Stephen] stood up, and a wish to hurt her came [to] him." (16, pg. 54)

~This reveals a different side of Stephen Kumalo's personality, the author includes this to show that he can be aggressive towards those that commit sins since he is highly religious.

MADELEINE HENRY - Bridge Builder

Stephen and Msimangu

The relationship between Stephen and Msimangu is that of a father and his young child. When Stephen first comes to Johannesburg, he is like a child because he has never been in the city before where things are very advanced, so he is forced to adapt to his new surroundings and learn of new dangers that he has never known outside of his hometown in Ndotsheni. This can be compared to a newborn baby fresh out of the womb and now has to be looked after by his parents which Msimangu plays the role of. He guides Rev. Stephen around the town, informs him of the things happening in Johannesburg, and comforts him when Rev. Stephen doesn't feel his best. But of course, Msimangu cannot keep Rev. Stephen from the dark truths of Johannesburg, like a father cannot protect his son from the world forever, as Rev. Stephen has to face his child and his brother regardless of the circumstances.

The Gold Mines

The desire for people to work the gold mines in the book creates a text to world connection in that mankind does not care about the well-being of others just as long as they are able to get what they want. This also shows how mankind can be selfish because they are willing to break off family relationships to again get what they want.

The society of Johannesburg

Another text to wold connection can be made between the society of Johannesburg and today's current society. One of the points made in Cry, The Beloved Country is that man will break apart relationships and disrupt moral order and choose to ignore the problem which goes on to create chaos. And then we place the blame on others and create targets because we refuse to acknowledge our mistakes and this is how and why society is falling apart.

JULIANA CAFFREY - Discussion Leader

MADELEINE HENRY

1) Father Vincent

2) Pray

3) They are met with John Kumalo

4) He asks why he hasn't written him in so long

5) Msimangu

6) He is guilty of his crimes

7) Because that has not had time to establish a relationship

8) True

9) She has been married more than once

10) Two other men

GRACE HAUS

1) father Vincent

2) pray 

3) they meet with John Kumalo 

4) he asks why he stopped writing

5) Msimangu

6) he feels guilty 

7) because the author wants to express that she is another aspect of Absalom's life that has been corrupted even though the relationship is not fully developed

8) true which implies he still has some of his old morals

9) she is pregnant and has been married before even at such a young age

10) two other men

[clubofinfo]

Expert: On Tuesday 4 April there were reports of children and other civilians killed by chemical poisoning in the town of Khan Sheikhoun, Syria. There were contradictory reports, some saying they smelled the gas; others claiming it caused immediate death like odorless sarin. On Wednesday 5 April, President Trump blamed the Syrian government despite conflicting reports and contradictory information and accusations. He said, “Yesterday’s chemical attack in Syria [was] against innocent people including women, small children and even beautiful little babies. Their deaths was an affront to humanity. These heinous actions by the Assad regime cannot be tolerated … my attitude toward Syria and Assad has changed very much.”  On Thursday, 6 April, Trump ordered a ‘targeted military strike’ on Syria with 50 tomahawk missiles attacking the primary Syrian air base near Homs. This base is used to support the combat with ISIS in eastern Syria and Nusra/Al Qaeda in Idlib province. As I will show below, it is likely the deaths in Khan Sheikhoun were caused by an armed opposition faction, not the Syrian government. The goal was precisely what has happened: a media firestorm leading to direct U.S. aggression against Syria. What Happened and How? On April 4 news broke of a ‘chemical weapon’ attack in Syria. Western media and governments quickly blamed the Syrian government. Just as quickly, neoconservatives such as Sen. John McCain recalled the 2013 crisis when Pres Obama ultimately decided not to attack Syria. Israeli PM Netanyahu chimed in with a not-too-subtle renewed call for war on Syria. He tweeted that it’s time for the international community to “fulfill its obligations from 2013.” Basic facts include: – On 22 March, the government controlled town of Khattab was over-run by militants with some civilians kidnapped and taken to the nearby opposition controlled town of Khan Sheikhoun. – On 4 April, up to 80 persons, including many children, died at Khan Sheikhoun. Some showed signs of chemical poisoning.  Photographs, videos, analyses and other sources are documented at “A Closer Look At Syria”. – one of the videos features a UK born and raised Dr. Shajul Islam.  He received his UK medical license in 2012 but had the license suspended due to reports he was involved in the kidnapping in Syria of journalist John Cantlie. – Many of the video scenes depict an area set into a limestone quarry with apparent caves and storage depots. There are flat bed trucks with bodies scattered on the ground in this semi-industrial area.  Other video show scenes in medical clinic. – Photographs show “White Helmet” individuals handling bodies without gloves which is very strange if they died or were dying from chemical poison. Who is responsible? There are three theories about what happened: – The western government narrative is that the Syrian “regime” is responsible. They fired illegal chemical weapons into the town, primarily killing innocent civilians and many children. – The Syrian army acknowledges firing air strikes but deny using chemical weapons at this or any time. This area was the base for militant attacks against government areas in Hama province in the preceding weeks. The Russian Ministry of Defense says that militants had a weapons production factory including chemical weapon ingredients, and that may have been hit and caused the chemical weapon deaths. – A third theory is the kidnapped civilians from Khattab were killed or poisoned by the militants as part of a staged event. Evidence Pointing to the Militants Looking at the facts, history and overall circumstances, it is far more likely the armed opposition is responsible for this event. Here is why: (1) The incident and publicity help the opposition and hurt the government. Crime investigations usually begin with the question: Who has a motive? In this case, it’s strikingly clear that the armed opposition and their supporters benefit from this event. They have used the story to further demonize the Assad government and make renewed calls for US and “the world” to intervene. The Syrian government is making steady advances in many parts of the country. They have no reason to use chemical weapons; they have every reason to NOT use chemical weapons. They know very well that the armed opposition has immediate access to major media. Accusations that the Syrian government intentionally attacks civilians is contradicted by their policies and actions. As demonstrated last December in Aleppo, civilians are welcomed from opposition areas into government controlled areas. Even Syrian militants are welcomed after they sign an agreement to lay down arms. It is also relevant to consider timing. There is a pattern of sensational events helpful to the armed opposition occurring simultaneous with critical international meetings or actions.  In this case, the events in Khan Sheikhoun occurred the day before an important conference on Syria in Brussels. The conference titled “Supporting the future of Syria and the region” has been effectively sidetracked by news about the chemical weapons attack and the Syrian government being blamed. (2) Extremists were responsible for the August 2013 Chemical Weapon attack in Damascus.  Western supporters of the armed opposition were quick to blame the Syrian government for the chemical attack in Ghouta on 21 August 2013. However, subsequent investigations by the most credible investigative journalists and researchers concluded the Syrian government was probably NOT responsible. Seymour Hersh and Robert Parry concluded the attack was most likely carried out by militants with support from Turkey. The in-depth examination titled Who Ghouta concluded “The only plausible scenario that fits the evidence is an attack by opposition forces.” An MIT study made a detailed trajectory analysis, concluded that the missile could not have been fired from government territory and warned “Faulty intelligence could have led to an unjustified US military action.” (3) Armed Opposition Groups have a history of Staging Incidents From the start, the Syrian conflict has included an information war. Hillary Clinton boasted of “training for more than a thousand activists, students and independent journalists.”  In December 2012, NBC journalist Richard Engel was reportedly kidnapped and abused by “shabiha” supporters of the Syrian government. Engel and his film crew were “liberated” by Free Syrian Army rebels after a gunfight with the Assad supporting kidnappers. In reality, the entire episode from kidnapping to rescue was a hoax designed to demonize Assad supporters and glorify the “rebels”. The true story emerged years later after the actual events were leaked. When it was going to be made public, Engel finally admitted the truth. (4) Supporters of the armed opposition have a history of fabricating stories which demonize the Syrian Government. In February 2014, it was announced that a defecting Syrian military photographer, who was anonymous but code named “Caesar”, had 55 thousand photos showing the torture and murder of 11 thousand innocent Syrian civilians.  This news received sensational media attention with live interviews on CNN and front page coverage throughout the western world. The news relied on the judgment of legal prosecutors who “verified” the story and produced a “Caesar Report”. This was released the day before the start of Geneva negotiations. It effectively disrupted the talks and facilitated the “rebels” refusal to negotiate and walk away. In reality, the “verification” and report was commissioned by the government of Qatar which has been a major funder of the armed opposition. Since then it has been discovered that nearly half the 55 thousand photos show the opposite of what was claimed: they show dead Syrian soldiers and victims of explosions NOT tortured civilians. That is just one of the findings confirming the fraud involved in this sensational story. A concise expose of “Caesar” is here. How the Public has been Misinformed on Syria Historian and journalist Stephen Kinzer has said, “Coverage of the Syrian war will be remembered as one of the most shameful episodes in the history of the American press.” Here are a few examples showing the bias, half-truths and outright false statements regarding the events at Khan Sheikhoun: – The PBS Newshour typically features two guests who are questioned by the host. The problem is that their guests consistently share the same basic viewpoint. On 4 April, one guest was from the Soros funded Physicians for Human Rights. She claimed, “We know that sarin has been used before by the Assad regime.” In fact that has NOT been confirmed by any credible organization. On the contrary, the most thorough investigations point to sarin being used by the armed opposition NOT the Syrian government. The other guest was Andrew Tabler from the neoconservative Israeli associated “Washington Institute”.  His editorial from last Fall makes clear what he wants: “The case for (finally) bombing Assad.”  The discussion on Syria at PBS Newshour is consistently biased. – The New York Times feature story on 4 April was “Worst Chemical Attack in Years in Syria; U.S. Blames Assad“. One of the authors, Michael Gordon, was an influential proponent for “weapons of mass destruction in Iraq” that justified the 2003 invasion. But that has apparently not hurt his career. In this story on Syria, he and co-author Anne Barnard claim that “American intelligence agencies concluded” the 2013 attack was carried out by the Syrian government. That is false. The intelligence agencies did NOT agree and the “assessment” came from the White House not the intelligence agencies. It is astounding that they either do not know this or they are intentionally misleading the public.  Veteran Intelligence Professionals for Sanity explained the significance in their memorandum “A Call for Syria – Sarin Proof”. – DemocracyNow is a popular television/radio show. It is widely considered to be “progressive” but is also highly biased in its presentation on Syria. It almost solely promotes the perspective of those who support the armed opposition and/or western intervention in Syria. On April 5, they interviewed Dr. Rola Hallam. She is infamous for being the key player in the documentary “Saving Syria’s Children” which purports to show a chemical weapon attack in Aleppo but was actually staged. The “documentary” was then broadcast at a critical time trying to influence the 2013 vote in British parliament for an attack on Syria.  On April 6, DemocracyNow interviewed another “Syrian” who lives in the West and promotes western intervention: Lina Sergie Attar. Viewers of DemocracyNow have no idea that the majority of Syrians support the government and especially the national Army in their struggle against invasion and terrorism. Public understanding about what’s happening in Syria has been seriously confused by the bad analysis of prominent analysts.  Some have suggested that Israel was content to live with Assad. Former Israeli Ambassador to the US Michael Oren clarified the truth as he said “we always wanted Bashar Assad to go, we always preferred the bad guys who weren’t backed by Iran to those who were backed by Iran.”  In short, Israel prefers Al Qaeda or ISIS or, better yet, the conflict to continue so that both sides are destroyed. Before the conflict began, in 2010, Secy of State Hillary Clinton made demands to Damascus that all revolved around Israeli interests. She wanted Syria to end its alliance with Hezbollah, to reduce its interactions with Iran and to come to an agreement with Israel. In contrast with what some analysts have said, Israeli interests have been a major factor driving and maintaining the conflict. With the liberation of Aleppo and prospect of a victory by Syria and allies, Israeli demands to escalate the war have probably increased. Some of the world’s most famed political analysts have contributed to the confusion and lack of resistance as the war on Syria has continued. For example, Noam Chomsky on Democracy two days ago said “The Assad regime is a moral disgrace, the Russians with them.” Evidently he believes all or most of the accusations which have been said about the ‘regime’.  In sharp contrast with Chomsky’s assessment, it’s remarkable that Syria has held together as well as it has in the face of attack by some of the most powerful and rich countries on earth.  Over 100 thousand Syrians have given their lives defending their country against the onslaught. Russia has supported their ally in compliance with international law, continually trying to work with the U.S. coalition as a “partner” against terrorism. Evidently Chomsky is unaware or does not believe the extent of lies that have been created around Syria. Evidently he does not recognize the distorted and shameful media coverage mentioned by Kinzer. Everyone makes mistakes but Chomsky’s poor analysis here is a whopper. If he was to visit Syria and talk with real Syrians I think his perception would be dramatically changed just as described by the PBS Frontline crew here. With consummate hypocrisy, both Syrian and Russian governments are now demonized by western neoconservatives and liberals who have done little or nothing to stop their own government’s collusion with terrorists raining havoc and destruction in Syria. The need to restore International Law International law has been undermined and replaced by “humanitarian law”. This has contributed to the current disastrous situation whereby the U.S. and NATO are waging aggression under a humanitarian pretext. International law regarding attacks on sovereign states is clear: it is illegal unless authorized by the UN Security Council or in legitimate self defense. It is clear that Syria poses no threat to any of its neighbors or any other nation. It is also clear that Syria has been the victim for six long years of aggression by foreign states which have funded and promoted a proxy army of fanatics and mercenaries from around the world. As the former Nicaraguan Foreign Minister and President of the UN General Assembly, Father Miguel D’Escoto, has said: “What the U.S. government is doing in Syria is tantamount to a war of aggression, which, according to the Nuremberg Tribunal, is the worst possible crime a State can commit against another State.”  There has been a sustained attempt to derail Trump’s campaign pledge to stop the US “regime change” policy. This has been accompanied by a semi-hysterical demonization of Syria’s ally Russia. Liberals have been willing accomplices in this campaign which serves the interests of the U.S. military security complex, Israel and Saudi Arabia. It looks like the foreign policy hawks and neocons have succeeded. Yesterday’s attacks on Syria mark an escalation in the war of aggression and violation of international law against Syria. This could lead to WW3 unless there is sufficient outcry and opposition. http://clubof.info/

[theatricalsorrow]

The Bang (Part 3 of 4)

An Original Short Story by Me

I definitely don’t belong here;  I am way out of my time. Kerith explains to me that she is part of a group called The Resiliency. They are people that had banded together after the world fell apart. Her small faction consists of Alonso, Taffy, Greg, Marcus, and Ginger. When I ask her what had caused the fallout, she gets a sad, faraway look in her eyes. Then she  laughs coldly, and shakes her head. “It wasn’t like they always predicted in books and movie, there wasn’t a nuclear war, or a zombie apocalypse, or even aliens.” It was science's fault through.

“Those high and mighty idiots thought it was high time we tried to genetically engineer some new animals to replace the old ones that were dying out; ones that were more resilient. Experiments had been going well... well, except more resilient must have also correlated with more aggressive.’ “The beasts were vicious.” Alonso spits.  “They’d rip apart anything in their way. They lusted for blood, and didn't even bother to eat what the killed half the time.” “S Why they should killed the things first, “ Greg mutters. “What happened with them,” I question hesitantly. “They got out of course; what else could have happened. The beasts tore the science teams to shreds and then started to work on whoever they came across in their rampage.” Kireth snarls. “So cities crumbled, and the military tried to destroy the things with missiles, trying so hard not to kill other humans as collateral damage. Of course, it didn't matter, what had been done, could not be fixed.” Kireth tells me that they biggest monsters had been successfully killed, but the smaller, more stealthy creature had survived and bred. Those ones were called Hounds because they have an excellent sense of smell and their hearing is extremely good. “So either you smelt like blood, or you're the one we heard laughing,” Taffy directs at me. My guilty face gives me away. “Figures.” The team left the subject alone through, and Kireth finishes her explanations of duties of each member of her faction. The only ones I haven’t heard are Ginger’s and Marcus’s; they are stealth operations, and sniping experts. “But why am I here then,” I ask when she is done. “Alonso said something about a Facility?” All The Resiliency members’ faces close off in anger. “The Facility is a dystopia where young, smart minds go to help ‘build a better future.’ They all know it’s not working through,” Kerith growls. “They had been trying to figure out how to reverse this mess. When they realized they couldn’t they decided to try and bring a scientist from the original experiment to this future because they might know a way to stop the Hounds.” In an instant, Kerith is up on her feet, pacing. “Every attempt to beam a scientist here through time has failed! They keep getting teenagers, and young adults from different era’s every single damn time! After an incident, where a five year old was ripped limb from limb in front of them, they gave up. Apparently, they’ve started trying again through, cause you're proof of that.”

I’m the product of a screw up?

“I- I was an accident? Can they send me back!?”I shout. “No, they’ve never sent anyone back. They just pull innocent people into this future to watch them die.” Kireth barks. “I’ve watched hundreds die at the jaws of those monsters out there, and then The Facility just keeps them coming! We need to stop them!” “I second that!” Alonso shouts “I back you too!” Taffy yells. Soon, all six of the squad members are in a frenzy of agreeing to take down The Facility. I feel fear again, as I watch their fury twisted faces. “Guys!” I yelp. “What about the Hounds.” They all fall silent. They glance at me with widened eyes and then tilt their heads to listen. A howl sounds in the distance. “Fuck.” Kireth hisses, and then she takes off out of the room. From the doorway, she barks orders at the other members. “Alonso! Get Tyler a prosthetic, some meds, and a good gun! Greg, how many mines do we have!?” Her words trail off as everyone springs into action and I’m lifted from the bed in Alonso’s strong arms, and placed on the floor by the trunk. He pulls out a surprisingly good looking prosthetic from the depths of the battered chest, and he begins to unwrap my leg. “This is gonna hurt, kid. Your legs not fully healed yet, so this is gonna rub and it might hurt a bit,” he uttered quickly. “I’m going to give you a shot of our best medicine through, and it’s gonna speed up the healing process in your leg. I warn you that even that’s gonna hurt through, and your cuts from the glass aren’t gonna get any better cause it targets one area.” Then a needle is jabbed into my thigh and I’m burning up. I cry out like wounded animal, and Alonso is telling me to focus on a good memory to help me through the pain. I think back to the moments before I ended up here:

Chai tea, busy city street, college, brisk morning. Kaylee, puppies, warm hugs. Police sirens, flash of light, PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN FEAR FEAR FEAR RUNNING I CAN’T ESCAPE

I gasp in oxygen like a starved man. I’m gripping Alonso’s arms in a death grip, and there are tear tracks in the grime on my face. “There you go, kiddo,” He says calmly. Then he slips on the prosthetic, and it lights up in blues and greens. I am stuck by how advanced this technology must be. “Heh, funny face you got there, kid. Must be a surprise to see how far things have come even if we screwed it all up. This is gonna adhere to your leg, and then connects itself with you're neurons and nerves so that it feels like a genuine leg.” “Yeah, prosthetics, weren't anything like that where I came from, “ I try to laugh. “Once it finishes attaching, we gotta get you up and a gun in your hands so that you can fight.” This time the laugh comes out, but it’s as crazed as the one that got me in this mess. “You’ve never shot a gun before, have you?” Even he’s panicking now. “Of course I have!” I giggle through my  clenched teeth. “City boy? We all know how to shoot guns and hunt!” “I’m so sorry kid.” Then there’s a needle in my arm this time, and a yellow fluid is being pumped into my bloodstream. “What did you just-” My fear and anxiety is gone. I feel as if  every one of my senses has been heightened, and I could fight a thousand armies. “We need every hand we can get, kid. I’m sorry, that stuff changed the functions in you're amygdala, the emotion center of the brain, and is stimulating your thalamus. It’ll wear off in like 15 minutes, but until then you’ve gotta be a brave soldier.” He’s... crying? Why is crying? He seems distressed, but I don't have time to find out why, I need a weapon. “Don’t die kid, I’ll keep an eye on you to make sure you don't rush in like an idiot.” “Alonso! Get out here with Tyler!” Kireth shouts. “We’re coming!” Alonso replies. “Stay safe kid,” he says only to me. Then we are walking down a long stone corridor, and a rifle is put in my hands. I’m given instruction about how to use it, and then I’m on a metal balcony overlooking the street. “Shoot anything that’s not human,” is the only instruction I’m given, issued by Taffy before she runs off. I’m ready to kill. The shrieks and wails we had heard earlier are louder now. I observe the surrounding area to find the where the Hounds could possibly come from. Below, there is a courtyard; it’s a dry, barren square of dirt about 50 feet square.  Branching off from it are 3 alley ways, all of which I can see down from my tactical position on the balcony. Two of them lead to streets, the one directly in front of me allows me to  see the chainlink fence that had led to me setting off the mine that blew my leg off. I don’t feel anything for that thought, but a small part of me thinks I should? I don't have to time to linger inside my own head because the first explosion signals the Hounds approach. It occurs to me, as I put the scope of the rifle level with my eye, that I don't actually know what a Hound looks like, and despite the fact that I was just given a basic overview on how to work a gun, what are the chances I’ll be any good? A slight frown of confusion tugs as my lips as I peer through the scope. There's another explosion to the right and I turn my attention to it, and the yelps of pain. Something moves in the smoke; I pull the trigger on the rifle.